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THE IMMORTAL GAMBLE

AND THE PART PLAYED IN IT BY H.M.S. “CORNWALLIS”

By A. T. STEWART, ACTING-COMMANDER, R.N.

AND THE

REV. C. J. E. PESHALL, CHAPLAIN, R.N.

_Post 8vo. Containing 32 page Illustrations from photographs, and a Map_

PRICE 6/- NET. (Post free 6/5)


This book, written by two officers of the battleship from whose
fore-turret was fired the first shot of the bombardment, gives an
account of happenings of vital interest and importance. It is absorbing
because the truth shines out everywhere, and you feel that for once
you are really getting first-hand information as to what did happen.
It bridges the gap between February 19th and April 25th (the date of
the Great Landing), and of this period we have hitherto heard hardly
anything. Besides the valuable nature of the material, this chronicle
of great events is written with considerable literary skill. The
authors have succeeded in making their “log” intimate. It is before
all things a man’s book, and unless the publishers are much mistaken,
this originally conceived Saga of the Straits will attract attention
everywhere.


PUBLISHED BY

A. AND C. BLACK, LTD., 4, 5 AND 6, SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W. 1




  THE GUNROOM


  BY
  CHARLES LANGBRIDGE MORGAN


  “We are carried so far out to sea that we lose sight of the quiet
                haven whence we set forth.”

  --_Dialogus beati Gregorii Papæ ejusque diaconi Petri_,
  translation 1608 and ROBERT BRIDGES.


  A. & C. BLACK, LTD.
  4, 5 & 6 SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W. 1
  1919




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                     PAGE
  I. THE SHORE RECEDES                           1
  II. SEEN THROUGH STEEL                        25
  III. A CHAPTER WITHOUT NAME                   36
  IV. WAR, CARPETS, AND CANDLES                 62
  V. TWO WORLDS                                 85
  VI. STRAIN AND RELIEF                        101
  VII. MARGARET                                113
  VIII. THE NET                                143
  IX. QUARTERED ON THE KINGDOM                 149
  X. EASTERN SEAS                              162
  XI. AWAY FROM THE SHIP                       169
  XII. THE CAPTAIN IN CONFIDENCE               177
  XIII. LOOKING BEYOND                         196
  XIV. WASTE AND WONDER                        212
  XV. TRAFALGAR AND THE RED LAMP               227
  XVI. THE ENGINES                             236
  XVII. DECISION                               263
  XVIII. IN THE CROSS-PASSAGE                  276
  XIX. CRISIS                                  287
  XX. WINGFIELD ALTER                          305
  XXI. THE CURRENCY                            311
  XXII. MARGARET IN THE NET                    320
  XXIII. AN INSTANT FREE                       334
  XXIV. ONE YEAR LATER: THE WORLD IN THE NET   347




THE GUNROOM




CHAPTER I

THE SHORE RECEDES


I

Late on an afternoon in September a boy, wearing a naval mackintosh
and a felt hat, came out of Torquay railway-station and hailed a cab.
His figure, his voice, and his manner, which was nervous and a little
self-conscious, suggested that his age was about eighteen. He took a
handful of change out of his pocket, and, when he had selected from
it, with momentary hesitation, a sixpence to give the porter who had
brought his luggage, he cast over the few bystanders a look almost of
resentment, as if he thought they had been watching and criticizing
him. If an older man had intercepted this glance its character might
have puzzled him. He would have asked himself how, in eighteen years,
a boy, who had obviously known nothing of the poverty and hard usage
that age the street urchin, could have made the discoveries about life
which were reflected in the face he saw. Not that a man’s experience
lay in this boy’s features; rather did he seem to have lost too early
the swifter wisdom of a child. He had developed a faculty of suspicion
before the years had taught him what he should suspect. He had faced
sorrow before he had learned to distinguish clearly between sorrow
and bitterness. A child’s pride and the humility that springs from
discipline; a love of freedom and an acquaintance with restriction; a
hatred of cruelty and a knowledge of its refinements--all these had
been mingled in him to the destruction of simplicity. He stood there,
on the outskirts of the strange naval world into which this cab was to
bear him, a boy whose premature manhood might have caused a perceptive
woman to fear for him. She would have seen that he was not physically
delicate, and have been glad that his body, at any rate, had power
to endure; but she would have noticed, too, and trembled for her
discovery, that the boy’s lips and eyes suggested an imagination which
could throw ugliness as well as beauty into relief.

The cabman, his face screwed up and his cheeks blown out as a protest
against the driving rain, looked queerly at the luggage he was hoisting
on to his roof. It consisted of a green canvas trunk, bound with wooden
splines and leather, and an oblong tin case. Their pattern, which the
cabman recognized as uniform, betrayed at once their owner’s calling,
for they differed in nothing but the name they bore from the boxes that
were invariably brought with them by midshipmen joining their ships. On
them was printed in white letters:

  JOHN LYNWOOD, R.N.

“You’ll be goin’ to the ’otel, sir, same as the others, I expec’?”

“Yes; you recognize the luggage?” Lynwood answered.

“Ay, sir. It ain’t often the young officers joins their ships ’ere in
Torquay, but I knows that tin box an’ the green one, sir, as if they
was my own. There’s no mistakin’ ’em.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“I’d just done with three other young gentlemen,” the cabman went on,
“when I came back to the stand to catch more of ’em off this train.”

“Well, you’ve caught one,” Lynwood said, with a smile at the phrase.

“The mare, she’s bin servin’ ’is Majesty to-day, she ’as. Old army
pensioner, she is.” He shook a stream of water from his oilskin cape
and ran his hand over his dripping beard. “Old sailor meself, sir,” he
remarked, as he picked up the reins.

Lynwood settled himself among the thin cushions as the cab’s loose
wheels rattled into the street. This, in his childhood’s dreams, was
to have been the beginning of adventure--this “going to sea.” It was
not thus he had imagined it. The books he had read had conjured up
pictures of bright sunshine and blue water, of admirals who welcomed
the new-comer in a fatherly manner, of petty officers whose ambition
it was to teach him knots, splices, and cutlass drill. All this was to
have been but a prelude to a life among friends, who would share with
him glories, perils, and promotion, and whose kindliness would make
all things pleasant for him in strange and gaily coloured lands. And
now, looking forward, he saw none of these delights. His experience
at Osborne and Dartmouth and, above all, in the training cruiser had
taught him what he might reasonably expect. He had done well as a
cadet. He had taken firsts in his passing-out examinations, and--for
what it was worth--had been a Cadet Captain in both colleges. There
was no reason why his promotion should not be as rapid as that of
any of his contemporaries. But the element of romance had to be
excluded--unless there were a war. Those who had lived through it
had given him to understand, with a clearness that could permit of
no further disillusionment, that the naval officer’s life was as
mechanical and monotonous as that of a book-keeping clerk. There
were drills and watches, tactical exercises and coaling. There was a
discipline of iron, and a requirement, equally inelastic, of absolute
efficiency. Faults were not pardoned nor weaknesses forgotten. Motive
was a matter of small account, for only success and failure appeared on
the final balance-sheet.

This, Lynwood had come to recognize, was inevitable in a service
conducted with one object alone, the object of victory in battle.
Never, even in the bitterest of criticisms, had he heard one word
against the Navy’s efficiency. It was a perfect machine, as inhuman
as a machine, as pitiless as perfection. The object of its training
was the production of a war personnel, and this implied the production
of human beings who possessed certain definite qualities and in whom
certain qualities were not found. If a required quality were lacking
it had to be instilled; if a surplus quality were present it had to
be removed. The process was often painful. Not infrequently men were
broken by it, and went; or rebelled against it in their hearts, and
went likewise. Many, though broken, were forced by circumstances to
remain.

Lynwood remembered having asked the officer who had given him this
summary of the naval system how it was, then, that so many of the
officers he had met at the colleges had been visibly happy, and,
within certain limits, contented. “To start with,” his informant had
replied, “the officers who are appointed to Osborne and Dartmouth are
picked men--men who, because they were born with most of the required
qualities, haven’t had their natures badly damaged. The colleges are
star billets. You don’t meet there--or, for that matter, in the society
from which most civilians draw their conclusions--the two and a half
stripe salt-horses who will never become commanders or the engineers
who have sweated their souls out for the sake of a family which attains
the ultimate glory of a Portsmouth suburb--in short, the underworld of
H.M.S. And you don’t meet the drunks. But there’s another reason. The
Service does its training young, on the principle of flog a dog while
it’s a puppy. And if you get through that stage--well, you’re probably
shaped to the mould like the Chinese women’s feet, and you forget, and
it doesn’t do you any fresh hurt. But if you break while the pressure
is being applied, you break--that’s all. A good thing you broke so
soon. If you can’t afford to leave it, the Service has your measure.
It knows you broke, and your promotion is not rapid.... Of course,” he
added, “there are a few who are neither broken nor shaped. They go on
in the Navy, successful up to a point, dabbling in something else they
might have been masters of. Or else they go--often too late.”

And now Lynwood looked forward to the inevitable pressure of the
mould. It was applied, he knew, to junior officers for the Service’s
and their own good. The customary phrase was: “Junior snotties must be
shaken.” The system was unofficial; indeed, its more obvious extremes
had been expressly forbidden; but it was a recognized system, of whose
existence the whole Navy was aware. No protest against it--and this
had been particularly impressed on cadets--would gain any sympathy
from any rank. So the Navy had been created, and so it must continue.
Conditions, said the senior officers, were much better than in Nelson’s
time--much better, indeed, than in their own days as midshipmen.
Comparatively, modern midshipmen were wrapped up in cotton-wool. The
senior officers, in their Wardroom armchairs, didn’t know what the
Service was coming to!

Some captains, it was rumoured, made a stand against the system in
their own ships, on the ground that it was not, in fact, essential
to the efficiency of the Service. Some sub-lieutenants, too--and
they had more control in this matter than any captain--stood out
against the system in their own Mess, simply because cruelty disgusted
them. But these well-intentioned people dared not proselytize. They
resisted the system quietly within their own domain, and, lest they
should be considered old women, said as little as possible about
their resistance. Their number was said to be increasing. Whether
a junior midshipman did or did not experience the extremes of the
system depended nowadays on the ship to which he was appointed and the
sub-lieutenant who ruled his Gunroom. The system, to the accompaniment
of the shaking of many conservative heads, was said to be dying.

But it was by no means dead. Lynwood had decided that, if he was
subjected to it, the system should not break him. After all, its
greatest violence was unlikely to last more than a year. In his second
year he would be partly exempt from it; in his third, he would be in a
position to enforce it, if he wished, upon others.

The cab drew up at the hotel door. As he stood on the pavement fumbling
for money he looked out across the harbour. The railings were jewelled
with raindrops. Beyond them a sea of dull green tossed itself into
livid foam and spray. Further from shore all colour was lost. No
horizon was distinguishable from the opaque sky. Once he thought there
became visible the ghostly form of a warship, infinitely lonely and
apart, but a moment later he could see nothing.

“Good luck t’ee, sir,” said the old sailor, and, as the boy turned
towards the hotel, he added under his breath: “And Gawd ’elp ’ee.”

Lynwood heard, and looked over his shoulder. Then he pulled himself
together, gave his instructions to the hall-porter and walked quickly
into a ground-floor sitting-room, to the door of which was attached a
temporary notice written in blue chalk:

  REEVE & CO.

Mr. Reeve, though he had never held a commission, was one of the
great personalities of the Navy. He described himself as a tailor
and outfitter, but he was more than that. He had taken charge of
Lynwood--as of almost all cadets--from the beginning of his career.
From Mr. Reeve’s descriptive pamphlet Lynwood and his father had drawn
their first ideas of life at Osborne, at Dartmouth, and at sea. A
telegram signed Reeve had told of success in the entrance examination
long before any official intimation had been received. Reeve had
advised as to equipment, and had provided it. Reeve had been on the
Portsmouth jetty to explain the intricacies of a strange uniform on
that great day when seventy new cadets were inspected by an admiral
before they crossed the Solent to Osborne and their destiny. Nothing
seemed outside Mr. Reeve’s scope. He had made himself responsible for
the transport of the great sea-chests from Osborne to Dartmouth, and
from Dartmouth to the training cruiser. He had laboured exceedingly
in things large and small, and had prospered exceedingly. And now,
here was his representative, again in charge of the sea-chests and the
luggage, prepared to aid his charges as they entered upon the next
great stage of their careers. A room had been taken and a placard
attached to the door. Within was Mr. Binney, “Reeve’s man,” helping
the midshipmen to change the plain clothes in which they had travelled
for the Number One uniform, with dirks, in which they were to join
their ship. Mr. Binney unpacked and repacked their bags for them. He
undertook the sending of telegrams for things forgotten. He answered
innumerable questions, and, with an odd sympathy which showed he knew
they had cares enough, promised to have their luggage taken to the
landing stage at which the _King Arthur’s_ boat would call. Certainly,
sir, the luggage would be there in plenty of time. Where were the
sea-chests? Already, as if by a miracle, they were at the head of the
steps. In the rain? Yes, but they would come to no harm. Had all the
young gentlemen got the keys of their sea-chests? It would be awkward
to arrive on board and not be able to open them. In case any young
gentleman had forgotten or should lose his key, he had a skeleton which
would open any chest. Perhaps they would not mind sharing it?... Yes,
he had heard that the _King Arthur’s_ captain was a very good captain;
and the rear-admiral--of course, everyone knew that he was one of
the coming men: not that the captain or the admiral would make much
difference to them.... Before long they would have to coal ship....

Mr. Binney had remarkable information. Moreover, he talked and made
discreet jokes to such effect that silences, in which there might
have been time to think, were pleasantly avoided.... Was it true that
Mr. Reeve had a son who was going to enter the Service? Ah! that he
didn’t know. Was the sub of the _King Arthur_ a good fellow? That he
couldn’t say. Mr. Binney knew exactly what things he ought to know and
say. Personalities--save in a complimentary context--were to him an
abomination.

Lynwood found that he was absurdly sorry for Mr. Binney--so eager, so
capable, so warm-hearted a man and yet a tailor’s assistant! What, in
the terms of this world, was his reward for all these excellencies?
Lynwood pictured the little man’s family, the boy for whose education
he had saved, the girl for whose happy marriage he was already laying
plans. What were Mr. Binney’s castles in the air? He was too good a man
to have none.... Then Lynwood’s thoughts shifted abruptly. He became
envious of Mr. Binney, who would not have to go into that bleak ship,
who would return comfortably to London--though it were in a third-class
compartment--who would dine that evening among friends, who would
sleep that night, not in a strange hammock, but in a familiar bed. Mr.
Binney’s future was at least certain. Lynwood glanced at his kindly
eyes. He saw the beads of perspiration which much stooping had produced
upon his red forehead. Mr. Binney was tired, very tired.

Three other midshipmen--Sentley, Cunwell, and Fane-Herbert--were in the
room when Lynwood arrived. He knew them all intimately, for they had
served their training as cadets in his term. Sentley was small, dark,
and a little pompous in manner. An unimaginative conscientiousness was
written plainly on his face. Cunwell was of a heavier type, square
headed, square bodied, and coarse skinned. He had loose lips that were
usually wet, and self-assurance that was aggressive. He possessed,
however, a certain force, not of intellect--for his flat, almost
concave, forehead proclaimed his stupidity--but of personality, a
personality impervious to satire. It was not his habit to think more
deeply than mere physical action demanded. He was neither an observer
of himself nor an analyst of others. To him nothing was a symbol,
everything a fact. He treated the mind with suspicious hostility, as if
it derived its strength from witchcraft and the evil powers. Mental
capacity seemed to him no more than an unfair advantage over himself
exercised by others in examination-rooms, and he did not allow himself
to be troubled by his own deficiency in this respect. He brushed it
aside characteristically. “You brainy fellows will soon learn that
exams don’t count for much.”

In Fane-Herbert the effect of good breeding was conspicuous. When he
smiled, his small white teeth and dancing eyes could not fail to cast
a spell. In anger he became cold and aloof, refusing the easy relief
of passion. He faced injustice and humiliation with an air of scornful
pride which served him ill by irritating his oppressors. Intellectually
he was unremarkable; but he was expert in all physical exercises that
required quickness of eye and subtlety of wrist rather than force and
speed. His whole manner was slow, almost languid. His reserve was not
easily pierced, and only to his most intimate friends would he speak of
himself. Upon the rest of the world he looked calmly, seeming scarcely
to expect that others would be interested in him. Lynwood knew him
well, liked him well, admired him for a dozen qualities; but he felt
that in Fane-Herbert there was an element, not deliberately concealed,
which was, however, never fully in the light of day, and therefore not
entirely comprehensible.

“How did you get here?” Sentley asked. “You weren’t in our train,
Lynwood?”

“No, I came across country--not from London.”

“Did any of the others come with you--Driss, or Dyce, or any of the
senior snotties?”

“No, I came alone.”

“They’ll come by a later train,” Cunwell declared. “They can go off by
the seven o’clock officers’ boat. You bet the senior snotties anyhow
won’t go on board before they must. I shouldn’t have come so early
myself, but----”

“Aren’t the senior snotties on board already?” Fane-Herbert asked.

“No, of course not,” explained Cunwell, who knew everything. “The five
senior snotties are also joining the _King Arthur_ to-day. Didn’t
you know? They’ve been doing their destroyer time, and things like
that. Now they are coming back to a big ship for a year before their
lieutenant’s exams. But I believe there are four intermediate snotties
there already--second year people, one year senior to us.”

“I expect they won’t be too pleased with the seniors’ coming,” Sentley
remarked.

“Oh, they’ll take it out of us,” Fane-Herbert said.

Lynwood was talking to Mr. Binney, and beginning to undress preparatory
to getting into uniform. His round-jacket was lying on the table.
Cunwell picked it up, and ostentatiously examined its sleeves.

“I say, Lynwood,” he said, “I can see the marks where your Cadet
Captain’s stripe has been.”

“Can you? I can’t help it.”

“Well, I shouldn’t let the senior snotties see it, if I were you. My
brother told me that when he went to sea for the first time, one of the
snotties who were with him had the marks of his stripes showing, and
he got a dozen cuts once a week till they disappeared--just to teach
him that Cadet Captains at Dartmouth have got to learn their place when
they go to sea.”

Lynwood, who was well aware that Cunwell had been bitterly
disappointed because he had never been made a Cadet Captain himself,
knew what triumph lay beneath the friendly appearance of his warning.
Cunwell delighted to impress upon him the indisputable fact that he had
fallen from relatively high estate.

“Well, I expect you are glad now, Cunwell,” he said, “that you were
never made a Cadet Captain? You won’t get beaten once a week--not for
that reason, at any rate.”

“All right,” Cunwell exclaimed angrily, “you needn’t be sarcastic
about nothing. I thought you would like to know; and then you lose
your temper because I warn you. You are an extraordinary fellow! My
brother----”

“Oh!” Fane-Herbert interrupted. “For four years and a half we’ve heard
about your brother. You told me all about him the first night we were
at Osborne.”

“You’re another of the Cadet Captains. Are the marks of your stripes
showing?... At any rate, my brother is one of the best officers in the
Service. The men love him.”

“I dare say.”

Sentley, as did all save Cunwell, resented this wrangling. To him it
was as if prisoners insulted one another on their way to the scaffold.
Moreover, youthfully conscious of his dignity as a naval officer, he
felt that such disputes were not for the ears of Mr. Binney.

“It doesn’t really matter now,” he said mildly. And then, determined to
be cheerful at all costs, he added: “Do you think we shall get leave
at Christmas?” and Fane-Herbert echoed him: “It doesn’t really matter
now.”

But the question set Lynwood looking across the months. “It’s a long
way off,” he said.

“Not longer than a Dartmouth term.”

“No.”

“But you won’t get four weeks’ leave, as you did at Dartmouth,” Cunwell
said. “Of course, snotties sometimes get both watches of leave, but I
shouldn’t count on it.”

“Don’t you want leave?” Lynwood asked.

“Of course I do; but I’m not so damned homesick already as you are.”

There seemed to be no reply to this, so silence fell for a moment. Mr.
Binney interposed quickly:

“The _King Arthur’s_ pretty good about leave, I think.”

“Is she?” Cunwell turned on the others. “One might think you fellows
weren’t keen on the Service. Don’t you want to go to sea?”

“Why not wait till you get there?” Fane-Herbert said coldly.

“Yes, you just wait!” Cunwell warned them. “I can tell you,
Fane-Herbert, your smiles and your cricket won’t help you there; nor
your English and _x_-chasing, Lynwood. That isn’t the kind of thing
Commanders look for.”

Even Cunwell’s voice became less strident when at last they had left
Mr. Binney with their luggage, and, under his directions, had gone into
the street. Their best uniform, in which they were bound to report
themselves on board, added to the discomfort caused by wind and rain.
Soon their trousers were wet to the knee.

“I say,” said the careful Sentley, “do you think the Commander will
mind our trousers being like this?”

“I can’t help the Commander’s troubles,” Fane-Herbert answered. “What
makes me swear is that our cap badges will get spoilt.”

“What do our cap badges matter? You should see my brother’s cap, and he
says----” Derisive applause checked him.

“Do you hear the water from the gutter roaring below that grating?”
Lynwood said.... “Those must be the steps. Yes, I can see our chests
standing there.”

Sentley stopped suddenly outside a Chemist’s shop. “I say, hold on a
minute. I want some shaving soap.”

They turned to look at him. “Oh, Sentley, do you have to shave now?”
and they laughed good-humouredly till the colour rose to his cheeks.

“I shall have to very soon--at any rate, for Sunday Divisions. Will you
wait for me while I get it, Lynwood?”

“Don’t stand about in this deluge,” Cunwell put in. “The messman will
keep shaving soap. Most messmen do. You can get it in the ship if you
want it.”

They left the chemist unvisited, and pressed on to the head of the
landing-steps. Here they wrapped their mackintoshes round them and sat
down on the wet lids of their chests. Someone began to drum his heels
against the painted wood.

“If you kick off all the paint,” said Cunwell promptly, “you’ll be in
the soup at Captain’s inspection.”

The heels stopped, and silence fell. Presently their luggage was
brought on a barrow chartered by Mr. Binney. The sea was splashing and
hissing on the stone steps. In a little time, out of the mist of rain,
the bows and funnel of a picket-boat became visible.

“That’s our boat,” said Cunwell at once. “She has a sailing pinnace in
tow--that’s for our chests.”

A bell rang clearly four times; the engines slowed. It rang once, and
the throb of machinery ceased; the tow-rope slackened.

“Cast off the pinnace! Take the pinnace inside, coxswain. I’ll come
outside you.”

“Aye, aye, sir!... Get them fenders out, Micky.”

The picket-boat’s engines roared astern as the midshipman brought her
bows round in readiness to come alongside the pinnace. In a couple of
minutes both boats were in position.

“Are you the snotties for the _King Arthur_?”

“Go on, Sentley, you are senior--you answer.”

“Yes,” shouted Sentley.

“Down into the boat, then.... No, not in the pinnace. Get into the
picket-boat’s cabin.”

They clambered across as they were bid.

“This must be one of the intermediate snotties,” Lynwood said to
Fane-Herbert.

“Yes. Don’t you remember him at Dartmouth? Ollenor?”

“Ollenor, is it? I haven’t seen his face yet under his sou’wester.”

The picket-boat’s cabin was divided into two parts--an outer section,
comfortable, light, and clean, which in fair weather was adorned no
doubt with white-covered cushions with blue crests; and an inner
section, dark and ill-ventilated, wherein were kept signal lamps and
all manner of spare fittings. They seated themselves in the outer
section because they came to it first.

“Do you think we ought to sit here? Suppose some officers come down?”
Sentley suggested. In the training cruiser it had been the custom for
cadets to sit on the cabin’s roof.

“Well, so long as there is room for them it’s all right,” Fane-Herbert
said; “and if there isn’t room, then we can go into that inner cabin.
I’m not going out on to the roof in this weather and these clothes.”

“Yes.... I know that sounds reasonable enough, but don’t you think
that, as we are junior snotties just joining the ship, it would be
better to move off into the inner cabin _anyhow_ if any officers
come--whether there is room for them or not. You see, there isn’t much
space where we are, and it might get us a bad name to start off with,
and----”

“And you are the senior of us,” Lynwood laughed. “Poor Sentley! The
sins of us all will be visited on you as well as on ourselves.... Let’s
move in if any officers come. It’s as well to be on the safe side.”

While they spoke the boat’s crew were getting their sea-chests down
into the sailing pinnace.

“Any more to come?” Ollenor shouted.

“All on board, sir.”

“The luggage too?”

“All on board, sir.”

“All right. Jump in.... Pinnace, get your painter aft, and shove your
bows out.”

At this moment a thin, pale man, wearing a bowler hat, appeared at
the top of the steps and began to descend them with what speed their
slipperiness would permit.

“Hold on,” said Ollenor.

The man came across the pinnace and jumped into the picket-boat’s
cabin. Sentley glanced at him, hesitated a moment, and then retired
into the inner cabin, whither the others followed him.

“Who do you think that is?”

“An engineer, probably.”

“But does even an engineer officer go ashore in a bowler hat?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t believe it’s an officer at all.”

“It must be. He’s wearing plain clothes.”

“At any rate, we are on the safe side--coming in here,” said Sentley.

The atmosphere was vile. The little fixed windows were flush with the
upper deck. Through them could be seen, now the grey sky, now the
brown, hardened feet of one of the crew. Ollenor’s voice repeated his
former orders; the bell rang, and the engines turned slowly. Then the
tow-rope grew taut, the pinnace swung out abruptly, and both boats
circled towards the open sea. Land and the old life receded. Through
the narrow stern door of the inner cabin, beyond the pale face and
the bowler hat and the tiller vibrating above the propellor, beyond
the tow-rope and the sailing pinnace, which came sometimes into sight
as the helm swung over, Lynwood could see the hazy outlines of the
roofs of Torquay. Soon a change of course banished even these from
view. Lynwood found himself longing for respite, for a break in this
dream that brought them nearer and nearer to the ship. He wanted the
tow-rope to part! His eyes travelled to it as if there were a chance
of its doing so. But no god intervened.... No word was spoken. They
sat still, avoiding each other’s eyes. Soon Ollenor’s voice was heard
once more shouting instructions to the sailing pinnace. The engine-room
bell rang, and rang again. The propellor cast up new foam, and the
picket-boat quivered as they went astern. And now they rocked at the
foot of the _King Arthur’s_ port after gangway.

The pale man stood aside that they might be the first to leave the
boat, but they had no eyes for that. As they reached the quarter-deck
they saluted as they had been taught, and looked round for the officer
of the watch to whom they should report themselves. His childish
pictures of a shining sunlit quarter-deck flashed irresistibly across
Lynwood’s mind. Here the planks were stained to dark patches by the
rain. The turret, with its unbroken surface of flat grey, wore a hard
blank expression, which was somehow similar to that of an intolerant
and dull-minded human being. Ropes, cheesed down into neat spirals on
the deck, were black and sodden with wet. Over all, casting its shadowy
gloom on brass and steel, lay the sloped awning, from whose edges the
rain dripped and splashed with miserable monotony. The quarter-deck was
like a vast gymnasium, bare, and cold, and sombre.

Ollenor had followed them up the gangway, and stood now in conversation
with the midshipman of the watch.

“Can the picket-boat make fast and go to tea?”

“Yes; you have nothing, so far as I know, till the seven o’clock trip.”

“Come on, you fellows,” said Ollenor; “you’d better come and report
yourselves to the Commander. Then come along to the Mess.... There’s
the Commander’s cabin.”

Sentley knocked.

“Yes?”

Sentley took off his cap, drew back the curtain, and went in. The
others were following him when the Commander broke out: “Who are you?”

“We’ve come on board to join, sir.”

“Speak for yourself.... And you in the rear there, stand at attention!
What do you mean by lolling about in my cabin?” No answer was expected
or given. “Who told you to come into my cabin? Get out of it. When I
say ‘Come in,’ come in--not before.”

They withdrew, and Sentley knocked again.

“Come in.... Well? Don’t stand there like a dumb thing! What do you
want, boy?”

“We’ve come on board to join, sir.”

“Will you speak for yourself? Now, report yourselves properly, one by
one. What’s your name?”

“Sentley, sir.”

“Are you the senior?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are these all the junior midshipmen? I thought we were to have six of
you.”

“Two haven’t come off yet, sir.”

“Send them to me when they do. And see they know how to behave
themselves before they come into my cabin. Understand?” The others then
gave their names in turn. “Very well,” the Commander went on, “clear
out now. I dare say I shall learn your names as soon as you care for.
Go on--out of it!”

The last command was shouted at them. It rang in their ears as they
walked towards the Gunroom.

“I wonder if he’s always like that?”

“Lots of Commanders are half mad with over-work,” Cunwell said. “They
chase everyone--lower deck, snotties, Wardroom--everyone.”

“But have you ever heard anything so absolutely without cause?” asked
Lynwood; “a screaming rage all about nothing.”

“It’s part of the system, I suppose,” said Fane-Herbert, “and all for
the good of the Service. It’s no good to take it too seriously.”


II

When the midshipmen had left his cabin the Commander picked up his pen
and stooped once more over the letter he was writing to his wife.

“... Means more drive,” he wrote. “All one’s life is an amazing drive.
The R.A. never tires. He must be made of iron. It is his affectation--”
The Commander crossed out the sentence and wrote: “He considers it
necessary to be entirely unsparing of himself and others. It’s like
running a mile race at a hundred yards’ pace. He acts as if there were
going to be a war to-morrow. Of course, we all act similarly--and that
means a smart ship. But if you knew how I should like to relax the
pressure on the men--even for one day! But what the R.A. does we must
all do. I have that promotion to think of that you and I are waiting
for.

“When you met the R.A. you thought him charming, didn’t you? And so
he was. You should see him in the ship. And I hope you think me even
more charming than the R.A.? You should see me in the ship. I wonder
if the men think I am always like this. I’m sure the snotties do. I’ve
just cursed some new ones till they fled, and I suppose they think--and
I don’t wonder--that I’m an inhuman beast. What’s more, I’m afraid
they won’t ever have much cause to think otherwise. I shall curse them
and drive them whenever I see them--just as the Admiral, a bit more
politely, drives me. (It doesn’t hurt me, because I can see _through_
it all.) It must be done. It really is necessary. Probably the R.A.
excuses himself to _his_ wife on the grounds that the Vice-Admiral
drives him, and so on up to My Lords Commissioners at Whitehall, who
would put the responsibility on the Germans, and they return it. It is
a circle!

“I’m sorry. I oughtn’t to fill all my letter to you with grousing.
The Service is a fine service, and Peter shall go into it if you’ll
trust him to Commanders even fiercer than myself. But we shall have to
talk it over about Peter. I’m not quite sure that the Navy is the best
place. Your father was an artist, and if any of that has come through
to Peter--well, we eat artists. I know you want it--but then you know
the Navy ashore, and you have a husband who is going to be an admiral,
haven’t you? Do you know anything of the Jesuits of old time and their
methods? I feel rather like them sometimes. But then, of course, the
Service is a really fine ‘end’--that makes all the difference.

“When I come home....”

The midshipman of the watch tapped at the door. “Eight bells, sir.”

“Sound off!”

The bugle sounded. The pen worked quicker now. The last four words were
crossed out.

“... I’ll write again. I want to get this letter ashore. I’m sending in
an extra boat after Quarters. Quarters is sounding off now. I must go.”

He thrust on his cap and walked out on to the quarter-deck. Here the
Marines and the Quarter-deck Division were falling in.

“Where’s the midshipman of the Quarter-deck Division?... Mr. Ollenor,
in future you will come up from the Gunroom in time to see that your
Division falls in smartly to the bugle. Look at them! They’re a damned
disgrace!--all talking when I came.... Don’t answer me. Go to them.”

The Commander was shouting. He swung round on his heel to cover a queer
smile. The sergeant-major, who missed nothing, wondered what joke there
was; but he knew nothing of the Commander’s letter.

At that moment the Rear-Admiral emerged from his quarters. With his
hands clasped behind him he walked to the after-rails and looked over
the stern.

“Commander!”

“Sir!”

The Rear-Admiral pointed upwards to where the white ensign had become
entangled with its staff. “Your ensign’s foul. It looks bad for the
rest of the squadron.” Then he strolled away.

The Commander’s lips tightened. “Midshipman of the Watch!”

“Sir!” The midshipman came running, stopped and saluted.

“Look at that ensign--disgusting! The Admiral noticed it. Why can’t you
keep your eyes open instead of standing about doing nothing? What do
you think you are here for?”

“It was cleared a little time ago, sir. The wind----”

“Damn it! Don’t argue. It’s your job to see that it’s always clear.
Don’t let me find it like that again, or your leave will suffer.”

He dashed for’ard, swinging a telescope. The midshipman knew his cue.

“Sideboy!” And the sideboy, a wizened little creature as yet too young
to be an ordinary seaman, came running in his turn. “Look at that
ensign! The Commander noticed it.”

The sideboy looked; and gulped while he summoned his excuse. “I cleared
it just afore quarters, sir,” he said. “The rain an’ the wind----”

“It’s your job to see that it’s always clear. Understand?”

“Yessir.”

“And put your cap on straight.”

“Yessir.”

“Now go and clear the ensign. Get a move on!”

The midshipman tucked his telescope under his arm and watched for the
Commander’s return.




CHAPTER II

SEEN THROUGH STEEL


Before they reached the Gunroom after their interview with the
Commander, Lynwood and his companions met a tall midshipman, whom they
immediately recognized.

“Hullo, are you the new snotties?” he asked. “I’m Reedham, three terms
senior to you--probably you remember me at Dartmouth? You are Lynwood,
aren’t you? Weren’t you the fellow that was made a Cadet Captain first
shot?”

“Yes,” said Lynwood, and added quickly: “We’ve just come from the
Commander.”

“Oh have you? Did he bite your heads off?”

“We seemed to do something wrong.”

“You always will seem to do something wrong whenever the Bloke’s
about.... But where are you going now?”

“The Gunroom. Ollenor told us to go there when we had reported
ourselves.”

“Well, I shouldn’t, if I were you. Quarters will be sounding off in
a minute or two. You had better come up for them. Ten to one, if you
don’t, the Bloke will jump on you for shirking. He’s bound to be on
the look out. Really you ought to have twenty-four hours to sling your
’ammicks in--standing off all duties; but that theory is a back number
with our people.... Are your chests on board yet?”

“No; they have only just come off in the sailing pinnace.”

“Then you’ll have to go to Quarters in the rig you have on. You ought
really to change into monkey-jackets, of course. Anyway, I should
unship those dirks. Chuck them down behind somebody’s chest for the
time being--out of sight, though.”

When they had followed his advice they trailed behind Reedham on to the
upper deck.

“Of course, you haven’t been told off for Divisions yet,” he said. “It
won’t matter where you go this afternoon so long as the Bloke sees
you somewhere. You come to the Foretopmen with me, Lynwood, and the
remainder had better take a Division each.”

Under this friendly guidance they went through Quarters without mishap,
and, immediately afterwards, went below with Reedham. On their way
to the Gunroom they passed through the Chest Flat, an ill-lighted
section of the main deck, flanked on the port side by cabins and on the
starboard side by the Gunroom and the Gunroom pantry. The whole of the
centre of the flat was occupied by the Engine-room casing, on either
side of which passages led, for’ard to the men’s quarters, and aft to
the half-deck. Through a door in the starboard passage they entered
their new home.

The Gunroom was a long, very narrow room, about seven feet high, built
almost entirely of steel. Its outboard wall was the curving side of
the ship, and was pierced at intervals by scuttles, which visitors
referred to as windows. Its inboard wall, which it had in common with
the Chest Flat, contained the doors. The after-bulkhead was unbroken,
and for’ard were the pantry hatch and the serving slab. The furniture,
though not elaborate, occupied most of the floor space. A long, narrow,
leather-cushioned seat, always called the settee, was attached to
the ship’s side. Parallel to this a table was screwed to the deck.
Between the doors stood a sideboard, covered with innumerable weekly
and daily papers; and overhead, screwed to the walls, was a series of
small wooden lockers, between which and the beams above were kept such
sextants as were not for the moment in pawn. A stove, a few chairs, and
a piano completed the Gunroom’s regular equipment.

The place had an air of hard usage, and bore witness in a thousand
ways to the manner of its occupants’ lives. The only decorations were
a few cheap prints, some of Transatlantic and some, perhaps, of German
inspiration, representing ladies who were not merely insufficiently
clothed, but who seemed, oddly enough, to have definitely completed
their toilette when they had donned a pair of silk stockings or a
diminutive undergarment. In their eyes invitation was conveyed by means
of a formula, having no connection with art or life, which seldom fails
to produce commercial profit. They hung there, eternally grinning,
eternally brandishing their insistent legs, the remarkable substitute
for womanhood which our generation has learned to recognize and accept.
Near them, as if to throw them into overpowering contrast with reality,
oilskins, which smelt strongly, hung with dirks and belts from pegs
on the wall. The deck, the stove, and the settee were littered with
papers, books, pipes, tobacco-tins and cigarette-ash. At the end of the
table, on which cards, a dice-thrower, and a couple of empty glasses
were grouped incongruously with teacups, the Sub was sitting.

“Hullo, Reedham,” he exclaimed, “who are your young friends?” Then he
pointed a finger at Sentley. “You with the innocent face, are you the
new warts?”

Not yet accustomed to this usual description of very junior midshipmen,
Sentley hesitated before he answered: “Yes, sir!”

“Lord Almighty!” the Sub cried, smiling despite himself, “don’t call me
‘sir.’ Who the deuce taught you to call subs ‘sir’?”

“No one.”

“I should hope not.... Well, don’t do it again.”

“No; I’m sorry.”

“And don’t be so bloody polite. This isn’t a dame’s school.... Had some
tea?”

The Sub pressed a bell that swung from a cord above his head. The
pantry-hatch opened with a click, and a pale face appeared--the face
of the man in the bowler hat to whom they had yielded place in the
picket-boat.

“Tea for these officers, messman,” said the Sub.

Lynwood and Fane-Herbert exchanged glances, but they were careful to
say nothing. They knew that they would be wise to keep the knowledge of
their mistake locked away in their own hearts. But Cunwell perceived
that he might score a point.

“I told you so, Lynwood,” he said, so that all might hear.

“What did you tell him?” the Sub asked, wondering if they had been
betting against the Sub’s offering them tea.

“When we were coming off in the picket-boat,” Cunwell began, “the
messman came down at the last moment, and”--Sentley kicked him
vigorously, but he continued, nevertheless--“and Sentley and Lynwood
and Fane-Herbert thought he was a Wardroom officer, and cleared out for
him.”

Ollenor, Reedham, and Norgate, the midshipman who had kept the
afternoon watch, roared with laughter at this.

“That’s good!” the Sub exclaimed. “The Wardroom would rejoice to know
that Wickham was mistaken for one of themselves. And you--what’s your
name?”

“Cunwell.”

“And you, Cunwell, what did you do?”

“Oh, I went with the rest of them; but, of course, I knew----”

“Of course you did. I see we have a smart young officer here, Ollenor,
competing for a medal.”

The dog-watches passed without event. The Sub having gone to his cabin
and the others on to the upper deck, Lynwood was left in the Gunroom
with Reedham and Fane-Herbert. They fell at once to a discussion of
personalities and prospects, and Reedham, wearing the quiet smile that
was habitual to him, answered questions, volunteered information, and
gasped at examples of ingenuousness. The Sub, it appeared, was named
Winton-Black. Reedham described him as a good enough fellow if ever he
did anything--which happened infrequently. He was to leave the ship in
a few months’ time, and was careless of what happened in the interval.
Almost all his spare time was spent in his cabin, so that he seldom
appeared in the Gunroom except for meals.

“Then we ought to be all right,” said Fane-Herbert.

“Oh, don’t you believe it. You would be much better off, I assure you,
if Winton-Black _did_ put in an appearance. He’s an easygoing old
thing, as lazy as they are made, and it would be too much effort for
him to chase you much. But his being away leaves the senior snotties’
hands free, and the five seniors we are going to have include some
pretty tough customers. I believe Krame, the senior of the lot, who
will arrange all our duties and dispose our lives, is--well, Ollenor
knows more of him than I do, and _he_ says he’s as bad as we could hope
for. Howdray has a name through the fleet--Bull Howdray. He’s usually
tight, and pretty violent. Tintern is musical--a bit of an artist, but
untrained, of course--quite a decent sort in a mild way; but he sozzles
to console himself for the might-have-beens. The other two, Elstone and
Banford-Smith, I don’t know much about.”

“But how will you intermediate fellows come off, Reedham?”

“We?--oh, we shall be all right, I dare say. We’ve had our share of
the worst of it. You see, there are four of us: Ollenor and Norgate
you’ve met, and then there’s Tommy Hambling, who is keeping the first
dog-watch at the moment. If we went quietly we shouldn’t come to much
harm, but Norgate and Hambling are always making asses of themselves.
They came off to the ship absolutely blind to the world the other
night. We thought we had got them down safely, but the silly fools
showed the effects next morning. Hambling went bright green in the
middle of School, and had to retreat and be sick, which angered the
priest; and Norgate--much about the same colour--went off to sleep in
the middle of Baring’s Seamanship Lecture. The whole story came out, of
course. It seems that Baring saw they were tight the evening before,
but didn’t know how bad it was. At any rate, he decided to say nothing
about it if they were fit for duty the next morning; but then, when
they collapsed during his own lecture there was hell to pay. He told
Winton-Black to give them a dozen cuts each, and has stopped all their
leave, wine bills and extra bills till further orders. Now they talk
about breaking out of the ship when they get to Portland. Norgate says
he has an amateur there, though Heaven knows where he finds her. And
so it goes on.... Of course, that gets everybody’s back up against us
four, and will give Krame an excellent opportunity to make himself
objectionable if he is so minded.”

“But who is the officer in charge of midshipmen?” Lynwood asked.

“The Snotty Walloper? Baring.”

“Won’t he see that Krame and the others don’t go too far?”

Reedham grinned at them while he lighted his pipe.

“You people _are_ fresh from Dartmouth, you know! A Snotty Walloper
doesn’t look after snotties as a Term Lieutenant at the colleges looks
after cadets. Baring’s job is to see we keep our watches, run our
boats, work out our yearly sights, and do our instruction. He signs the
Leave Book, and occasionally he invites one of us to dine with him in
the Wardroom. That’s all. You don’t go to him with your troubles. When
you come to sea you have to look out for yourself and square your own
yard-arm. No one interferes except in matters affecting discipline.
Your private life is your own so long as you don’t make a public
exhibition of yourself when you go ashore.... Oh no, don’t imagine
that Baring would trouble his head about what Krame does to you. It’s
none of his business. And what’s more, nobody wants the Wardroom
to interfere in what the Gunroom does. You don’t want it yourself.
Etiquette about that sort of thing is very strong.”

For some time the conversation drifted away to Dartmouth days, but
Lynwood’s thoughts ran on. The prospect of independence, of complete
emancipation from leading-strings, attracted him. He compared his
life with that of boys of his own age at public schools, and found,
almost to his surprise, that he would be unwilling to accept their
comfort and security in exchange for the privileges of responsibility.
All midshipmen regard schoolboys with a certain contempt. They are
launched into the world while their brothers are but preparing for
it. They command, not a football fifteen, but a boat’s crew. They
have experience of men and women whose very existence is not yet,
and perhaps never will be a reality to the shore-going folk of their
own class. And daily, in the ordinary course of routine, they
carry--though it does not strike them in this way--their own lives and
the lives of others in their hands. All this begets a rare pride, the
pride of one who for the first time signs his own cheque and rejoices
silently in the possession of his own banking account.

Lynwood awoke from a day-dream to find himself staring at one of the
pictures above Reedham’s head.

“Those pictures,” he said suddenly, “aren’t they appalling?”

“They are pretty vile,” Reedham agreed. “But they are a Gunroom custom.
I don’t see what other pictures you could have. Really good ones would
look horribly out of place. Besides, the kind we have is what most
people like.”

“Well, if ever I’m Sub of a Gunroom,” said Lynwood, “I’ll have good
pictures or none at all.”

“Probably you will think differently then,” Reedham answered, with a
smile of experience. “One’s ideas change at sea. One gets accustomed,
you know.”

Later in the evening the five senior midshipmen arrived and burst into
the Gunroom, followed by the two remaining juniors, Driss and Dyce. The
place was soon full of the noise of greetings, the ringing of bells,
and the ordering of drinks. When dinner was over, Krame made out a
preliminary list of the duties of each midshipman, in which it was laid
down who were to run the boats, who were to keep watch together, and
to what station each was to go for the ship’s evolutions. Then began a
series of questions. Krame, a dark, large-eyed youth, whose good looks
dissipation had been powerless to destroy, seated himself on the table.

“Now then, Warts, how many of you are teetotallers? Prove!”

They proved by bending their arms at the elbow and holding out their
hands in drill-book fashion. Krame counted.

“One, two, three, four.... Driss, aren’t you a T.T.?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to be.”

“I’m not going to ask you to sign the pledge, you know. You can drink
yourselves dead when you go ashore for all I care. All I want to know
is, how many of you are not going to use your wine bills on board. Then
we can use them--see? What about you, Cunwell? Aren’t you T.T.?”

“I don’t want to sell my whole wine bill,” said Cunwell. “I may have to
stand a boat’s crew a drink or something.”

“Thoughtful and righteous youth!” laughed Howdray.

It was decided that the ten shillings’ worth of drink, which each
junior midshipman was allowed to consume in a month, was to be
transferred, in four cases out of six, to the seniors. Driss was
allowed to keep his because he insisted upon doing so with an Irish
vigour that amused them, and Cunwell surrendered only two-thirds of his
share.

This preliminary having been settled to Krame’s satisfaction, many
drinks were called for with which to celebrate it. The musical Tintern
was urged to the piano, and an impromptu sing-song, which was one vast
chorus, was begun. It started in decorous fashion with the original
version of _Riding down from Bangor_, followed with much greater
enthusiasm by its parody. The standard then fell, and the enthusiasm
rose until, when the time came to close the Gunroom, a dozen and more
young gentlemen were gathered round Tintern, shouting, between pulls at
drinks and puffs at pipes, songs that their sisters--but their sisters
have nothing to do with the Gunroom. And Tintern, with a glass at his
right hand from which he complained he had not time to drink, played
and smiled and sozzled, as Reedham had remarked, to console himself for
the might-have-beens.




CHAPTER III

A CHAPTER WITHOUT NAME


I

On the morning of his first full day in the _King Arthur_ John Lynwood
enjoyed the luxury of a lie-in until a quarter-past seven. In the
course of ordinary routine, he and all midshipmen not engaged in other
duties would by this time have done half an hour’s physical drill on
the quarter-deck; but Krame, trusting that the Snotty Walloper would be
unobservant on this occasion, had sent a messenger for’ard the previous
evening to tell the Physical Training Instructor that the midshipmen
would not require him in the morning. Therefore, when he turned out of
his hammock, John went immediately to his chest, took off his pyjamas,
wrapped a towel round his middle, and pattered barefoot down to the
bathroom.

Here the senior midshipmen, who had already secured the shallow
hip-baths, were sliding them over the tiled floor towards the cold
water tap, disputing with vigour as to whose servants had brought the
cans of hot water, shouting for soap, and calling down curses upon the
heads of those who had presumably stolen their sponges.

“Damn that marine,” Ollenor’s lazy voice was saying, “he has taken
my soap again. I hid it in the corner of this locker yesterday....
Shouldn’t mind so much if he ever looked as if he used it.”

John waited his turn, bathed, dressed, and went into the Gunroom for
breakfast. The senior midshipmen seemed to be in good humour, the sun
was shining, the coffee was hot, and John, in obedience to one of those
moods of his of which it was always difficult to discover the cause,
was a thousand times more cheerful than he had been on the previous
night. When Prayers and Divisions were over, the Chaplain, who was
also a naval instructor, came into the Gunroom to conduct School. John
learned much of him before his arrival. He had hoped that the Chaplain
would be a scholar, a little precious, it might be, but possessed of an
ununiformed mind, more pliant than routine, simpler than discipline.
He had met one Chaplain of such a kind, and had been grateful for the
relief that his contrast afforded. But this man, it seemed, was above
all a Wardroom officer. Ollenor summed him up: “He is always trying to
bowl you out,” he said. Only Reedham, who had a good word to say for
everybody, spoke in his defence. “I dare say he means well. We don’t
give him much chance. We’re not exactly Padre’s blue-eyed boys, are we?”

John saw at once that the Padre, when he entered, looked round him in
expectation of hostility.

“There you are,” said Hambling, in an aside that was intentionally
audible, “he hasn’t even the decency to knock.”

“Will you young gentlemen please keep silence when School has begun?”
said the Padre. He looked round him. “No duster, no chalk; blackboard
not in position. Who is the Senior Midshipman?”

“I am, sir,” said Krame.

“Then you will in future see that the Gunroom is properly rigged for
School _before_ I come in.”

“That will be your job, Cunwell,” said Krame abruptly.

The Padre continued in his even tone. “And you will give your
instructions at a proper time, please, and not interrupt me when I am
speaking.”

By this time the Gunroom, which, in the manner of Gunrooms, resented
nothing so much as cold superiority, was determinedly hostile. If the
Padre had ever hoped to win the midshipmen he had set about his task
wrongly, and had definitely failed. Of all soil the Gunroom is to a
chaplain the most stubborn. Few attempt to cultivate it; fewer succeed
in such an attempt.

The navigation lecture became a mere occupation of time, the teacher
being as mechanical as the pupils. When he talked, they let him talk,
asking no questions. When he drew on the board, they watched him,
for he had a habit of turning quickly to discover the direction of
their eyes. For this amount of attention, because it was a part of
discipline, he made a rigid demand, but so long as their answers to his
questions were not flagrantly irrelevant, he seemed to care not at all
for the direction of their minds. His manner was a strange contrast
to that of the masters at Dartmouth. And here--from the pupils’ point
of view--there were no marks to be won, there was no competition, no
incentive but the fear of the examinations for the rank of lieutenant,
which were yet comfortably far off.

When the lecture was over, the Padre interrupted the thud of books
thrown ostentatiously aside to say he wished every new midshipman to
come in turn to his cabin. He would see the most junior first. “And
I hope,” he added, “that the Gunroom will learn to behave itself at
an early date. If ordinary persuasions, which ought to be sufficient,
fail, there is always the Leave Book. You understand me, Krame?”

“Quite, sir.”

In his own cabin the Padre was more tolerant. John found him sitting at
his desk with a heap of papers before him.

“With regard to Voluntary Subjects for your lieutenant’s exams,
Lynwood--what are your tastes? You can choose three or less of the
following: Higher Mathematics, Naval History, Mechanics, German,
French, and Electricity.” John examined the paper that was handed to
him, while the Padre went on: “Most midshipmen, when they come to sea,
regard it as an opportunity to abandon all their study. I admit that
the ordinary circumstances of their lives--boat running, watch-keeping,
crowded quarters, and--er--so on--do not make book work easy. Commonly,
the work that should have engaged them for three years is left to the
last three months. That is not necessary. It is merely a question of
character and concentration. I want you junior midshipmen to choose
your Voluntary Subjects at once, and to work at them and at the
compulsory subjects consistently from the beginning.”

In this speech it was easy to recognize the intonation of a formula.
The man spoke without enthusiasm, apparently without the least hope
that his advice would be followed. He was doing his duty, that was
all. John chose as his three subjects, Higher Mathematics, French, and
Naval History; the first because it was necessary in Gunnery, and the
last because it was a subject after his own heart. The examination
consisted in the writing of an essay with the aid of books. There were
three years in which to write it. He intended, as he said ambitiously
in a letter home, to “write a big essay in chapters, and if possible to
publish it later as a book.” When he suggested this to the Padre, the
Padre smiled.

“I am afraid you have literary tendencies,” he said.

“I like books,” John answered.

The Padre looked away from him and talked to the open scuttle.
“It would be better from the Service point of view if you liked
mechanics. They promise very rapid promotion to those who specialize in
Engineering.”

“I don’t think I should do well as an engineer, sir.”

“Perhaps not. Make your own choice.... Do you care for poetry?”

“Yes, sir.”

The Padre looked at him sharply, an odd expression in his eyes, as if
memories were pressing on him.

“I have a few books there,” he said, pointing to his cabin shelves.
“Borrow them if you like, but don’t leave them sculling about the
Gunroom--they wouldn’t like volumes of verse. And don’t give too much
thought to them, old man. They won’t make you happier here.”

“Why not, sir,” asked John, “if I like them?”

“Because--oh, never mind why not.... Think over the question of
Voluntary Subjects, Lynwood, and send in the next midshipman, will you
please?”


II

The next two days were spent in sailing to Portland and in coaling
ship. On their first evening in Portland the junior midshipmen had
their earliest experience of Gunroom Evolutions. In this instance the
Evolutions were comparatively mild, being in a manner introductory to
the more serious business which was begun when the _King Arthur_ put to
sea. But these preludes, which began on a Thursday and were repeated
on the following Saturday and Monday, were enough to provide for the
junior midshipmen an engrossing subject of conversation whenever they
were beyond the hearing of their seniors. John and Fane-Herbert landed
together on Tuesday afternoon.

“Thank God,” said Fane-Herbert, “we are out of that for a few hours.”

“Do you think it will happen again this evening?”

“I don’t know. It can’t happen every evening.... I shouldn’t mind so
much if it were a punishment of some kind--if they even pretended that
we had done something wrong. As it is, they chase us for an hour, and
then offer us drinks, and then chase us again.”

“I think I would rather that,” John answered, “than that they should be
avowed enemies. One feels, at any rate, that they are not doing it out
of any personal spite against us. They seem to do it largely because
they feel they must.”

“But why must they?”

“It’s the tradition, I suppose.”

Fane-Herbert, who had uttered no word of protest while the Evolutions
were going on, and who, when they were over, had quietly washed the
dust and blood from him and had turned in, broke out now. He was
talking to his friend. He could afford to let the mask drop.

“I’m keen on the Service,” he said, “keener than most people, I think.
I don’t expect a soft life. I don’t care how much I am chased on duty
by commanders and officers of the watch. Probably that makes you do
your job better--at any rate, it’s all in the day’s work. Every junior
is chased by his seniors in one way or another.... But I swear one has
a right to a certain part of one’s life. The Gunroom is our Mess. It
is the only place we can go to, or write or read in, or do any of the
things we want to do when we are off duty; and it isn’t as if the day
was slack. Heaven knows, what with School, and watches, and boats, and
signals, and divisional work, and sketches, we have enough ordinary
work to do. But then at the end of the day our own Mess is made hell
for us.”

“I know. It’s no good thinking about it.”

“I suppose when you and I are Subs there won’t be any of it in our
Gunrooms.”

“No.”

“And what about the other fellows--Dyce, Cunwell, Driss--do you think
they will carry it on?”

“Probably. Possibly we shall when the time comes. It’s the Service
custom. It has come down through generations. It’s the devil of a job
for any Sub to stand out against it. It might mean his quarrelling with
all his senior snotties, and probably the Wardroom would be up against
him. Every time a junior snotty did something wrong the Sub would be
blamed because the Warts weren’t properly shaken in the Gunroom.”

Fane-Herbert reverted to the personal consideration. “Reedham told me
we haven’t had a proper dose of it yet. He said we had better stand by
for the first night at sea. Krame is planning great things.”

John thrust the thought from him. “Don’t let’s talk about it,” he said.
“We shall have to go back to the ship presently. We shall have enough
of it then.... What are you going to do when we get leave? Didn’t you
say your people were leaving England?”

“It’s rather in the air at present,” Fane-Herbert answered, “but
there’s some talk of my father’s going to Japan to represent his
armament firm out there. My mother may go too, and take Margaret with
her.... Do you remember Margaret, when my people came down to Osborne
years ago? She must have been about fourteen then.”

“Of course I remember her. She stood on the canteen steps with a huge
basket of strawberries over her arm. And as everyone passed she looked
at them and, if she liked them, she said: ‘Are you in Fane-Herbert’s
term, please?’ and if the astonished cadet said he was, she went on:
‘then will you take some strawberries, please?’”

Fane-Herbert laughed. “I never knew about that. It was a good idea of
hers only to be generous to our term. She’s a wonderful person.”

“Yes; I remember coming out to lunch with you and going to Carisbrooke
for tea. She talked to me the whole time. It was a windy day. Her hair
was blowing about.”

“She has good hair,” said her brother shortly. “She has put it up
now.... When we get leave you must come home and see my people. I think
you would find it interesting. My mother was a Stardyke before she
married, so we have dozens of political and literary people about the
place. That is in your line, isn’t it?”

John said it was; but he was chiefly interested in Margaret, whose
hair had made so strong an impression on his boy’s mind. He loved
hair--the colour, the line, the scent, the touch of it. He saw the
wind blowing through Margaret’s, though he had forgotten her features.
And, from searching in the past, his mind went out suddenly towards
the future. His sense of beauty, so acute, so creative, must not be
allowed to develop. It had power to arrest and overwhelm him, to
transform some swift manifestation of loveliness into an essential of
tremendous importance, capable of dwarfing all the other realities of
the world. And then, when the world insistently broke in upon him, he
would be haunted by that flash of appreciation as by the ghost of one
beloved. A moment would light the years, laying them bare, exposing
aspects of existence that he had been happier not to recognize. The
movement of a beautiful hand, for instance, once seen and realized
by him, would become a light in which to consider the movements of
all hands. A phrase of poetry that had once captured his mind would
dwell in it and gather significance from his experience. Margaret’s
hair--though he had forgotten Margaret--had become for him a symbol;
and yet, not her hair as a whole, but her hair as he had seen it at a
certain instant. In his memory the association of colour and light and
movement never varied. He had no recollection of the appearance of her
hair at any time but at this moment which his imagination had endowed
with permanency.... John realized that it was necessary for him to
blunt this sense, which was for ever creating within his imagination a
background to the immediate circumstance. He put it to himself in this
way:

“Seeing that I am to be a naval officer, the sooner I shape myself to
Service conditions the better.” Then he added aloud: “It’s better not
to think too much about those other things.”

Fane-Herbert looked up in surprise. “What other things?”

“The things outside your job that you can’t ever reach. If I were to
have a painter’s training and could ever paint that hair, or a writer’s
and could ever describe it, then----”

“Are you still thinking about Margaret?”

This renewed association of personality with his symbol startled John.
“No,” he said, “I wasn’t thinking about your sister. It might have been
anyone’s hair for that matter.”

As they turned into a shop to have tea, John said suddenly: “You
remember that I told you how the Padre offered to lend me poetry
and then said I should be happier if I didn’t read it?... I’ve just
understood what he was driving at.”


III

If the conditions of John’s life are to be understood, Gunroom
Evolutions must be once described. The detail of this part of his and
his companions’ training need not be referred to a second time.

The Evolution evening of which an account is to be given was not an
isolated or exceptional incident in the junior midshipmen’s lives. It
was part of a persistent treatment to which they were subjected, with
fluctuating vigour, so long as they remained in the _King Arthur_. It
was not applied every night. Sometimes there was an interval of over a
week between two successive applications, and, indeed, towards the end
of their service in the _King Arthur_ there were intervals even greater
than this. The length of the intervals depended upon the leisure and
the inclination of the senior midshipmen. But the treatment, though
not regular, was never definitely suspended. It was seldom possible
to say with certainty on any afternoon, “There will be no Evolutions
to-night.” They were always likely to occur, and when they did there
was no way of escape. The junior midshipmen grew to expect them,
to remember suddenly in the happiest moment of an afternoon leave
what the evening might have in store. The dread of these Evolutions
permeated their waking life, entering their minds when on or off duty,
interrupting their work in School, colouring their speech, inspiring
their manner with furtiveness and bitterness, with resentment and fear.
Only from the letters they wrote home were the Evolutions excluded,
for they did their utmost to make their people believe that they were
happy.

The _King Arthur_ sailed for Gibraltar early in October. During the
day the midshipmen carried out sea routine, keeping their watches on
deck or in the Engine-room. Krame made his arrangements for the evening
with so much success that, as a result of careful interchange, the
midshipmen who, from eight to midnight, kept the first watch below and
on the bridge were three of intermediate seniority, Norgate, Hambling,
and Ollenor. Reedham, the only one remaining of the intermediate group,
left the Gunroom after dinner at the same time as Winton-Black, and
purposely did not return. So it happened that, when mess was over,
and when the midshipmen of the Last Dog had finished their later
watch-dinner, the five senior and the six junior midshipmen were left
in the Gunroom together.

“Warts, fall in! Howdray, you are the mate of the ship’s biscuits.
Elstone, you might look out for the water.”

“Water? What the hell do you want water for?”

Krame pointed to where the junior midshipmen stood in single rank.
“These six young gentlemen,” he said “have not yet been christened.
They are--what’s the word?--unregenerate. As I, being Senior Midshipman
in this ’ere Gunroom, am responsible for the young gentlemen’s
spiritual, bodily, and moral welfare, I propose to christen them.
Therefore water, Elstone.”

“I knew all about that,” said Elstone, “but what I mean is, why not
christen them in crême de menthe? It’s stickier.”

Howdray’s great voice shouted in protest. “And whose wine bill is to go
down the young gentlemen’s necks?”

“Besides,” said Tintern solemnly, “it would ruin their shirts, you
know.”

“Damn their shirts!” Krame answered. “They can buy new ones, can’t
they? They ought to be rich enough. They don’t spend their money on
anything, so far as I can see--no women, no card bill, no extra extras,
no wine bill to speak of.... But I’m with you, Howdray. We won’t waste
crême de menthe on them.”

“It might go down to themselves,” Banford-Smith kindly suggested.

“Lot of good that would be,” Howdray grumbled, “seeing that we have
their wine bills.”

“Water be it,” said Krame. “The jug’s on the slab, Elstone. Howdray,
the biscuits are in my locker, just above your head.”

From his place in the line John watched Howdray climb on to the settee
and fetch the material for the christening. Krame and Elstone sat at
the end of the table, Elstone next the pantry hatch and Krame nearer
the ship’s side. On Krame’s left was Howdray, now sliding back into
his place and arranging the huge ship’s biscuits on the table in
front of him. Further for’ard, sprawling on the settee, and engaged
in a competition of blowing smoke-rings at their liqueur glasses,
were Tintern and Banford-Smith, who seemed less interested than the
others in the business of the evening. Elstone regarded it, perhaps
thoughtlessly, as a tremendous joke; Howdray was frankly a bully of
the old fashion, great in bulk but not in strength, good-humoured on
occasions, happy-go-lucky, for ever at war with authority, a creature
of vast appetites and weak control. Only Krame seemed to derive genuine
pleasure from the proceedings. He possessed a quick, almost brilliant
mind. He was handsome, popular in polite shore-going circles, an
efficient officer, admired, on account of his easy manner and soft,
smiling lips, by women and by men whose acquaintance with him was
but superficial. He enjoyed Gunroom Evolutions. He used to tell his
dance partners about them. It pleased him to play the autocrat in
Oriental style, to see human beings--no matter at what cost in pain to
themselves--subjected to his will. Even as John watched him, he called
the junior midshipmen to attention and stood them at ease again half a
dozen times in quick succession, not because by doing so he served any
purpose, but because he liked to hear his own voice giving orders. He
smiled complacently to see them spring to attention at his behest. He
pretended that they had not moved smartly enough, and turned down the
corners of his mouth in an absurd grimace of disapproval.

Over the table the electric lights beneath their yellow shades swung
with the slow motion of the ship. The air was swirling and blue with
tobacco smoke that clung in long wreaths to the nap of the red and
black tablecloth. The temperature was high, and the atmosphere foul
with the odour of food, for a threatening sea had caused the scuttles
to be shut, and no one had troubled to open them again.

Krame left his place and seated himself regally on a chair between the
table and the door. On his right stood Elstone with a jug of water, on
his left Howdray, clutching an armful of ship’s biscuits.

“Now, first Wart forward. At the run!”

Sentley, who was on the right of the line, hurried from his place and
stood at attention before Krame.

“On the knee!... ’Shun!... On the knee!” The spectators roared to see
Sentley clambering from one position to the other. Howdray picked up a
thick cane from the sideboard and hit Sentley as he knelt.

“Come on,” he said, “get a move on. ’Shun! Now, at the order ‘Kneeling
position--place,’ you’ll drop on your knees--understand?--drop, not let
yourself down like an old woman.... Kneeling position--place!”

Sentley went down. His knees brought up hard against the deck. He kept
his body and head erect, his hands to his sides. Banford-Smith and
Tintern climbed out of their places on the settee; one perched himself
on the edge of the table behind Howdray, the other found a convenient
seat by the piano.

“The child,” said Krame, after the manner of a gunnery instructor,
“will incline the ’ead forward in a reverent attitood and assoom a
mournful aspect. ’E will now repeat the Warts’ Creed.”

Sentley repeated that parody of the Apostles’ Creed which had been
given to each junior midshipman earlier in the day. “I believe in the
Sub Almighty, master of every Wart, and in Peter Krame, ’is noble ’elp,
our Lord ...” and so on to the end. No senior midshipman protested
against this Creed, no junior midshipman refused to repeat it.

When he was silent, a ship’s biscuit, thick and tough, was beaten and
beaten on Sentley’s head until the biscuit broke. Howdray was about to
pour water from the jug when Banford-Smith restrained him. “Cut out the
water,” he said, “it will make such a damned mess on the deck.”

Each junior midshipman came forward in turn, dropped on his knees, was
struck with Howdray’s stick if he dropped not fast enough, bowed his
head, repeated the Creed, and had a biscuit broken upon him. John,
because he stood on the left of the line, came last. When the ceremony
was over, Krame glanced behind him.

“Now let’s have a hymn,” he said to Tintern.

“What hymn?”

“Any old hymn--something to celebrate the young gentlemen’s
regeneration. Lynwood will lead the singing. All Warts will support
him.”

Tintern emptied a glass of port, squared himself to the piano, and beat
out the first chords of No. 165. Not only the Warts sang it; the senior
midshipmen, tired of the many repetitions of the christening ceremony,
were glad of a chance to make a noise.

“_O Gawd, our ’elp in ages pa-ha-hast._” This prolongation was in
response to Tintern’s improvised chords and runs. “_Our ’ope for years
to come._” The voices swelled to a roar, and paused for breath. In the
momentary silence the ship rolled deeply; the sea came surging over a
scuttle and receded, leaving wisps of luminous foam. “_Our shelter from
the stormy bla-ha-hast, And our eternal_----”

Tintern was beating the keyboard with his doubled fists as a kind
of desperate finale. The wild discords screamed under the steel
bars overhead. A locker flew open, and by a lurch of the ship all
it contained was shot across the Gunroom. A Manual of Seamanship,
a “Child’s Guide,” a writing-case, a Gunnery Drill-Book, and a box
of instruments, lay scattered on the table amid a pile of crumpled
letters. An Oxford Bible was open and face downwards on the deck. Near
it a bottle of ink, streaming its contents, rolled to and fro. Finally,
there fell from the locker a photograph of Driss’s mother. He started
forward to gather up his possessions.

“Fall in, damn you!” Krame shouted. “Who told you to fall out?”

Driss went on.

Krame stood up. “Come here, Driss. Did you hear me tell you to fall in?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“I am going to pick up my things before they are spoilt.”

“Why don’t you keep your locker properly shut? Look at the ink on the
deck. I’ve a damned good mind--by God, you shall lick it up!”

Driss’s face was pale, his Irish eyes dangerous. Tintern leaned
sideways in his seat and took Krame by the arm.

“Dry up, you fool!” he said in an undertone, and turned back to the
piano. He had tact, moreover.

“_O Gawd, our ’elp in ages pa-ha-hast...._” Before the chorus was ended
Driss had secured his locker and quietly fallen in again.

The next Evolution was known alternatively by two names--one, “The
Angostura Hunt”; the other, which was sometimes attached in other
Gunrooms to an Evolution slightly different, “Creeping for Jesus.”
John was the first taken. Thrust on his knees near the serving slab,
he was blindfolded with two handkerchiefs. He could hear the senior
midshipmen’s voices. “Lay it here.... No, not under the table. We
can’t get at him under the table.... There, that will do. Replace the
bitters, Elstone.”

“Can you see?” asked Krame.

“No.”

“Can you smell?”

“Yes.”

“Can you feel?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s what is wanted--a good scent, and probably a bit of
feeling before you’re through with it.” He cleared his throat. “Now,
Lynwood, somewhere in the Gunroom is a piece of bread on the deck.
Between you and the bread is a trail of Angostura bitters--pungent, so
as to make it easy. You’ve got to find the bread by scent and pick it
up with your mouth. No feeling with your hands, mind you. Put his nose
on the trail, someone.”

Hands seized John’s head and thrust it downwards. “Got it? Smell it?”

“Not yet.”

“Give him a sniff at the bottle.... Got it now?”

“Yes.”

“Right. Wait for the order to commence.... Stand by. Go!”

John began to crawl along the floor. They were shouting at him to go
faster. “Get a move on. Good dog. Good dog. ---- ----! the beggar isn’t
trying. Let him have it, Howdray.”

A cane sang through the air and fell upon John’s legs, sang and fell
again. The blood ran to his head. The smell of corticine and dust
sickened him. The blows were falling rapidly now. Someone other than
Howdray seized a stick and sent the pain shooting through John’s body.
He saw now the reason for this creeping position--the excellence of the
target it provided. If he could but regain the scent and get to the end
of it! But the scent was gone, and he could not steady himself. The
weight of his body on his hands was making his wrists ache. The noise
was deafening. On his palms the dust seemed inches thick. When he tried
to rise, they thrust him down again....

Behind the bandage on his eyes was scarlet blindness, and he was
visited by a sense of the desperate impotence of the blind. The words
of those shouting above him conveyed no clear meaning to him now. They
were giving him guidance, he thought. There was a medley of cries:
“Port! Starboard!... He doesn’t know his port from his starboard hand.”
A stick fell again.

“Give him a chance, Howdray. Still a moment; I’ll put him on the
trail.” This was Tintern’s voice.

But help was unavailing. Perhaps some foot had extinguished the trail;
at any rate, even with Tintern’s guidance, John could not detect the
scent. He groped forward to no purpose. Banford-Smith, sliding from
the table, stood unintentionally on his fingers, causing him so much
pain that, though he was now too bitter to cry out, he reeled from his
track. A moment later his hand touched something wet--perhaps the blood
from beneath his crushed finger-nail, perhaps no more than Driss’s
ink. He neither knew nor cared. In his head, which he dared not raise
from the ground, it seemed that fire was burning. His temples and his
eyes were throbbing as if they would burst. He paused bewildered, and
instantly sticks fell on him again.... It would never, never end.
Perhaps he was going to faint. He wished he might. That might end it
for the evening at least. That might end it all.

Shouts, forcing themselves upon his consciousness, suggested that he
was near the bread he was seeking. He groped in the dust with his teeth
and tongue, hoping he might end his quest. The grit was about his lips
and in his nostrils.

Then the bandage shifted, and he saw the bread. He did not dare to
seize it immediately lest they should guess that he could see, but he
worked slowly towards it and picked it up between his teeth. A great
burst of cheering followed, vague cheering, such as he remembered
having heard when, down and out in a boxing competition, he had been
dragged by his seconds to his corner. Presently he found himself
leaning against the table, the bandage having been pulled away. The
sweat was dripping from his forehead and stinging in his eyes. His
whole body ached. He stooped, brushed the dust mechanically from the
knees of his trousers, and tried to smile to show that he was “taking
it well.” And there was Fane-Herbert’s face, indistinct as though seen
through a heat wave, wearing that proud, resentful, unforgiving look.

“Have a drink,” said Howdray, his stick still in his hand. “Dry work on
the deck, eh?” He rang the bell. “You did it in pretty good time, too.”

“Pretty--good--time?” said John slowly, as if he did not understand.
“Pretty good time? I thought it was ages.”

Soon he was taking a glass off the tray that the steward held out to
him.

“Cheer-oh!” said Howdray.

“Cheer-oh!” John answered, and drank thirstily. He sat on the extreme
edge of the table, watching, with set eyes, how the others repeated his
performance. The shouts and the crashes of the canes came up to him as
from a dream. Soon Cunwell was beside him, drinking too. Fane-Herbert
refused to drink. Sentley came last of all.

“Fall in again,” Krame was saying. “Fall in!”

They stood in line, awaiting the resumption. It seemed as though
more would be unendurable; but John’s glance at the clock, combined
with his knowledge that the Evolutions would continue until the
Mess was compulsorily closed, showed him that as yet they had but
began. Hitherto they had been called upon only to act singly, and the
Gunroom’s limited space had added nothing to their troubles, but now
an obstacle race was being planned. Of this John had had previous
experience. He knew that it meant fighting with his own friends in an
attempt not to be last.

The course, as designed by Krame, was long and difficult. They were to
go out of the Gunroom, aft through the Chest Flat, through a watertight
door on the bulkhead, on to the half-deck, into the Smoking Casemate,
round the pedestal of the gun, out of the Casemate, for’ard through the
Chest Flat and into the Gunroom again by the after door. Arrived there,
they were to pass between the stove and the wall, over the table from
port to starboard, between the settee and the table’s edge, under the
table from starboard to port, along the deck to the Gunroom’s after
end, under the table from aft for’ard, over it from for’ard aft, and
out of the Gunroom once more. They had then to go by way of the Chest
Flat ladder on to the upper deck and to the after twelve-pounder gun in
the port battery. Here they would find a signal pad, from which each
was to detach a sheet. With this prize they were to run to the Gunroom,
and, as Krame remarked, the Lord help the hindmost....

The six of them started together. They fought at the narrow door of the
Gunroom. They sped through the dim light of the Chest Flat, doubled
up and with knees bent that they might pass below the hammocks slung
there by the marines. In the Casemate it was impossible for more than
one at a time to pass between the pedestal and the armour beneath the
gun-port. Elstone stood above them as they wriggled through the narrow
space, thrusting each other aside, tearing their clothes, hitting their
heads and knees and elbows against the projections of brass and steel.
They reeled out of the Casemate, not now packed close, but divided by
the intervals that the delay at the gun-pedestal had created. John
was the second to reach the Gunroom. When, having passed behind the
stove, he was about to go over the table, he heard them shouting at
Fane-Herbert, who had entered last. But none dared pause. Over the
table they went, and headforemost on to the deck beneath it; under and
aft, under the table again, canes urging on those in rear, and falling
haphazard across knuckles and arms. Already John was spent; all were
spent. Their legs trembled beneath them. They coughed amid the dust.
Under a hail of blows they battled at the Gunroom door, swept beyond it
through the Chest Flat for the third time, and rattled up the ladder
into the cool, sweet air of the upper deck. At the battery gun, during
the few moments he had to wait before he could tear his sheet from
the signal pad, John caught sight of the great phosphorescence of the
sea. Above him the masts tapered to a dark, clear sky. Smoke drove
ghost-like from the funnels. For’ard the lamps were gleaming in the
charthouse windows, and near at hand, in the uncertain light of the
battery, seamen stood smoking round their spitkids, gazing with an
expression of amusement and contempt at their officers being licked
into shape.

As John raced away with his sheet of paper he heard Fane-Herbert
muttering to himself: “Oh be damned to them! I’m last, any way. I’m not
going to hurry any more.”

They burst into the Gunroom, thrust their sheets of paper into Krame’s
hands, and stood there trembling with exhaustion and pain. Dyce seemed
to be on the verge of losing control. His face was working. They had
fear that his nerves would yield, that he would break, as can even
the strongest men, into ungovernable tears. The atmosphere was charged
with a strange emotion--the emotion that, as it were a sudden fever,
sometimes grips a mob, cutting it free from the restraints men impose
upon themselves, casting it back into the primitive conditions of
self-defence and self-assertion. If Dyce had given way, his collapse
might well have been a signal for forgetfulness of the difference
between senior and junior midshipmen, for a complete abandonment of
control. Near him John could hear Driss--of all of them the youngest in
appearance, the most clearly a simple-minded, high-spirited boy--saying
over and over again to himself: “My God, I want to kill! I want to
kill!” His fingers were twined among the tablecloth, as if thereby
he held them in check. Now he was making odd, inarticulate sounds in
his throat. John saw his face, and turned quickly from the flaming
bitterness he read there. There were passions streaming through Driss,
passions utterly foreign to his apparent nature, fierce desires, called
up from God knew what animal depths, upon which it was not good to look.

Last by thirty seconds, Fane-Herbert entered without signs of haste.
And they put him over the table, and pulled out his shirt, and tried
to flog the pride out of him. He did not move through it all, and when
it was over, with his fine mouth set, he turned away from the faces
grinning above the canes.

“Fall in again!” Krame said. “Fall in, I say!”

Evolution followed Evolution: the obstacle race in reverse order;
an affair called Torpedoes, that consisted essentially in hurling
the junior midshipmen’s bodies along the table against the for’ard
bulkhead; and half a dozen others, the product of Krame’s ingenuity.
Even the flame in Driss died down. There comes a time when resistance,
even mental resistance, disappears. The limbs move as they are told.

At ten o’clock a ship’s corporal tapped at the door and announced that
it was time to close the Gunroom.

“Last drinks,” said Krame, and rang the bell. “Warts fall out!”

Somehow they opened their sea-chests, got out of their clothes,
scrambled aft, and swung themselves into their hammocks. Once in his,
John lay as he was, not caring even to creep between the blankets. He
lay staring at the white-painted T-bar within a few inches of his face,
listening to the rifles, which were stored near by, clicking to and fro
in their racks with each roll of the ship. The half-deck sentry passed
him now and then. Somewhere a pump groaned continually. From the open
door of the Wardroom came the sound of voices and laughter and snatches
of song.

John did not sleep. He lay inert, capable of no consecutive thought.
He went on repeating catchwords to himself, counting the groans of the
pump, counting the sentry’s footsteps, sucking his damaged finger,
running his hand over the rough surface of the canvas hammock. Despite
his efforts to banish so tormenting a vision, again and again he saw
himself crouched in the window-seat of a sun-strewn library, now
looking out to the hills, now turning the pages of a book. He saw the
excellence of open print; almost he heard a clock ticking.... In less
than two hours, Ollenor, who had been keeping the first watch, shook
his hammock.

“Lynwood!”

“Yes, I’m awake.”

“About ten minutes to eight bells. Your middle watch.”

“All right; thanks.”

He swung out on to the deck, went to his chest, and put on
watch-keeping clothes.

On the bridge Ollenor turned over to him such information as he would
need for his watch. When Ollenor had gone, John glanced at the dim
figure of the officer of the watch on the upper bridge. Then, passing
the Quartermaster at the wheel, he stood by the semaphore and looked
aft, beyond the funnels and the boat deck, at the lights of the next
astern. Presently he turned his face for’ard and took off his cap, and
let the wind blow among his hair. Soon he must take a sextant on to
the upper bridge and help the officer of the watch keep station; but
now he stood inactive, one hand on the cool steel of a searchlight.
The incomparable peace of the wide sky; the throb of the main engines;
the rising and dipping lights of the fleet--there was sweet, timeless
monotony in these things. Far below him the cut foam was hissing
against the bows. Behind him the pipe of the boatswain’s mate was
shrilling and shrilling again.

And Krame was asleep, and the hand of God over the sea.




CHAPTER IV

WAR, CARPETS, AND CANDLES


I

The fleet put in to Arosa Bay, and, in less than twelve hours, sailed
thence without regret. On the day following their departure an event
occurred which, for the time being, changed the lives of every member
of the _King Arthur’s_ company. Late in the forenoon watch a wireless
signal was received and immediately submitted to the Rear-Admiral. This
much of its contents became public: that the Admiralty had ordered the
Cruiser Squadron, which at the time was making common speed with the
battleships, to proceed independently to Gibraltar at sixteen knots.
This speed, unusual and uneconomical enough to suggest that there was
serious reason for it, combined with the tension already created in
men’s minds by the happenings at Agadir, gave wonderful import to the
news, which spread with almost magical rapidity from the bridge to
the officers’ messes, from the fo’c’s’le to the boiler-room depths.
Speculation as to the meaning of the order was anxious and eager.
Rumours of war had in times past been so frequent as to colour all
prophecies with scepticism, but hope remained--hope that now at length
the consummation was at hand. The Rear-Admiral unbent so far as to
jest with the officer of the watch. The Yeoman of Signals overheard
him, and repeated his words on the lower bridge. The lower bridge
handed on the tale to the boatswain’s mate, who, having embellished
it, shared its marvel with the lower deck. In a quarter of an hour
the Rear-Admiral’s good-humour had permeated the ship. A Paymaster
celebrated it in the Wardroom Casemate by paying for a round of drinks.
The Senior Engineer put on clean overalls and went smiling below.
The stokers grumbled no more, but fired their boilers and slammed
their furnace-doors with vigorous enthusiasm. They were not going to
Gibraltar now to carry out gun-practice in Catalan Bay, gun-practice
in Tetuan, gun-practice in Catalan again. “Sixteen knots!” remarked a
Chief Stoker, with emphasis that made explanation unnecessary. “Sixteen
knots!” said one of the carpenter’s crew. “Looks as if we shan’t need
them targets wi’ the little red sails.”

Even in the Gunroom, comradeship displaced boredom. The Chaplain
relaxed discipline during School. Baring came in to drink a glass of
sherry and to share Wardroom opinion with Winton-Black. Midshipmen,
senior, intermediate, and junior, looked towards the future from a
common standpoint. The Clerk saw his ledger shrouded in the mists
of the past. His action-station, he said a dozen times, was with
the Dumaresq. “You won’t see much of the show from the Dumaresq,”
said Banford-Smith, and the Clerk replied humbly, but with complete
happiness: “No, but it’s better than the Ship’s Office.”

There was, too, a wonderful moment in which Krame seemed to forget
that John was a Wart whose duty it was to tidy up the Gunroom, to
polish the stove-pipes, and to do scuttle-drill when the sea ran high
and ventilation became necessary.

“Come on deck, Lynwood,” he said. “We had better have a glance round
our guns for minor defects.”

They strolled on deck together and visited every casemate in their
group. In that time they were friends, officers charged with a common
responsibility. The great game was about to begin, the game for which
the whole Service had been training for many weary years. All routine,
all hardness, all drudgery had become suddenly worth while. Spirit had
entered into the flesh.

At no time while he served in the _King Arthur_ was John happier. He
and Fane-Herbert, knowing nothing of war, congratulated themselves
upon the fact that it had come to them so early in their careers. “And
isn’t it amazing what a difference it makes?” said Fane-Herbert. “The
Gunroom is changed. All the senior snotties act as though we were their
friends.”

“I expect they would be better in the ordinary course,” John answered,
“if they got more leave clear away from the ship, and weren’t so
infernally bored by unbroken routine.”

But the excitement and its excellent effect endured not long. When they
arrived at Gibraltar nothing happened. The next day, while they coaled
ship, hope waned. “Come on, lads,” cried a petty officer to encourage
the grimy workers, “that’s about where Agadir lies.” He pointed a
finger towards Africa. But they laughed at him and glanced at the
coaling flags that told them how their work progressed. “Six ’undred
more to come,” they said; “six ’undred more ton....”

And when they sailed from Gibraltar, their destination was Catalan Bay,
their prospect gun-practice. The ship’s company added another memory to
their list of war scares, and suffered from the inevitable reaction.


II

The essential element in gun-practice and range keeping exercises is
waiting with nothing to do--waiting till the target is ready, waiting
till the ship’s turn comes, waiting while a passing merchant ship fouls
the range, waiting while the important people in the controls make
abstruse calculations with which the men at the guns have no concern.
The monotony is varied by gun-drill, but even gun-drill palls. The
hours pass slowly. The eyes stare at the expressionless breech of
the gun until, tiring of that, they stare at the red wheel above the
ammunition hoist. Often they stare at the bugler as he passes the open
door of the casemate, and prayers go up that ultimately he may sound
the “Secure.” The captain of the gun, sick of the limited topics which
can be discussed within the hearing of the officer whose head is in
the sighting-hood, produces rags and a tin, and proceeds to polish
bright work already immaculate. Then he puts away his rags and tin, and
watches the bugler again.

Coming into Gibraltar for a week-end, John played in a cricket
match, in which, for lack of training, the batting was poor and the
bowling without sting. Gunroom Evolutions had long begun again. Krame
had forgotten the incident of the “minor defects,” and the junior
midshipmen were Warts without cease. In Tetuan Bay the natives ashore
appeared, to those who watched them through telescopes, to be carrying
on warfare. There were rifle flashes and smoke, and bodies of men
moving hastily hither and thither. No one cared very much. To the
midshipmen it meant something to record in the personal log-books they
submitted each Sunday morning to the Captain....

It was in Tetuan Bay, too, perhaps during the warfare, perhaps during
some other similar week after peace had been declared, that the ship’s
company bathed--the officers from the starboard after gangway, the
men for’ard from the port lower boom. John, as midshipman of the
watch, was on the quarter-deck, watching the clock for the time at
which he should recall the men from the water by ordering the bugler
to sound the “Retire.” Suddenly, on the port quarter, he caught sight
of the unmistakable fin. Sharks were not then to be expected in that
part of the world. He looked again, this time through a telescope.
“Quartermaster, what do you make of that?”

The Quartermaster borrowed the telescope. “Yessir. Shark, sir.”

John wheeled round. “Bugler! Sound the ‘Retire’ and sound the ‘Double.’
Go on sounding it until you are sure that all men in the water have
heard. Sound it first to the officers on the starboard side....
Boatswain’s-mate! Go and pipe by the lower boom: ‘Shark on the port
quarter. All hands return to the ship.’ Warn the boat.”

John called for a megaphone and summoned courage to address the
Commander, who, in the water, was very much like the rest of mankind.
It was bad enough to have sounded the “Retire” at him.

“Commander, sir!”

The Commander, much to John’s surprise, held up his hand to show he had
heard, just as John himself, had he been away in a boat, would have
held up his hand to indicate attention to the Commander’s orders.

“Shark on the port quarter, sir!”

The Commander raised himself an instant from the water and made a
funnel of his hands. “Get the men out,” he shouted, and swam towards
the ship. The other officers followed him. He met John on the top of
the gangway.

“Like shouting at the Commander?” he demanded.

John had not liked it. He had thought twice about doing it, but it had
seemed inevitable. Apparently he had done wrong. “I thought, sir----”
he began.

The Commander grinned and shook the drops from him. “Go on, boy. I’m
not an ogre. You did quite right. Very smartly, too.”


III

Early in November, when the day of joining the _King Arthur_ seemed
to be separated from the present by a lifetime, instead of by little
more than a month, of experience, and when the prospect of Christmas
leave, not infinitely remote, coloured even the present with hope,
John had an adventure in night boat work. For him the day had been
more than usually strenuous. The _King Arthur_ had been at sea for
Commander-in-Chief’s firing. From half-past eight in the morning until
half-past seven at night, John had been almost continuously on duty.
It had happened, as sometimes it must happen, that when he was not on
watch he was required in a duty boat, and when neither in a boat nor on
the bridge, he had had to go to his gun. At dinner he thought his day
was over, and, Krame having chosen a sing-song that night in preference
to Gunroom Evolutions, he settled down to read as best he could among
the choruses. But soon after nine a cutter was called away again.
Banford-Smith, whose duty it should have been, had advanced too far
into a cheerful evening to venture out into the night. Some midshipman
must run the boat, and the choice fell upon John.

Fortunately the evening was fine, for the trip seemed likely to be
long. It appeared that the _Vera_ was bringing or had brought into
harbour a target of which the _King Arthur_ stood in need. This target
required repairs and a new sail. “And first of all,” added the officer
of the watch, “you’ve got to find the thing.”

“Where is the _Vera_ lying, sir?” John asked.

“The Lord knows! The bridge seems to have lost her. She hasn’t come to
her buoy yet. But go to the dockyard wall first. The target is probably
there already. If it isn’t, you’ll have to look round till you find the
_Vera_, and make enquiries.”

John ran down the gangway into his cutter, seated himself on the
“dicky,” and gave orders to shove off. The oars dropped into the water
and the boat drew away from the ship. On one hand, the many lights
of the Fleet winked at their reflections in the smooth water; on the
other, the great rock, magnified by the night, and speckled with the
illumination of innumerable windows, rose, dark and gigantic, against
the sky. When the wall was reached they searched in vain for the
target, and turned to cruise the harbour in quest of the _Vera_.

Although he was tired and needed sleep before the morrow’s coaling,
he was glad that he had come. The click of the oars’ looms and the
hiss of their blades, the spring at the beginning and the slackening
at the end of each stroke, the ripple and suck about the stern, the
regular breathing of the crew and the synchronous creaking of their
stretchers, bespoke a romance that was not the romance of steel ships.
The coxswain sat motionless, his hand on the tiller, as rugged as a
statue rough-hewn in wood. Clustered in the stern sheets, with their
bags of glistening tools, the carpenter’s party lent emphasis to man’s
silence by their occasional whispering. John’s gaze strayed for’ard:
the white gleaming of the crew’s faces and of their hands curved over
the ears grew more and more indistinct towards the bows, and the line
of gunwale shrank to a delicate thread.

Swing, catch, and an easy stroke; the gleam, the dip, and the swirl
of blades; the hidden faces and the arms outstretched, the arms drawn
in and the faces raised. And he, above them, commanding them, passed
among the shadows of great ships into the darkness. On either hand the
little bow-wave ran out lapping, and flattened itself wide of the stern.

“Don’t see no _Vera_, sir,” said the coxswain.

“Not yet.”

“’Adn’t we better arst, sir?”

“Ask? Where?”

“Report at the ship for orders, sir.”

“The orders were to find the _Vera_.” John had no intention of
returning to the _King Arthur_ and confessing himself defeated.

“Don’t think we’ll find ’er, pullin’ round the ’arbour, sir--not
to-night, anyway.”

John had made up his mind. He would seek information elsewhere. The
helm was put over a little. At no great distance from him, lay the
_London_. At first he thought of going alongside her and asking her
officer of the watch for the position of the _Vera_, but he dismissed
this idea when he realized that this was no polite hour for midshipmen
to pay calls. Moreover, a story of his being lost might easily become
a jest in the Wardrooms of the Fleet.

“Goin’ alongside the _London_, sir?”

“No. When she hails, answer ‘passing.’ I’m going to stop under her
bridge.”

Came the hail: “Boat ahoy!”

“Passing!”

Judging the amount of way necessary to carry his boat to the
forebridge, John very quietly gave the order: “Oars!” The rowing
ceased, and the water licked at the sides. Presently the cutter was
still.

“Hail the bridge,” John said, “and ask the signalman of the watch for
the _Vera_. Hail quietly, so that they can’t hear you aft.”

The coxswain stood up. “_London_”--a thick sound, for it is no
easy thing to hail quietly. Then a little louder, in a tone almost
melodramatic: “_London_ ... _London_ ... _London_--bridge!”

The bowman could not resist it. “Change at the Elephant an’ Castle!”

The crew heard. The crew choked down a laugh hurtful to the coxswain’s
dignity. He turned on them.

“Knock orf chawin’ yer fat there,” he said angrily, and silence fell.
Someone peered over the bridge rails.

“D’you know where the _Vera_ ’angs out?” the coxswain asked quickly,
before the other had time to hail him.

“Lyin’ outside at anchor. Comin’ to ’er buoy to-morrer.”

“Outside the ruddy ’arbour?”

“Yes.”

“Gawd!” The coxswain sat down disconsolately. “We shall ’ave a night of
it,” he observed.

The music of the oars began again. They pulled slowly between the
ships, beyond the ships, out of the harbour. Soon the _Vera_, an
outpost of twinkling lights, beyond which lay the open sea, was hailing
them. Much to his surprise, John was welcomed by the officer of the
watch.

“That infernal target?” he said. “It _is_ alongside the wall--right at
the far end. What an hour to send you out after it! I’m afraid you have
a long job of repairs; it was knocked about a bit. Come down into the
Wardroom before you start.”

John went below and accepted whisky and soda, an illegal proceeding,
for by regulation he was too young to drink spirits. They offered
cigarettes, and when he refused to smoke one because his crew was
waiting, they gave him a handful to take away with him.

“You’ll have time to smoke them all before you get home to-night,” said
the Gunnery Lieutenant. “Well, so long. You will have luck if you are
turned in before the end of the middle watch. Sorry you have had so far
to come.”

A long pull shoreward brought the cutter at last to the target. John
turned out the carpenter’s party and all the boat’s crew save one, whom
he kept with him as a boat-keeper. John soon found that in the man he
had retained he was to have a remarkable companion. He came aft, seated
himself in the stern sheets, and looked up expectantly.

“’Ave a smoke, sir?”

“Yes; carry on smoking.”

“’Ave a cigar, sir?”

John hesitated. He would have felt safer with one of the _Vera’s_
cigarettes. He was not inured to cigars, but for company’s sake he took
one and lighted it.

“Funny thing, sir,” the man said, “these night trips always make me
feel mysterious-like. You feel more powerful some’ow in the dark. Do it
take you that way, sir?”

“Powerful?” John asked, wondering how much this had in common with his
own sensation.

“Same as you feel, sir, when you’re alone, an’ there ain’t no one to
see ’ow small you are. I always thinks then o’ the things I might do
if I liked--but it don’t seem a fair advantage to take o’ folk what
aren’t made the same way.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s this way, sir. You see, I can make people do things--anything.
I don’t rightly know what the name of it is--’ypnotism, or mesmerism,
or the like. It don’t make much odds what they call it. But I can make
people do things all right, I can, an’ ’ere they are makin’ me do
things all day. I’m a proper bad ’at, I am--always on the carpet. I get
to feel angry like, knowin’ the power I ’ave. I did a turn at a ship’s
concert once--afore you young gen’lemen joined--an’ the Commander, ’e
won’t ’ave me doin’ it no more.”

“Could you make me do things now?”

The man held up a finger. “I could make you ’op into the water, sir.”
John looked over the side, and the voice went on. “An’ if I went up
close to ’em, I could make the ruddy carpenter’s party stand on their
ruddy ’eads an’ stop there. An’ if I stepped out in front of ’em, an’
the ship’s police kep’ their ’ands off, I could make the Captain an’
the Commander do a cake-walk at Sunday Divisions, I could.”

“Why on earth don’t you?” said John.

“Oh, it wouldn’t never do, sir. That ain’t Service, sir--the orficers
cake-walkin’. I should be doin’ detention for the rest o’ me mortal....
Besides, that ain’t what I likes doin’--sing-song turns, an’ funny
stunts, an’ the like.” He looked away, and his words drifted into
vagueness, being no longer addressed to an audience. “I likes talkin’
to a crowd an’ seein’ ’em all comin’ round, comin’ round gradual-like,
not knowin’ ’ow or why, all of ’em comin’ round to my way o’ thinkin’.
They don’t agree to start off, but soon I sees ’em noddin’ their ’eads,
an’ smilin’ an’ smilin’, an’ sayin’ ‘Aye, aye,’ an’ ‘’Ere, ’ere.’ An’
their faces looks strange some’ow till they douse the glim.” He paused,
shot out both hands in an expansive gesture, and let them fall again
to his sides. “’Ere I be, Able Seaman, ’undredth class for conduck,
’undredth class for leaf, an’, Gawd Almighty! I might ’a bin Prime
Minister of All England, wi’ the Albert ’All risin’ up to me, jus’ as
if I ’ad ’em on strings....”

Together they sat there, dreaming vast dreams. Above them the
carpenter’s party was driving in nails. John held his cigar close to
the water, and watched the diffused red of its reflection. When he
dropped it, as if by accident, it fizzled sharply.

“Dropped yer cigar, sir?”

“Yes.”

“’Ave another, sir?”

“No, thanks.”

Silence again.... The work on the target was at last completed. Tired
men climbed back into the boat. Oars were got out lazily. It was five
in the morning when they reached the _King Arthur_. A bugle was calling
the hands to coal ship.


IV

The year dragged towards its end. The novelty of night firing wore off.
John was soon to cease watchkeeping on the upper deck and to join the
engineering staff for a period of training. He wrote to his mother,
asking her to send him a pipe, for among the boilers even midshipmen
under eighteen can console themselves with tobacco. Once, with Gunroom
Evolutions in his mind, he wrote: “I think we may have had the worst of
our time in this ship. For a whole week now we have been left pretty
well alone.” But the next evening his hopes were shattered, and the
old business began again. The need of leave, of an interval, however
brief, in which there would be no Krame and no Commander, became
imperative. When they went ashore the junior midshipmen found a place
of refuge in the Garrison Library. There, having paid a small monthly
subscription, they could read the newspapers without fear that Krame
would enter suddenly, and, because one of them was reading _The Times_,
exclaim: “Who has _The Times_? I want _The Times_.” There they could
sit in comfortable chairs, and enjoy teas marvellously inexpensive,
certain--quite certain--that, until the clock told them they must go,
their time was their own. No one would shout at them to pick up paper.
Howdray would not make them put away their letters and write out his
Division List for him. Elstone would not tell them that he wanted a
sketch for his log-book done immediately. In the Garrison Library there
was peace. They could talk without continually glancing over their
shoulders lest someone should enter by the Gunroom door.

They did talk to their great relief. It was good to plan rebellion,
though they knew nothing could ever spring from their plans. It was
satisfactory to hear, from midshipmen of other ships, that these things
went on not in the _King Arthur_ alone. It was amusing to compare
method and detail, and to congratulate themselves because certain
Evolutions usual in H.M.S ---- and H.M.S. ---- had not yet been devised
by Krame’s inventive mind.

One afternoon someone brought in news that what was happening in a Home
Fleet ship had leaked out. A complaint had been made to the Admiralty.
A Court of Enquiry had been ordered. Great things were expected to
result from this--perhaps a general reformation.

“No,” said Fane-Herbert. “Probably they will keep it out of the
papers. And anyhow, people will say: ‘Oh, it’s all an exceptional
case. How terrible! but it’s just an exceptional case.’ There may be a
court-martial. The Sub or someone may get dipped. And then it will blow
over and be forgotten. It won’t make any difference to us.”

The great day came at last. “This time to-morrow we shall be on our way
home.”

“They will give us hell going across the Bay. It’s always worse at sea.
No one is away on late leave.”

“Oh, what does it matter now? Next week we shall be out of it. Think,
sleeping in a bed, and people who don’t shout, and no tidying up the
Gunroom, and no Krame for days on end!”

“And London....”

“And pictures, and carpets, and flowers....”

“And think of meeting a lady again!” said Fane-Herbert.

They laughed at him for that. “Aren’t there ladies at Gib.?”

“Yes; but they know the difference between a Lieutenant and a Wart. I
mean a--a _civilian_ lady.... By the way, Lynwood, you must come round
and see my mother and sister. Why not stay with us in Town the first
night of leave, and go down to your own home the next day?”

John nodded. “Thanks, I should like to.... Think of a day with no
routine!”

And they laughed again.


V

On that first night of leave for which they had been laying innumerable
and contradictory plans, Fane-Herbert came into John’s room while he
was dressing. He sat down on the bed.

“Do you know we are to have a great man to dinner to-night?”

“I thought you insisted that there should be no dinner-party?”

“So I did. This isn’t a party. He’s the only guest. My mother knows him
very well, and, strangely enough, he appears to be an old friend of
your mother’s. He heard you were going to be here to-night, and invited
himself.”

“Who is he?”

“A novelist, a poet, a writer of biography; a very important person
indeed. Can you guess? He has the Order of Merit, the only literary one
except Thomas Hardy’s.”

“Wingfield Alter, of course. That’s rather terrifying. What is he like?”

“I haven’t met him for a long time. He used to give me shillings when
I was a small boy, and tell me stories. But that was ten years ago; he
may have changed since then. Margaret likes him, though, so I expect
he is all right.” Fane-Herbert went to the door. “Shall I tell him you
write poetry?” he asked laughingly as he went out.

“No; for the Lord’s sake don’t be a fool!”

On his way downstairs John met Margaret.

“Have you heard of our guest?” she asked.

“Alter? Yes. Is it an ordeal?”

“Oh no. He is really a delightful person--tremendously interested in
everything. The only people he can’t endure are old ladies with salons
who pat the lion. Mr. Alter won’t be patted.”

“Of course he is pleasant to you,” said John. “But, if he knows
anything of the Navy, he won’t have much use for junior midshipmen.”

“Why not?”

John did not wish to explain. “Oh,” he said vaguely, “junior midshipmen
are rather looked down on in the Service.”

“Only by senior midshipmen or their equivalent,” she answered. “You
will find that Mr. Alter doesn’t take much notice of rank--rank of any
kind, I mean, except that of ability.”

At the foot of the stairs John’s attention was arrested by a portrait
in oils that hung there.

“Who is that?” he asked.

“My great-grandmother--on my mother’s side.”

“She is extraordinarily like you. Is there a portrait of her when she
was your age?”

“No, I’m afraid not. That was done some time after her marriage. She
was about twenty-six, I believe.”

The subject of the portrait looked younger. She had Margaret’s wide-set
grey eyes, her dark hair, her clear skin, to which colour flowed richly
only in emotion. And the resemblance went further than the physical,
for John saw above him that expression, so remarkable for its vitality
and yet so comforting in its repose, with which, when he turned his
head, he found Margaret regarding him. In her eyes, though, was the
brightness of laughter, and her great-grandmother had been a grave
sitter.

“Is it so astonishing?”

“It is a wonderful portrait. You are sound evidence for the artist.”

“I had her hung there,” Margaret said, the light of laughter flickering
out--“I had her hung there, at the foot of the stairs, so that I might
see her whenever I came down to a dance or a dinner, and each morning
before the day began. She looks so extraordinarily alive--so interested
in all the world. And now--well, now, so far as the world is concerned,
she’s a picture on the wall and a name in a genealogical table.”

“And so you use her as a text?”

“Not that. I don’t attempt to weave philosophies around her. I suppose
it’s an odd form of superstition--at any rate, you can call it that,
if you like. She seems to keep a certain balance----” Margaret paused
suddenly.

“Isn’t that morbid?” Not till the question was out did he realize that
he had spoken to test her.

“Morbid?” she repeated. “That’s an easy word with which to dismiss
the things you are afraid of. I’m not in the least afraid of
great-grandmother.... Besides, I don’t think of her as dead. She is the
best of great-grandmothers--extremely practical. She makes compliments
transparent--on her stairs, at any rate.” Margaret laid her hand on the
panels. “And she makes me glad I can _feel_ the grain in this oak.” She
turned away and walked to the bottom of the flight. Then she glanced
up at John with a quick smile. “And sometimes, when I have been lazy,
she sends me up to my room again to change my dress.”

She took him to admire a lacquer cabinet that stood in the hall.

“I expect you like looking at and touching these things? I know I
should, if I had been long in a warship.”

John rejoiced in her understanding. “Carpets,” he said, “are the
unceasing wonders; and the sound of dresses, and candles!”

“Candles? Do you remember that phrase in a poem of yours--‘the
spear-head flames’?”

“Yes. How did you see it?”

“Hugh sent home the copy you gave him. And--do you mind?--I showed it
and other poems of yours, without your name, of course, to a friend of
ours, a man whose judgment people believe in.”

“I’m very glad. What did he say?”

“Good things. I’ll tell you when there is more time.”

“Who was he?”

“I’ll get you to meet him some day--if you are not for ever out of
England.... Why didn’t you ask me what I thought of the poems myself?”

“I thought you would tell me.”

“I’m scarcely a year older than you.”

“Does that matter? It depends on what you were born and what you have
read.”

“I have read----” She broke off suddenly. “But no; I am sure poetry
depends very much on what you have been through.”

There was a pause.

“Mr. Alter, if he heard us, would say we were very young,” John said.

Margaret looked back over their conversation and laughed.

“Have we been taking ourselves so seriously? Look at my
great-grandmother. She is telling us to get along with us into the
drawing-room.”

There they found Wingfield Alter and Mrs. Fane-Herbert. Hugh came in a
moment later. Alter had his back to the door as they entered, a square,
broad back, full of determination. When he turned his head there were
legible in the deeply lined face, with its high forehead and proudly
carried chin, a self-confidence and directness of purpose which made
it almost unnoticeable that Alter was a short, ungainly man. He wore a
spare moustache and a pointed beard which began so far down his chin
that his lips were unobscured by it. He waited for no introduction,
but took John’s hands at once, welcoming him as his mother’s son, and
looking at him closely.

Even at dinner John felt those deep-set eyes turned continually upon
him, searching, he supposed, for points of resemblance to his mother.
Mrs. Fane-Herbert, tall and slim at the end of the table, was a clever
woman and Alter an eager listener. She turned the conversation to
the Navy, and for long he was a willing and appreciative pupil. Hugh
instructed him with great zest.

“How long is it, sir, since you were in a warship?”

“It must be four or five years. I have been in Russia since, and have
lost touch. I see I must renew my acquaintance. I want to see what I
can of the officers produced by the New Scheme--all my friends were
_Britannia_ cadets. Your education has been broader, less rigidly
specialized than theirs. What is the effect on efficiency?”

“There must be a danger,” said Mrs. Fane-Herbert, “of encouraging ideas
and tastes, good in themselves, but ill-suited to the naval officer as
such.”

“I often wonder about that,” Alter answered. “The Service is very
exacting, very highly specialized, narrow in a sense. And boys enter it
very early, knowing nothing of what they are or what they will become.
They enter it in much the same spirit as that in which they choose the
career of an engine-driver. Tendencies undreamed of then are bound to
develop later--diverse tendencies, probably opposed in a thousand ways
to Service requirements. Am I right?”

“Every word,” said John, leaning forward a little.

“For example,” Alter continued, “what on earth would have become of
that young man whose work you showed me, Margaret, if he had committed
himself to the Navy at the age of thirteen? Of course, any critic would
say those poems were immature. So they were; the technique of the
sonnet was awry; the scansion was often loose; here and there they were
too sonorous, too strained for the sake of effect. But so many of the
essentials of poetry were there--real feeling, real imagination, and
observation of the kind that’s worth having. Never an adjective that he
had not thought out with his eyes tight shut or wide open. If he can
write like that before he is twenty--why, given a chance to develop,
he might do anything. But if he were shut up in the Navy, burdened
with the sameness of routine, brought into contact only with men whose
minds are highly specialized for one purpose, war----” He interrupted
himself with a gesture. “And there must be people of that kind in the
Fleet--not poets necessarily, but men who, for one reason or another,
need--need desperately--intellectual space. Most of us need it, unless
our minds are very limited--that’s the worst of the tragedy, _most_ of
us need it. And in the Navy, so far as I can judge, it must be almost
impossible to obtain--at any rate, it is probably to be purchased only
at the price of resignation or professional failure.”

John did not hear the conversation that followed. His thoughts were
proceeding by strange paths, now of pride and gladness, now so steep
and dark that he could neither see nor imagine any end to them. Later
in the evening Alter spoke to him alone.

“I’m unspeakably sorry,” he said. “It was stupid of me not to have
guessed; but Margaret ought to have warned me--she, with her mysterious
poet whose name she would conceal in order to tantalize me. It’s of no
use to ask you not to let my words unsettle you; they are said, and I
meant them, and there’s an end of it. But I shall feel responsible now.
Will you let me help you, if I can? I don’t mean with master-keys to
editors’ rooms--you must win them for yourself. But I can give advice
and criticism for what they are worth. I should want to help in any
case now, but the more because you are my old friend’s son. Will you
remember?”

John thanked him as well as he could. When Alter had gone Margaret came
to him.

“I never guessed that he might talk of it to-night,” she said. “But you
have heard his opinion yourself, and I am glad of that. Was the rest of
what he said true?”

“Yes--in a way. I never thought of it in those terms before.”

“And now you will go on thinking of it. You mustn’t, you mustn’t--but
I know you will. And if it hurts, I am the cause of every hurt. I made
you see clearly.” She looked straight into his eyes, her own eyes
glistening. “Whatever comes of it all, will you try to forgive me?”

“Perhaps I shall thank you some day,” he answered. “After all, it is
better to see clearly, isn’t it?”

“Great-grandmother would say so. But it’s the bravest thing of all.”

She gave him her hand and said good-night. Presently he was sitting in
the smoking-room with Hugh, still conscious of her touch and hearing
her voice, still seeing her dress flicker between the banisters as she
went upstairs.

The next morning he went into the country to his own home. He told his
mother that he had met Wingfield Alter.

“He is a very dear friend of mine,” she said. “I knew him before I
met your father. He was married then, and poor, with no literary
reputation. I saw him last soon after your father’s death.”

“But you never mentioned him?”

“London is so far away.”

With a little sigh, she returned to her embroidery.




CHAPTER V

TWO WORLDS


A few days after John had rejoined his ship at Portsmouth, Mr. Baring,
who was keeping the first dog watch, turned his telescope on to a
shore-boat of shabby appearance which seemed to be approaching the
_King Arthur_. Reedham, who was midshipman of the watch, likewise
inspected the craft, which seemed to have the impudent intention of
boarding the ship, not by the port gangway, which was, as it were, a
back-door for the use of all and sundry, but by the starboard gangway,
which, with its elaborate handrail of mahogany and brass, was the
front-door of the exalted.

Though an officer less reserved might have said, “Who the devil is
this?” Mr. Baring contented himself with looking from Reedham to the
shore-boat and from the shore-boat to Reedham, for all the world as if
Reedham were responsible for the incursion and for the unseamanlike
appearance of the boat itself. And Reedham looked at the Quartermaster
as if to say, “Well, what are _you_ going to do about it?” And the
Quartermaster did nothing but finger his boatswain’s pipe.

There was, in truth, nothing to be done. It is possible to shout
at a Service boat that is committing a breach of etiquette, but a
shore-boat, though it lack varnish and leave lanyards and fenders
hanging over the stern, cannot be so readily reproved. If it is known
to contain a tradesman or some other dependent of the ship, then the
megaphone may be called into use, but where a doubt exists caution is
advisable. Who knows that it is not an admiral’s guest who approaches?
Admirals have queer guests.

This boat, as it drew near, was seen to contain, in addition to the
oarsman, a small person wearing a bowler hat and a grey overcoat. There
was no attempt at smartness. The hat was old and the coat older, though
both were neat and respectable--so neat and so respectable, in fact,
that Mr. Baring dismissed the idea that this might be an eccentric, and
yet worthy, visitor.

“You had better lie off for the time being,” said the small person
to his boatman, when the craft had reached the gangway, and he, with
a small bag in his hand, had disembarked. “I may need you to take me
back. More probably I shall return in a ship’s boat. If so, I will call
you alongside and pay you.”

“Return in a ship’s boat, will he?” thought Mr. Baring. “We’ll see
about that.... Some commercial, I suppose.”

The small person climbed the ladder slowly. As he stepped on to the
quarter-deck he raised his hat in obedience to a Service custom
well known to him. Mr. Baring, incredulous of such knowledge in a
“commercial,” accepted the salute as if it had been addressed to
himself.

“Well,” he said, “what can we do for you?”

“My name is Alter,” said the small person, “and----”

“Indeed!” Mr. Baring interrupted, determined to enliven an uneventful
watch at the expense of this innocent. “And what is your line?”

A few moments passed before Mr. Alter understood this question. Then,
as he realized that he was a “commercial,” his eyes twinkled.

“Books,” he replied.

“Oh, what kind?”

“Various kinds--novels, biography, poetry.”

“I’m afraid there won’t be much sale for them on the Lower Deck. Have
you a card?”

“Yes.... But it wasn’t the Lower Deck that I was seeking.”

“The Wardroom? The Gunroom?”

“The Gunroom, as a matter of fact. I wanted to see----”

“But the Gunroom officers, as well as the Lower Deck, use the Ship’s
Library. We _have_ a Ship’s Library, you know.”

“Yes, I know. I’m very glad of it.”

Mr. Baring extended his telescope in the direction of Mr. Alter’s bag.
“Where is your stock? Not in that little bag?”

“No; as a matter of fact some of my stock is already in the Ship’s
Library.”

“Come, come,” Mr. Baring exclaimed, “that won’t do; that won’t wash at
all. The Ship’s Library isn’t bought from casual booksellers, you know;
it is a Service issue.”

“Dear me,” answered Mr. Alter, putting down his bag on the deck, and
selecting a visiting-card from his case, “but I don’t think I have made
a mistake.”

“Then I must have made a mistake,” Mr. Baring remarked with sarcasm.
This was a persistent little fellow, he thought.

“Well,” said Mr. Alter, “perhaps we have both made mistakes. I should
have told you my full name and my business at once--in truth, I
intended to do so, but you didn’t give me much chance. I haven’t come
to sell. I should like to pay a call, if you will allow me. There
are friends of mine in the Gunroom--Fane-Herbert and Lynwood. I am
Wingfield Alter. I write books, you know. That’s the card you asked
for.”

It was as if some visitor, unknown by the name of Bennett, had added,
“Arnold Bennett; I write books, you know.” Mr. Baring knew now only
too well. So this odd creature, with a bowler hat and a hand-bag and
a pointed beard, was Wingfield Alter, the friend of many admirals, an
honoured guest in times past at combined manœuvres. Mr. Baring had
an unpleasant vision of great men telling this tale to one another
in the corridors at Whitehall. “And Baring took him for a commercial
traveller. Baring must be an ass!”

“I am very sorry, Mr. Alter,” he said quickly, still feeling that it
was Mr. Alter’s fault--as perhaps it was. “It was your little bag that
deceived me. However, it will make a good tale for you to tell.”

“But I never tell tales against myself,” Mr. Alter answered.

At this moment, Reedham, who had disappeared quickly and discreetly
when Mr. Alter handed his card to the officer of the watch, and who had
been engaged meanwhile in awakening a somnolent Gunroom, and urging
its occupants to “clear up some of the mess and stow away the _Winning
Post_” before the arrival of a literary Order of Merit--Reedham
returned panting to the quarter-deck, and gazed over the side while
he attempted to regain his breath and to look as if he had never been
absent. His face was still pink as a result of his exertion when he
was ordered, as he had known he would be, to escort Mr. Alter to the
Gunroom.

But they had not gone far together when Mr. Baring called him back.

“Reedham!... One moment. Excuse me, Mr. Alter.... Look here Reedham,”
Mr. Baring continued, while Mr. Alter waited out of earshot in the
starboard tunnel, “have you warned the snotties down below?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Gunroom tidy? Look decent?”

“Pretty tidy, sir. Hadn’t much time, sir.”

“That’s all right. The best way with the British Public is to let them
see what’s good for them, you know.... And, Reedham, just drop a hint
to some of the snotties to--er--moderate their language a bit, and not
to offer him too many drinks. It might create a bad impression. You can
never tell with these writing chaps--even the most respectable of them.”

“I imagine,” said Mr. Alter slowly, as he and Reedham went down into
the Chest Flat, “that the officer of the watch is also the officer in
charge of midshipmen?”

“Yes,” Reedham answered, “he is. But what made you think so?”

The Gunroom had been transformed to greet the Almighty Pen and the
gold-laced visitors who might be expected to accompany it. No one was
asleep. There were no glasses on the table. Howdray was reading,
in the second volume of a Manual of Seamanship, the eighty-seventh
page--the page at which he had happened to open it. Elstone was working
industriously, with a pen which he dipped from time to time into an
empty Indian ink bottle, at a log-sketch which Dyce had completed for
him a week ago.

The seemliness of the place was the seemliness of a schoolboy, who,
being dressed for a midnight escapade, jumps into bed boots and all as
he hears the master’s step near the dormitory door. The newspapers and
magazines were thrust together into a pile, from which, as specimens
of the whole, the title-pieces of _Punch_ and the _Morning Post_ had
been made to protrude. The _Winning Post_, which was not hidden even
for the Captain’s Sunday inspections, and _La Vie Parisienne_ and _Le
Rire_, which were decently covered on such occasions, were now not to
be seen--unless the inquisitive eye perceived one of them poking out
its thumbed edges from beneath the leather cushions of the settee. And
on the pile’s summit, chosen to occupy so conspicuous a position by
Krame’s quick spirit, lay the _Hibbert Journal_ that Elstone had long
ago received from a kinswoman who “thought, my dear, you might care to
pass your long watches with some magazines,” and a copy of the _Daily
Chronicle_, which had been hastily borrowed from Wickham, the messman,
in case, as Krame remarked, old Alter had Radical tendencies.

“This is Mr. Wingfield Alter,” said Reedham. “He has come to see
Lynwood and Fane-Herbert.”

“How d’you do?” said the senior midshipman. “My name is Krame. This is
Elstone--Howdray--Driss. I’m afraid Fane-Herbert is ashore on leave,
and won’t be back till dinner. Lynwood is in the Dockyard with the
Engineer Commander. They were expected back before Quarters. They may
be here at any moment now.... Will you sit down and wait?”

“Thanks.... There’s one thing, though.” He turned to Reedham. “Perhaps
you would manage it for me? Would you ask the officer of the watch if
I may go ashore in the officers’ boat, and if he says I may, will you
pay off my boatman with this?”

Reedham took the money. After a moment’s hesitation, seeing no
opportunity to convey Mr. Baring’s warning, and, indeed, feeling no
inclination to do so, he went out of the Gunroom, not a little envious
of those who might remain. It is exciting to see the Name that for
years has stared at you from advertisements, and has twinkled at you
from the gilt-lettered backs of books, come suddenly to life, take off
its hat, put down its bag, and seat itself in your chair. The Name, by
coming to life, assumes responsibility for many illusions.

But Mr. Alter, seated in the chair Krame had offered him, and
explaining that he had had tea and would not have a whisky-and-soda
just at present, was not conscious of being an idol, good or bad, or
of being responsible, however indirectly, for another’s self-respect.
He wondered, with a puckering of his eyes, whether he were wiser to
apologize for having disturbed his hosts, or to pretend that, within
his experience at any rate, midshipmen had always sat, during the dog
watches, in Gunrooms tidy almost to primness, reading Manuals of
Seamanship. It would be pleasant if they would all go to sleep again
and not worry about him. He was an old man, he thought, forgetting
to count his three-and-fifty years, an old man and a restraining
presence. He had broken in upon an hour peculiarly their own. He felt
a nuisance, in fact, as age so often feels in the presence of youth,
and did not realize that youth, in this instance, was tremendously
interested in him. And so, while he hesitated, and while their tongues
were momentarily paralyzed by the thought of his great works and of the
thousands of words they contained--all wiser, no doubt, than any they
could speak--a little wall of silence grew up, over which, so soon as
he perceived it, Mr. Alter leaped at a venture.

“Wondering about that bag of mine?” he demanded. “Others have wondered.
Feel its weight--books and papers. I brought them here for Lynwood, who
is a friend of mine, and they shall revert to the Gunroom when he has
done with them. Do you read much?”

“Nothing very solid, I’m afraid,” said Krame.

“But these aren’t solid--at least, I hope not. Some of them are my own.
Now, I wonder if you could find time to read one or two of them--the
naval ones, for instance?”

“I think we have all read those time and again,” said Krame.

Mr. Alter smiled--pleased as he could never now be pleased by a column
in a newspaper. “I’d dearly love to have your criticism, if ever you
care to go over any of them again. My publisher’s address will always
find me. Look, here’s _The Lower Deck_. That was an early effort.”

Howdray turned it over.

“Are you going to write another book about the Service, sir--the
Service as it is now?”

“I don’t know. It attracts me as the impossible always attracts.
I shall never get the essence of it though. Of course, it is not
necessary as a general rule to live a life in order to describe it. But
still....”

“The Service doesn’t like being described,” said Krame.

“The Service is like no community on earth. Its members have two
distinct natures, one when they are inside the naval boundary, the
other when they are outside it; one when they are in contact with
Service people, the other when they are in contact with Non-Service
people. Very, very seldom, for all my watchfulness, have I gained any
real insight into the essentials of the Navy from words addressed to me
by any officer ashore or afloat.”

“But,” Krame remarked, with a smile that confirmed Mr. Alter’s
declaration, “you have lived in ships?”

“As a visitor.”

“Even as a visitor you must be able to see--well, how we live, what
work we do, and things of that kind.”

“But not how you think, and not how you would act if there were no
spectators from the world outside. That’s what any writer has to
discover about the persons of his drama--not what they do before the
footlights, but what they were thinking before the curtain went up.
Otherwise he can’t make them live.”

All the world loves to hear itself discussed as a mystery, and Mr.
Alter’s mysteriousness produced at least a part of the result for which
he had hoped. Howdray and Elstone were awake now; Krame was delighted
to find a whetstone on which to sharpen his wits; and Driss--Mr. Alter
felt the glow of his personality for the first time, saw him lean
forward and listen intently, though, in the presence of his seniors, he
hesitated to speak. Mr. Alter wanted him to speak, wanted them all to
come out of their shells; but he saw that as yet they were not ready.
He, by talking himself, must give them material they might afterwards
care to pull to pieces.

“Have you ever noticed,” he said, “how Portsmouth and other naval ports
differ from the rest of the world?”

“Lord Almighty! have we not!” Howdray exclaimed in his great voice.
“Pompey, Queensferry, Gib., Sheerness--they are all the same, curse
them.”

“And even Arosa Bay and Vigo?”

“Just the same.”

“Although they are south of the Bay and Pompey north of it? Doesn’t
that strike you as strange?”

“I believe,” said Driss, “that if you could drop the Fleet into the
middle of County Carlow it would bring its own atmosphere with it.”

“That’s what I mean,” Mr. Alter exclaimed, pulling out a pipe. “Its
own atmosphere--it has a definite atmosphere of its own, enveloping
it, hiding it from outsiders. And the atmosphere they breathe changes
naval officers only so long as they breathe it. Once outside it--once
in the train from Portsmouth to London, for instance--they are so much
like the ordinary civilian that he fails to recognize them as visitors
from another world. He notices something a little strange about
them--something he can’t define, something that, in nine cases out of
ten, he dismisses with the catchword ‘breezy.’”

“Breezy!” groaned Elstone. “Don’t we look breezy?”

“No, you don’t--not here and now, because you are within the
atmosphere, though my presence disturbs it somewhat, I dare say. But
if you went ashore to-night, outside Portsmouth, away from naval
people--what then?”

“Ask Krame. He is the poodle-faker.”

“Poodle-faker?”

“A payer of polite calls,” Howdray explained. “A balancer of teacups.
An opener of doors. An eater of small morsels. A maker of small
talk--in short, a specialist in drawing-room duties.”

“But poodle-faking is quite different,” said Krame.

“That’s the whole point,” cried Mr. Alter, encouraged by this
admission. “A man who works in an office all the morning and goes into
polite society in the afternoon preserves the same nature throughout
the day. He may alter his manners a bit, just as he puts on a clean
shirt, but he doesn’t change essentially. You people do. And why? Isn’t
it because in the Service circle, within the Service atmosphere, you
have standards of life that are unrecognized elsewhere?”

Krame smiled. “I suppose we do see things differently from other
people. But doesn’t that apply to almost any profession?”

“No; take the Bar--as distinctive and self-contained as any civilian
profession, surely. You hear men talk of the Legal Mind as if it were a
thing apart. What does it mean, after all? A little added precision of
thought, a yearning after precedent, a reluctance to change--certainly
nothing necessarily foreign to unlegal minds. But the naval officer’s
attitude towards the essentials of life--so long as he remains within
the atmosphere--is altogether different from the attitude of other
human beings. Isn’t that so? In a ship and in a naval port, don’t you
think of women, for instance, in one way, and when you are at home,
don’t you think of them in a way quite different?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Krame. “Of course, one meets here a different
kind of woman. One treats her differently. She doesn’t fill the same
part of the horizon as the women one meets at home.”

“You are side-tracking,” Mr. Alter objected. He let the pages of a
book run through his fingers. “I am not comparing your treatment of
harlots with your treatment of women who are not harlots. That contrast
is obvious among men in every path of life. Put it this way: A naval
officer in London; his mother, his sisters, all his womenfolk in
Scotland--out of the way; he spends an evening with an old and intimate
friend--a Cambridge man, let us say. Then--for the contrast--the same
naval officer spends an evening in London with a naval friend. He goes
to the same places, let’s imagine, sees the same people, speaks to
the same women as when with his Cambridge friend. Now, isn’t it true
that, though the outside circumstances are the same in each case, the
naval officer’s outlook upon them changes completely? In one instance,
his companion is another naval officer, and the Service atmosphere is
undisturbed; in the other, he is with a civilian, and the atmosphere
is entirely altered. Not only his action or his speech concerning
women, but his inmost thought of them, his whole attitude towards them,
undergoes a change. And it’s the same with Religion, with Charity, with
Ambition--with all the constituent parts of life itself.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Krame answered. “We go out of one world into
another.”

“And all the rules and customs of citizenship change.”

“Yes. You see, in ships we are in a strange position--monks with no
vows.”

“The rigours of a severe Order and none of its spiritual support?”

Krame thought over this in silence. Then, from behind him, Driss broke
in suddenly: “Isn’t that rather like prison? Don’t men deteriorate in
prison?”

Mr. Alter brushed aside a suggestion so dangerous, though it revealed
to him much that had hitherto been obscure. “At any rate,” he said,
“it is not a natural condition, and is bound to produce phenomena of
which we outside have no knowledge, no understanding. Men speak of
the Silent Service because they cannot understand the language it
speaks.... And there’s one fact more amazing than any other in this
connection--that men who are living the Service life, who ought to be
able to tell the truth of it, when they sit down to write, write--not
the truth as it appears to their naval minds--but the truth as it
appears to their minds adapted to civilian conditions. They feel they
are talking to civilians. The atmosphere is disturbed. They write what
the civilians expect to hear--‘breezy’ stories. Their sailors are,
figuratively speaking, for ever hitching up their trousers by the back,
in accordance with the civilian music-hall tradition. Have you ever
seen a sailor hitch up his trousers by the back? Usually what they do
with regard to these particular garments is to curse them because they
are so tight and uncomfortable. Why don’t the naval writers say so?”

“Well,” said Howdray, “I was shipmates with one of the fellows that
write these magazine yarns, and he said----”

“Yes? What _did_ he say?”

“I remember he had just finished one of them, and chucked it across
the table for me to read. When I had read it, I said, ‘Yes, I think
that ought to go down well. But why are all your Lieuts. R.N. of the
kind that sings at breakfast and plays the banjo in its bath? And why,
when your snotties have their leave stopped, are they such infernally
cheery devils that they regard it as a joke? In fact,’ I said, ‘why do
you lay on the pretty colours so blazing thick?’ ‘My dear old thing,’
he answered, ‘the people who read me like the banjo-playing. You have
just said yourself that the tale ought to go down well. That’s the main
point, seeing it is going to pay my mess-bill this month. Besides, the
public has been taught to picture indomitably cheery “middies” with
blue eyes and pink cheeks. It’s no good to tell them about bleary eyes
and safety-razors. It doesn’t pay to foist one thing on to them when
they are expecting another.’”

“But why shouldn’t the public be asked to admire what is really
admirable in the Service? Heaven knows, there’s enough of it,” Mr.
Alter said. “Your friend’s attitude, if I may say so, was the attitude
of the young journalist who despises art, and he is a man even more
intolerable than the young artist who despises journalism. Moreover,
being confessedly a journalist, he appears to have despised the
public--which is absurd. I’m afraid I shouldn’t like your friend....
There’s fineness in the Service that would amaze the world if it were
known. Englishmen are eager about the Service, it’s a part of their
national life, it’s their proudest tradition--incidentally, they
pay for it. They are entitled to know about it. But they will never
discover the real good in it so long as you people blind them with the
magazine tradition. You must destroy that first. You must stop putting
sugar into the wine if you want the vintage to be appreciated.”

“You mustn’t blame us, sir,” said Krame, laughing at Mr. Alter’s
vehemence. “We don’t write stories; that’s your job.”

“Yes; but I live outside the atmosphere. I am no good. But, to be sure,
as you say, you don’t write stories, and here am I attacking my hosts.
It reminds me of how----”

And the conversation drifted into stories of East and West, of land
and sea, Mr. Alter being carefully silent when any midshipman showed a
disposition to talk. Darkness fell, lights were switched on, and near
the time of gin and bitters and the departure of the officers’ boat,
John returned. He explained that the Engineer Commander had kept him in
the Dockyard.

“So I shan’t have a chance to talk to you,” said Mr. Alter. “I must go
to London to-night. I have been staying with some Hampshire friends,
and thought I would look you up on my way home.”

They went out on to the after shelter-deck.

“What do you think of the Gunroom, sir?” John asked; “and of the people
you met there?”

“As for the Gunroom,” Mr. Alter replied, “I have lived in worse
quarters--but of my own free will, which makes a difference. The
_Hibbert_ lends it dignity and repose.... And I liked Krame and the
rest.”

“I knew you would.”

“Because I’m a civilian?”

“For a variety of reasons. I like them myself, oddly enough.... How are
Hugh’s people?”

“They are going East. I believe that’s fixed.”

“And is----”

Mr. Alter took no notice of the interruption. “Margaret is going with
her mother,” he said.

“Oh--I see.... There’s your boat called away. You will have to be going
soon. Thanks for coming, and thanks for the books. I wanted them--very
badly.”




CHAPTER VI

STRAIN AND RELIEF


I

In a ship there is neither bud nor fallen leaf. There is no ploughing
of furrows, no scattering of seed. The winds are never sweet with the
fragrance of broken earth. Fingers of sunshine touch no grass to vivid
green when a shower is over and the clouds have blown away. Rain does
not whisper among trees or press the dust of long, white roads into
little pits of darkness; it lashes at grey steel, hangs in beads on
the metal rims of scuttles, envelops topmasts in an unsteady mist. The
seasons are marked by the Navigator’s instruments and by variation in
the colour of the waves. On a fixed date white cap-covers are taken
out, on a fixed date they are put away again; and thus does summer
begin and end. When snow falls the Watch for Exercise banishes it with
squeegees. Christmas Day comes when the December wine bills are nearly
exhausted. Nothing flowers and goes to rest; nothing is ever born again.

Spring, when the calendar bids her come, comes obediently, but to ships
of war she brings few gifts. Even that essence of her which makes men
ashore lift their heads and say that spring is in the air, reaches
ships changed by the tang of salt, or often, in port, corrupted by the
smell of harbour scum. By no visible or tangible promise of her future
glory does she give to seamen credit with which they may tide over the
lean, harsh months of the early year.

Through January and part of February John struggled hard and honestly
to settle down, to convert the inevitable into the desired. Long
years ago he himself had chosen to enter the Navy, and now, though he
wondered at the decision, he knew he must abide by it. His mother’s
means, he felt sure, were too small to re-educate him as he would need
to be re-educated if he left the Service. He must put away from him
the thought of change. He must make the best of things as he found
them. He must work, work and forget, work at naval subjects, and awaken
somehow new ambitions, new enthusiasms, new desires, which should stand
between him and the old. He would put no pen to paper save the pen of
a naval officer. He would banish poetry from him as men banished a
drug. Rosebery’s _Pitt_, Morley’s _Gladstone_ and _Walpole_, Lecky’s
_Democracy and Liberty_, all should go back to the Chaplain’s cabin;
for were not the lives and dreams of statesmen a part of that old
world which was to be left behind? Keats, too, should go; and Blake,
and Milton’s prose, and Burke’s speeches. One afternoon of resolution
he piled them together and carried them off. Still Mr. Alter’s books
remained, and these he lent, urging the borrowers to keep them as long
as they wished. From his sea-chest he disinterred battered notebooks on
Mechanics and Heat and Steam. From the Gunroom shelf he dragged down
Sennett and Oram’s standard work on the Marine Steam Engine. This was,
indeed, to be a grand burning of boats.

But the boats would not burn; the memory of the abandoned country
would not perish; the new enthusiasms, like a constitution hastily
formulated, never broke the bonds that their own artificiality imposed
upon them. The strength of materials and their curves of elasticity;
the names and properties of lubricants; the hundred and one “little
dodges” by which the Engineer Commander hoped to save a few pounds
of coal--none of these things interested John. He did his utmost to
interest himself in them. He even reached a point at which he could
say that he liked engineering and believe that this was true. Nor was
it altogether untrue. Engine-room watches were less troublous than
those on deck. The Commander was out of the way. But these advantages
were powerless to awaken in him the saving enthusiasm he desired. The
engineer officers for the most part treated New Scheme midshipmen with
good-humoured tolerance, convinced that, as they had not received
the old-fashioned training, they could not be made into efficient
engineers. “I don’t know what the hell’s the good of those Upper Deck
snotties wasting their time down here,” they would say. “As soon as
they’re beginning to learn something they are whisked away to their
seamanship again.” No one except the Engineer Commander himself--and he
was too busy to see much of them--took any interest in the engineering
midshipmen, and their work resolved itself, partly through their own
fault, into a wearisome keeping of watches, a writing-up of notebooks,
an uninspired observance of rules. Sennett and Oram returned whence
they came.

Then John made a second attempt to sever himself from the past and to
engross himself in a naval future; but this, partly because it was
a compromise and partly for other reasons, failed as the first had
done. He turned to Voluntary Subjects, to French and Naval History.
He tried to persuade himself that he was carrying out his original
intention to devote himself to Service subjects. If French and Naval
History were subjects for a Service examination, surely they were
within the limits he had prescribed? That they were also, by reason of
the literary aspect they presented, without those limits, John would
not allow himself to recognize. He shirked that issue. He quieted his
conscience by telling himself that French and Naval History appeared
in the official syllabus. He would not admit, what was indeed the
truth, that he read Balzac, not because the reading would help him to
pass the examinations for the rank of lieutenant, but because Balzac
was an artist. He concealed from himself the fact that his love of
Naval History centred in the noun rather than in the adjective, and he
refused to acknowledge, even to himself, that he cared more for the
prose than for the substance of his essay on the Dutch Wars, more for
the writing of it than for the examination marks which were to be his
ostensible reward.

The result of this, as of all self-deception and confusion of motives,
was disaster. As it were a stimulant, it strengthened John for a time,
but left him weaker than it had found him. Balzac, Corbett, and Mahan
temporarily filled the gap which, by denying himself all but Service
books, he had created. Then the Home Fleet came south to carry out
combined manœuvres. The _King Arthur_ was much at sea. The pressure
of Engine-room watches became so great that French and Naval History
had to be abandoned. The drug was taken away. The whole deception was
suddenly exposed. During the long hours in the Engine-room John stared
at the pounding piston-rods, or at the greasy steel floor on which he
was standing, or at the iron bars of the gratings that lay tier upon
tier above his head. He listened to the talk of stokers, and to the
unending tales of drink and harlots with which the artificer-engineers
tried to lessen the tedium of the watch. He liked the stokers; he
liked the artificer-engineers who were, he knew, doing their utmost
to be pleasant and entertaining. But he grew very tired of steel and
oil, and drink and harlots. He revolted against them, not in anger or
contempt, or anything like a spirit of righteousness, but because they
were unavoidable, because they were ever at hand, because those sights
and that conversation were _all_ that, for hours at a time, life had to
offer him. And in the intervals there were Gunroom Evolutions and Krame.

Of all the junior midshipmen Sentley alone had settled down. He was not
happy, but he looked forward to the satisfaction promotion would bring
him. He lived by rules, and was tempted neither by strong emotions nor
by a strong imagination to break them. They were too well suited to his
placid, dogged temperament. He would never be a great naval officer,
but he had no desire to be great. If very reasonable expectations
were fulfilled by his becoming a captain he would not be disappointed
by failure to fly his admiral’s flag. He was by nature contented,
hard-working, moderate in his somewhat formal religion, moderate in his
vanity, moderate in all things. His life in the Gunroom was unpleasant;
but when he was flogged, it was the pain that troubled him--not the
humiliation, and his resentment vanished with the pain. In speaking,
even in thinking of his superiors in rank, he never used the expression
“ought not.” He seldom used it at all except in a formally religious
sense, and then his condemnation ended when his conscience had been
stilled by a mild utterance of protest. It was not in keeping with his
policy, nor was it within his power, to stand out in opposition to
anything. He drifted easily with the tide.

Driss was very calm. It was impossible to pierce his reserve or to
tell what course his mind had taken. Dyce was frittering away his
soul, now resisting, now yielding, now seeking the easy consolations,
now dragging himself away from them, knowing that very soon he must
return. He laid no plans, and deliberately avoided looking into the
future. His duties were performed perfunctorily, and to no one’s
satisfaction, least of all to his own. Sometimes a chance remark, a
flash of wit in his conversation, would display the true worth of a
mind that was fast becoming dulled. He was a generous friend, a bitter
but ineffectual enemy, and an amusing companion. If he had had money,
and leisure, and independence he would have ended his days at the head
of a country-house dinner-table, passing port to numerous and frequent
guests.

The senior midshipmen had absorbed Cunwell. He did his best to please
them. On Sunday mornings he produced a polishing pad, which he had
bought ashore for this very purpose, and offered to give Krame’s boots
“just a rub over before Divisions, as I am doing my own, you know.”
Then, when he had finished rubbing and breathing from a broad mouth,
he would look round apprehensively to see what the junior midshipmen
had been thinking of him. As a reward for these attentions Krame spared
him a little and patronized him much. Sometimes he would say at dinner,
“My old friend Cunwell will have a glass of port with me?” and Cunwell,
glowing in the joys of privileged familiarity, would shout back,
“Thanks, old Krame, don’t mind if I do.” Krame would keep his lip from
curling, but his eyes flickered his laughing contempt.

Cunwell did not like Krame, who, he said, sneered because he thought
himself clever. As a model he chose Howdray, whose doings were
chronicled and laughed over throughout the Fleet. But the imitation
was not successful. It was as a ragtime played laboriously, for
Howdray imparted to his vice a certain glitter that Cunwell could not
reproduce. Cunwell, when he drank, became immediately dull and sick.
He had no pleasure in risk, no spirit of adventure. His dealings with
women were usually ridiculous, so that the women themselves sniggered
at him behind his back. Soiled collars and a dimness of eye were the
outward signs of the change in him.

Manœuvres, contact with the Home Fleet, and a rumour that the _King
Arthur_ might not return to England to refit, depressed the spirits of
the whole ship’s company. The Commander was impossible to please. The
defaulters were numerous. The relations between Wardroom and Gunroom,
never cordial, became more than usually strained. The Chaplain preached
a bitter sermon on the virtue of contentment. The Captain, who was a
kindly man, regretfully sent more prisoners to cells in a fortnight
than he had condemned to that punishment in the previous two months.
Gunroom Evolutions and floggings became more frequent and severe. When
the men went to physical drill after Divisions, and were commanded, in
accordance with custom, to double round the batteries and quarter-deck,
they ran, not eagerly and good-humouredly as when paying-off time
is near, but at a Service double such as discipline demanded. And
the speed and spirit of this morning procession is generally a good
indication of the temper of a ship’s company. The Commander wrote to
his wife that the commission was stale. The men needed general leave,
he said. And Tintern paused suddenly one night in his playing of the
Alphabet--

  “_With a Glory Allelujah in the morning,
  In the morning by the gaslight,
  See_----”

“I’m not going to play any more,” he wailed, in imitation of a spoilt
child.

“Oh, come on, Tintern; there’s no one else to play but you. You’ll stop
the whole sing-song. Why won’t you play?”

“Why? Because the poor old Konk”--he was referring to the monarch after
whom the ship was named--“because the poor old Konk is bloody-minded,
and so am I.”

It was when affairs had reached this stage that, to the junior
midshipmen, relief came, sudden and unexpected.


II

One forenoon the Captain’s messenger came to the Gunroom to say that
the Captain wished to see Mr. Sentley. After an absence of ten minutes,
Sentley returned. They read in his face that he had good news. In his
hand he carried a sheet from a signal pad.

“We are all to return to England immediately,” he said. “We shall have
about a fortnight or three weeks of leave. Then we are to join the
_Colonsay_ for passage to Colombo, where we are to recommission the
_Pathshire_, China Station.”

“All of us?” said Howdray. “What do you mean?”

“We junior snotties.”

“Not the others?”

“No.”

“Oh, damn! You lucky, lucky little devils!”

That night the Mess dined the junior midshipmen. As the Gunroom had
been drawn together once before by the hope of battle, so was it now
united by the prospect of parting. Wrongs were forgiven, enmities
forgotten. Soon they would be saying of one another: “I was shipmates
with him _once_.” If an association is to end, let it end sweetly.

Speeches were made. Tintern said, “I’ve always thought it odd that the
Service should have a special name for a ship that isn’t mouldy and at
cross-purposes. It sounds as if such ships were rare. And so they are
nowadays, west of Suez. But the China Birds say that there are still
Happy Ships on the China Station. A Happy Ship is a ship in which
all the Messes get on with one another--a ship in which, among other
things, there isn’t bad blood between Wardroom and Gunroom. And I hope
the young gentlemen will get one. I ask you to drink to the health of
the _Pathshire_, and may she be a Happy Ship!”

When the toast had been honoured and the wine passed once more, the
Mess shouted at Krame for a speech. He rose slowly, and looked round
him.

“As Tintern has been talking about a Happy Ship in the future,” he
said, “I suppose the young gentlemen think it’s up to me to say
something about their somewhat lurid past. There’s not much to be
said--no excuses, or apologies, or that kind of thing. But there is
this: a Happy Ship is a happy ship right through, and contrariwise.
Nothing that has happened here has happened because of personal
ill-will. It has happened because--because--Lynwood, what was that line
I picked out of some stuff you were reading? I remember now. It has
happened because we are ‘in the fell clutch of circumstance.’ I hope
that in the better land to which they are going the young gentlemen
will have more leave--not a few hours at a time, pub-loafing at Pompey
or Gib., but real leave, clear away from the ship, and long enough to
give them a chance not to be bloody-minded. Long leave is what the
Service wants, gentlemen, says I, beatin’ the tub! Long leave is what
we wishes the young gen’lemen, says us, liftin’ our glasses.”

Krame sits down amid a roar of applause. Presently Tintern goes to the
piano and plays all the familiar songs. To-morrow this sing-song party
will break up, never to reassemble again. Every tune is made richer by
wine and sentiment--the _Alphabet_, _Napoleon_, _Farewell and Adieu_,
_Screw-Guns_.

  “_If a man doesn’t work, why, we drills ’im and teaches ’im
        ’ow to behave;
  If a beggar can’t march, why, we kills ’im an’ rattles ’im
        into ’is grave.
  You’ve got to stand up to our business an’ spring without
        snatchin’ or fuss.
  D’you say that you sweat with the field-guns? By God, you must
        lather with us. ’Tss! ’Tss!
          For you all love the screw-guns...._”

Thus Mr. Kipling to the tune of the _Eton Boating Song_. And now a
round of drinks, and song again--a song whose immortal words are
unpublished, whose tunes are various, whose name is the _Barrack-Gate_.

  “_... Then the wily Gym. Instructor ...
  Just outside the Barrack-Gate._”

There follows a swift catalogue of the merits of a certain Princess
whose home is in a few manuscripts of an Opera, rhymed wonderfully
by the hand of a master, and sung to music by Sullivan. From this
obscurity a swift return is made to the simplicity of _The Wives_, in
which it is told how the Parson’s wife, strangely clad, decorated her
hat with the midshipmen’s astronomical observations--

  “_And in one corner of her hat
  She carried the Yearly Sights.
  She carried the Yearly Sights, my boys,
  And every one was there;
  And in the other corner
  Was the Book of Common Prayer._”

The evening wears on. _Mandalay_ is sung as a tribute to the East. The
room is heavy with smoke. The yellow lamp-shades that swung to and fro
on those nights of Evolution seem to be swinging now, though the ship
does not roll. The ship seems to roll though the sea is calm. The past
is receding. Voices are loud. The rosy flush of wine takes all the
sadness from farewell....

The Gunroom is being closed. The group that was leaning over Tintern’s
shoulder has scattered. In the Chest Flat Ollenor’s voice is heard
repeating the last chorus, and at the piano Tintern, almost alone now,
is singing to himself a song that is not a Gunroom song:

  “_Home is the sailor, home from sea,
  And the hunter home from the hill._”




CHAPTER VII

MARGARET


I

During their passage to England, John and Hugh heard many golden
legends of the East, but, apart from these, they had a reason of their
own for looking eagerly towards the future. Mr. Alter had said that
Mrs. Fane-Herbert and Margaret were going to China. This news, which,
while he himself expected to remain west of the Straits, had promised
Hugh nothing but that he would spend in strangers’ houses what little
leave he might obtain, now made his good fortune seem more fortunate.
It meant that his own people would be often accessible to him. And
into John’s imaginings of the East Margaret persistently entered.
Though his acquaintance with her was so short, he never thought of
her as of a stranger. The very brevity of their contact made vivid
his memory of her. Her personality appeared to him as a thing apart,
strangely complete, and significant on account of its completeness
and its independence of the rest of his life. The impression she had
made upon him was an impression of contrast. His own existence was set
about with a wall of steel. A door had opened for a moment, and he had
seen her. When the door was closed, still he saw her, an occupant of
another world, the citizenship of which was denied him. For all the
interdicts he had laid upon himself in his attempt to settle down where
Fate had cast him, he made from time to time dream-sorties into that
other world, and on these occasions of secret adventure it was Margaret
whom he encountered. But the country in which he found her was strange
to him. He was conscious always of having overstepped his boundaries.
To stray, even in dreams, beyond his steel wall was to expose himself
to forces outside his experience, and now life seemed indefinably
dangerous as it had never seemed before.

It is this sense of danger, experienced by all natures neither utterly
animal nor merely trivial, that gives to love both its dignity and its
finest colour. It is never more acute than in minds that have been
isolated or confined, for to these the new world is new indeed. John
was so much a stranger to the perilous country that as yet he did not
call it by any name. In childhood his shy reserve had withheld him from
close friendship. His mother had been an invalid--“too frail to be
hugged”--and it was not until circumstances had placed her beyond his
reach that her strength had in some measure returned to her. His nurse,
unusually free from a mistress’s supervision, had been too occupied
with her own affairs to accept the devotion which John would have given
so eagerly. He had no sister upon whom to expend his affection. For
lack of outlet, emotion had accumulated within him until its force
could no longer be resisted.

Margaret had seemed so inaccessible, by reason of her own position and
of the distances which must always divide him from her, that John had
never regarded her as a prize he might hope to win. The thought of her
was as a clear bugle awakening the finest legions of his mind--thoughts
which had slept long, and, being aroused, were masters of the evil in
him, masters of sorrow and loneliness and pain, as faith is master of
us all while faith endures.

And now, though the difficulty of her position remained, the miles
between them were to be swept away. For on the China Station ships
remained long in one port, and leave was more generously given than
elsewhere. John listened gladly to the tales that were told of Yokohama
and Tokio, of Hong Kong and Shanghai, but repeated to himself, happy
in the possession of his secret, “She will be there, and there will
be no London to absorb her.” It was almost incredible that the news
which, when it was given, had seemed disastrous should have become the
substance of his happiness.

Then doubt arose. The first letters Margaret wrote to Hugh on the
subject had confirmed Mr. Alter’s tale; both her father and mother had
been in favour of her going. Then her tone had become less assured.

“_I don’t know whether I shall go to China after all_,” she wrote.
“_Father is discovering difficulties--or, rather, Mr. Ordith, who has
been to China, is discovering them for him; and now he talks of taking
mother with him, and leaving me in the charge of some aunt--I don’t
know which aunt._”

And in a later letter:

“_Father seems to have decided now that I am to stay in England.
I am horribly disappointed. It may be the only chance I shall ever
have of seeing the East--and the East is changing so fast. Mother is
still on my side, I think, though she doesn’t like to say very much.
It is so difficult for her and for me to argue, because neither of us
knows anything about China, and Mr. Ordith, who has been staying with
us again, is full of facts and figures. I wonder why he is so much
against my going? He is always pointing out difficulties. He has a
mind like a blue-book, all tabulated and accurate. You can almost hear
him saying, ‘Section Two, Sub-section Four--so-and-so; Sub-section
Five--so-and-so.’ What can an ordinary human being do in face of
that? Of course, father is tremendously impressed. He says it is so
refreshing to meet a young man with an orderly mind. There’s no doubt
that Mr. Ordith is clever, and very attractive--in a way. I dare say he
is right about the Chinese horrors, but, even if he is, there’s no need
to tell the truth so often. But I still have hopes. Nothing is definite
yet. Perhaps if I light enough of father’s cigarettes and warm his_
Times _for him every morning, he may relent. Or perhaps all the aunts
will refuse to have me, if I get my word in first._”

When these letters arrived Hugh paid little attention to them. He had
made up his mind that his family was leaving England, and he refused
to be deluded by false hopes. But now, when his attitude towards
the matter had been changed, he read over with real anxiety such of
Margaret’s letters as he had not destroyed.

“This fellow Ordith,” he said to John, when the extracts had been read
aloud, “seems likely to be an infernal nuisance. He is a Gunnery
Lieut. R.N.--a star-turn at Whaley, an inventor and that kind of thing.
My father’s firm, Ibble and Company, has a lot of Admiralty contracts.
I suppose that’s how they met.”

“What has your sister said about it since?”

“I tore up the letters before we left the _King Arthur_. I kept
these only by chance--mixed up with some books. But, so far as I can
remember, she hasn’t said anything--certainly nothing definite. And she
hasn’t mentioned Ordith, I’m sure. It’s odd, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think she has had a row with him?”

“No; but---- Anyway, we shan’t know anything until we get home to
England.”

Hugh laughed. “I believe you are just as keen as I am that my--that my
people should go to China.”

John answered quickly: “You see, I am counting on your invitations to
give me an excuse for leave.”


II

After spending nearly a week at home, John came up to London on the
first Friday of his leave. He was to stay with the Fane-Herberts, who
were giving a dance on the following day, and before he returned to the
country he and Hugh were to go together to Mr. Reeve’s London branch
and order the clothes they would need in China.

“I am afraid it is no good,” Hugh told him. “It seems to be definitely
fixed that Margaret is to remain in England.”

But at dinner that night they were thrown once more into perplexity.
Mr. Fane-Herbert was away in the North, and was not expected home until
Saturday afternoon, when he would bring Mr. Ordith with him.

“I believe Mr. Ordith is a wonderful dancer,” Mrs. Fane-Herbert said.

“From all accounts,” Hugh replied, “he must be wonderful at everything.”

“My dear Hugh, you speak as if you disliked him already, without ever
having seen him.”

“I don’t dislike him, but I can’t see what he has to do with our
affairs.”

“Our affairs?”

“Margaret’s going to China. It was all fixed up before Ordith came on
the scene.”

Mrs. Fane-Herbert smiled. This was a chance better than she had hoped
for. “Now,” she said, “shall I show you how wrong you are? I had a
letter from father this afternoon, and, so far as I can judge, for he
is not at all definite, he has been thinking it all over, and has come
to the conclusion----”

“That I am to go after all, mother?” Margaret interrupted. “Do say I am
to go!”

“Well, dear, I don’t want you to be disappointed again, but I must
say that father seems to incline more towards taking you.... So you
see, Hugh, how little Mr. Ordith had to do with the matter. It is very
foolish to make rash judgments.”

“But why has father changed his mind?”

“It doesn’t matter why,” said Margaret. “The point is that he has
changed it.”

Hugh shrugged his shoulders. “It beats me, I confess.”

His mother allowed Hugh’s suspicion to fade into silence. To have
attempted to remove it would have been to emphasize it, and this she
wished to avoid. Her husband’s letter had given her two pieces of
information, the last of which explained the first. “_I think_,” he
had written, “_that, after all, Margaret had better come with us when
we leave England. Edith might not wish to be burdened with her. I know
you would like to have her with you, and that she herself is anxious
to come. There are many obstacles, but, if you have really set your
heart on taking her, none that I am not prepared to overcome if I can.
We will talk it over when I reach home_.” Mrs. Fane-Herbert, when she
read this, was as astonished as Hugh had been when he heard of it;
but at the end of the letter, separated from her husband’s decision
by more pages than he usually troubled to write to her, was a brief
announcement which made all clear: “_Ordith has been appointed to the_
Pathshire _as an additional Gunnery Lieutenant. Isn’t it a strange
coincidence in connection with Hugh?_” To Mrs. Fane-Herbert it was an
illumination uncomfortably brilliant.

She established at once the connection between her husband’s change of
mind and Mr. Ordith’s change of plan. But would Margaret establish it?
If possible, that must be prevented. Mrs. Fane-Herbert was tempted to
say nothing of the contents of her letter, to leave her husband to make
the best of it on his return. But his best, in this instance, would,
she knew, be bad indeed. He thought of Margaret as of a child without
perception. He would not trouble to deceive her.

Mrs. Fane-Herbert realized that she herself must give these two pieces
of information to Margaret in such a manner as might prevent their
being connected with each other. The responsibility and the chance of
failure made her nervous and troubled. Dinner was to be an ordeal. She
wished that her husband was not so successful a man--at any rate, that
success had not blinded him to so many things she would have liked him
to see and value. She wished that Mr. Ordith had not so much ability
and charm; that she could bring herself to dislike him frankly, and so
to form a clear policy with regard to him. He might make an admirable
husband. She did not think so. But what was there against him? Nothing
but her instinct and Mr. Alter’s saying that the young man had a
systematized soul. Her husband wanted him in Ibble and Company. She
had seen, scribbled on a blotting-pad in the writing that, years ago,
had filled her love-letters, the words “Ibble and Ordith--Ordith and
Ibble,” as if the amalgamation was already accomplished and a dispute
about the nomenclature had begun. Mr. Ordith would leave the Service
and succeed his father, Sir George Ordith, as head of Ordith and Co.
The plan was cut and dried, as were all Mr. Fane-Herbert’s plans. But
she hated the whole project. Even if the result were excellent, she
hated this involving of Margaret in the affairs of Ibble and Co., for
Ibble and Co. had already robbed her husband of the qualities she had
loved best in him. She disliked it the more because her husband had
never dared speak openly of it, and because _she_ had never dared
mention it to him. She knew how he would answer. Was he trying to force
the girl? Absurd! He was trying to give a fair chance to a young
man whom he liked--surely a reasonable and proper course? Oh yes,
reasonable and proper! Mrs. Fane-Herbert thought helplessly. But wrong,
she felt--wrong in motive and bad in effect. If it were not wrong, why
did it already compel her to fence with her own children?

Hugh had helped her at the beginning of dinner. The first piece of
information had been naturally given, she thought. Now for the second,
which was the test. She led the conversation into new channels, and
talked much and well--just as Mr. Fane-Herbert had written those
intermediate pages in his letter. But too long a delay would draw
attention to itself. Margaret would wonder why she had put off speaking
of Mr. Ordith. When should she speak?

She waited until dinner was ended. Then she paused in the open doorway.

“Oh, and Hugh, father said in his letter something of Mr. Ordith’s
being appointed as additional Gunnery Lieutenant to the _Pathshire_.
Isn’t that an odd chance?”

“Ordith, _too_, going to China?”

“I suppose so.”

Mrs. Fane-Herbert made her way towards the drawing-room. She knew
Margaret was watching her. Why, oh why, had Hugh said, “Ordith _too_?”
Or was it her imagination and not his voice that had so laid the
emphasis? She did not look round to search Margaret’s face, though her
desire to do so was almost too strong for her. In a moment Margaret
would speak, and her tone, even more clearly than her words, would
indicate how much she had guessed.

But as they entered the drawing-room Margaret said: “If I am to go
East, mother, I shall want dozens of new frocks, shan’t I?”

And Mrs. Fane-Herbert was left without enlightenment.


III

Mr. George Ordith, later a baronet, and head of the great armament
firm honoured by the serious jealousy of Ibble and Co., had trained
his son Nicholas with extraordinary care and consistency. He had been
terrified lest Nick, who was to inherit all that a life’s toil had
accumulated, should value it little and dissipate it rashly. Therefore,
almost as soon as Nick’s fingers were able to close about the coin, a
penny had been thrust into his palm, and, when he had held it a little
while, been taken from him and dropped loudly into a money-box bearing
his name. Nick enjoyed the tinkle, and crowed in accompaniment. The
process was repeated every Saturday morning, until at last, because he
was never allowed to play with them, Nick came to have a respect for
pence. The money-box was cleared annually, its contents supplemented by
a sovereign, which was George Ordith’s Christmas gift to his baby (for
it was left to womenfolk to present what were described as “baubles and
gewgaws”), and the whole was added to Nick’s deposit in the Post Office
Savings Bank. By the time he was out of dresses he was a capitalist.
Only Mrs. Ordith’s earnest entreaties saved her son from being taught
to read from the financial columns of the newspapers. At school,
Stocks and Shares were to Nick an exciting reality, and, at the age of
fifteen, he withdrew from the Post Office all his money except half a
crown, gave it to his father in return for a cheque drawn in favour of
the parental broker, and instructed this gentleman to purchase on his
behalf certain Meat Shares in the Argentine.

From this it must not be deduced either that George Ordith was a miser
or that he wished his son to become one. He said a thousand times that
money was not everything; that it could not purchase happiness; that,
though it was a blessing to wise men, it was a curse to fools. And
Nick said, “Yes, father,” and asked, as other children might ask for a
coveted toy, when he might have some of those coupons that were cut off
with scissors. George Ordith had acted upon a theory that the sons of
hard-working, careful men are often wasters. He had wished to nip in
the bud any natural tendency in Nick to become a waster. And he erred
in this, that Nick had been so made that waste would in any case have
been repugnant to him. If George had not provided a money-box, Nick
would have been impelled by instinct to manufacture one out of the
first empty tobacco-tin whose lid he could pierce. If George had not
built up the firm of Ordith, Nick would probably have established it.

Thus had nature and training, instead of counteracting each other’s
effects, as Sir George Ordith had intended, been allies in the
production of the young Gunnery Lieutenant in whom Mr. Fane-Herbert
found so much to admire. He had taken firsts in every examination in
which it had been possible for him to take firsts; he had created a
reputation for himself at Whale Island; he had played cricket and
Rugby football for the Navy; he had smiled and danced himself into
the favour of innumerable hostesses; he had a nice taste in wines,
a beautiful touch in billiards, a safe seat on any horse, and an
inexhaustible supply of words, which flowed like oil from his lips.
He was tall, dark, and technically handsome. Moreover, he had a level
head--a head so level that business men, while they admired him, looked
back sometimes to the days of their own youth, and reflected that,
after all, young Ordith must be missing a great deal. They would have
liked an opportunity to raise their eyebrows now and then, and to say,
“Ah well, boys will be boys!”

But Nick never gave them a chance. He condescended so far as to appear
gallant and rash in the presence of women who he thought would like
that kind of thing; but in the presence of men from whom something
might be expected he gave no judgment which was not a considered
judgment, offered no opinion without quoting his authority for the
facts upon which it was based, relapsed into thoughtful silence when he
had no opinion to offer, and added little by little to his reputation
for soundness.

In a book to which he made frequent reference he wrote down such
details concerning his friends’ habits and tastes as might aid him in
his dealings with them. A glance into this volume reveals much of the
writer.

“FANE-HERBERT, WALTER.--_Proud of cellar. Always offers to pay for
things--don’t let him. Likes to be taken aside from large company as if
conversation private and important. Sharp business man--try no tricks.
Wants me in Ibble’s--obviously with view to amalgamation. Be dense
about this. Probably fond of daughter when it comes to the pinch.
Personalty (authority, K.S.K.), over 700 thou. One son in addition to
daughter. Pleased with his feet--ask size of boots occasionally. Eton
best school in the world. Expectancy of life, 15 yrs._

“FANE-HERBERT, MRS.--_Avoid cynicism. Ask her advice often. Points for
flattery: upbringing of children; fineness of bed and table linen;
acquaintance with Parnell--touch this carefully; Irish descent, rather
remote. Keep off subject of husband’s success. Keep business in the
background. Money not mentioned--except in connection charitable
purposes. Acute woman. Guesses about Ibble and Ordith, and about
daughter. Private income probably small. Ought to die well first._

“FANE-HERBERT, MARGARET.--_Exceptional, requiring exceptional
treatment. Flattery must be restrained and veiled. Probable points
for flattery: shape of fingers; piano; knowledge of books; power to
see through pretences. Certain points for flattery: imperviousness
to it--and ability to keep secret. Necessary to cultivate literary
conversation. (Literature Primers, Edited by J. H. Green, and English
Lit. by Stopford Brooke, Macmillan and Co.; for contemporary lit.
try Bookman--? something more advanced.) Be careful not to split
infinitives; also use singular after none--e.g., ‘none of them_ is....’
_Introduce ideals into all talk of the future. Might talk of improving
the conditions of Ordith’s workpeople, and thus establish_ secret
_between her and me--but make quite sure bunkum of that kind doesn’t
spread and make things awkward at Ordith’s. Probably make good hostess.
Not extravagant, but might develop philanthropic tendencies. To me very
attractive: keep this clear in mind, as it may be dangerous. Don’t
touch her too much; guard eyes. Go slow. Impulsiveness would probably
be effective, but I am not good at this, so better act judiciously._”

Nick Ordith clearly perceived his own weakness. He wished that
Margaret, the girl, were less important to him, and that he could
regard her as no more than a link with Ibble’s and a beneficiary under
her father’s will. This amalgamation was to be a big affair, and he
would have preferred to approach it with a cool head--with a head, that
is, not inflamed by any passion that disputed his customarily perfect
control. But, though you bind the Devil hand and foot, he will lash you
with his tail. All Nick’s care to restrict every tendency in him that
might interfere with his material success could not prevent him from
losing command a little in Margaret’s presence, and he knew that some
day, at a moment when he least expected it, that command might break
down altogether. He thrilled at her touch; he thought of her at night
when he ought to have been thinking of fire-control instruments. And he
knew he stood in danger of revealing all this. Women, a few women, had
so twisted him before. He had no confidence in his ability to handle
Margaret as if she were built of the cool ivory of a chess-piece. She
was young--ten years his junior, and she was unspoiled. Youth and
the unspoiled had for him an attraction more powerful than his will.
There might come a time when he would lose the game as a result of his
reluctance to sacrifice his Queen. Certainly she would exercise an
undue influence upon his strategy.

He determined to dance with her that Saturday night as often as he
dared neglect more urgent business, and at dinner primed himself
for brilliance. Mr. Hartfeld of the Foreign Office and Mr. Street
of the Admiralty were present, and treated him with more deference
than the ordinary naval officer has a right to expect from Government
Departments. Mr. Fane-Herbert established himself with his back to the
smoking-room fire when dinner was over, smiling at Street, Hartfeld,
and Ordith, and glaring at Hugh until he suggested that he and John
should go and play billiards. At last the four great men were left
alone to discuss the prospects of the Empire overseas.

The detail of their conversation is not for the ears of the less
fortunate who hold no stock in armament firms, but the spirit of it may
be revealed in its conclusion.

“Of course,” said Mr. Fane-Herbert, “it is understood that we shall
act with the greatest reserve. Ordith’s presence out there will appear
accidental--or at any rate, whatever they may think, no one will
dare to say that it is otherwise. He will be my friend and personal
adviser--in no way personally interested.”

“The Foreign Office has nothing to do with it,” said Hartfeld.

“Nor the Admiralty,” Street echoed.

Street flicked the ash from his cigarette. “It is of the utmost
importance that we should be committed to nothing.”

“But we can rely upon your support?”

Hartfeld nodded. “Speaking for myself alone; I can’t answer for others.”

“Isn’t that a little nebulous?” Ordith asked.

“We can do no more than promise to do our utmost,” said Street, in the
pained voice of one whose offer of his life’s blood has been scorned.

“We shall be grateful,” said Ordith.

“Most grateful,” Mr. Fane-Herbert added solemnly. He knew how foolish
it was to ruffle officials. “Another brandy, Street? A cigar?”

“But, apart from the question of gratitude and the gentlemanly
preamble,” Ordith continued, “let’s see exactly how we stand. As I see
it----”

“My dear fellow,” Hartfeld exclaimed, flourishing a delicate hand,
“why this passion for black and white? Everything depends upon the
fluctuations of circumstance----”

“Lord help us! Why not say of ‘Change’?”

Mr. Fane-Herbert gave him a glance which advised that, since these
were not business men, they should not be treated as such. They must
be allowed to talk if they wanted to. “You were saying, Hartfeld--the
fluctuations of circumstance?”

“Upon the fluctuations of circumstance and the--er--signs of the times.
Definite commitments in affairs of this kind are always dangerous, and
are only to be obtained at the price of elasticity.”

“In other words,” said Street, “we want to give you the freest possible
hand.”

Three of them nodded wisely. Ordith’s fingers moved lightly on the arms
of his chair. He had not wanted these people brought into it. “They
can’t help,” he had said. But Mr. Fane-Herbert had taken him by the
shoulder; “No, they can’t help--granted. But they can hinder. Look on
their talk as the price you pay for a retainer, see?”

“Then what it comes to,” Ordith said, “is that you are concerned in
these contracts that we hope to obtain simply from the point of view
of the national interest, eh?” So far as he knew the question was
meaningless, but he felt that it would please them.

“Exactly,” they answered together.

“And you afford facilities?--a diplomatic phrase, surely?”

“Every facility.”

Mr. Fane-Herbert’s approving eye was upon him. “Then success ought to
be assured so long as there are no competitors.” That was the point.

“Competitors?” said Hartfeld. “We can’t answer for foreign competition.”

“No; I was thinking of competition from home. Ibble’s is not the only
firm in the British Isles.”

“By no means,” said Street gracefully.

“Oh, I can answer for Ordith’s; we have arranged that. There are
others.”

“I’m afraid we couldn’t possibly interfere with legitimate commercial
competition.”

“No one would ask it of you. But your attitude towards us will be at
least benevolent?” Ordith said.

“Certainly,” Hartfeld answered.

“Good.”

“It will be a brilliant success!” Street exclaimed.

“Success,” said Ordith, “depends less upon genius than upon an adequate
appreciation of the platitudes.”

This faith, so authoritatively expressed by a successful young man,
was put to the test soon after the dance had begun. He saw Margaret
dancing with John--her eyes shining with happiness in a manner that
might have caused another lover a little uneasiness. But Ordith did not
for a moment feel insecure. He could see that John had gained ground,
that the first ramparts of reserve had been overpassed; but he had no
fear. “Unlike poles attract,” he repeated, choosing his platitude, and
confident of his power to carry attack upon that line to a successful
issue. So, before seeking out the important lady he had seen among
the crowd and had chosen for his immediate favour, he stood gazing at
Margaret’s neck and shoulders and admiring her movement with the eye of
an anatomist.

He did not know that John had advanced farther than the first ramparts.
In the morning, when he and Hugh had gone together to buy their China
equipment, Margaret had come to offer feminine advice on materials. She
had watched them turning over shirts, and hesitating, and retracting
decisions in the manner of men at the counter. Women and their
shopping? Oh, but men were infinitely worse! They had so small a field
of choice, and yet they got lost in it. She laughed at this and a
thousand trifles, and laughter is the truest ranging-arrow in love’s
quiver. London, too, with its bright sun and sky, and the cool wind
that stirred up the sweet scent of her furs, had conspired to bring
them together. Hugh joined the conspiracy by accepting an invitation
to lunch with an old friend whom he met in Mr. Reeve’s shop. John and
Margaret came home by way of Marble Arch and a diagonal cut through the
Park. The dying winter was old and weak--so weak that he could not
gather up and hide away in his dark box the coins of gold scattered
beneath the trees by the sunshine or the strands woven among the
grasses. And, as they went, they talked of all the things on earth they
held most dear--their nurseries and old toys, terra-cotta flower-pots,
the summer sound of lawns being mown, firelight in mirrors, books,
the silky touch of dogs’ ears--each as the centre of some tale which
seemed peculiar to their own autobiographies, though, at that moment,
it was being remembered afresh, in one form or another, by every young
creature--and every old one, too, who wasn’t too stupid to value such
things--from Kensington Palace to the western pavement of Park Lane.

John and Margaret, like all the other young creatures, had no idea of
this. They felt as if they were telling each other secrets--which is
the best known of love’s tricks. In truth, they were but beginning to
discover the secrets of themselves, and had not yet had time to become
so confused as the rest of us in life’s attempt to draw a boundary
between the soul and the body. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes! There was
no dust, there were no ashes, their hearts argued; therefore all--her
lips and the colour the wind had whipped into her cheeks, his frank
eyes, and brown, fine-cut hands--all must have something of the soul
in them. What reason had they to doubt? They were not afraid, and fear
goes hand in hand with the Devil. Their happiness was of the clean kind
they would have liked to sing about to all the world.

So it happened that they danced together that evening with all the
memories of daylight and keen air to lend magic to the flowers and the
sparkling lamps and the murmur of stringed instruments.

“I love the little pointed shadows under everybody’s feet,” she said,
“and the vague pools of light in the polished floor. It’s better than
fairies on the village green.”

“That’s not an absolute opinion,” he answered, laughing. “Shouldn’t we
be on the side of the fairies if we were dancing on green grass now?”

To him it mattered only that they were dancing together, and her
silence acquiesced in his mood.

“There’s any number of people,” he exclaimed, “who are wishing the
music would stop. It’s strange to think of other people being tired and
bored.”

“Perhaps this isn’t the music they care for.”

“The old people?”

“Yes; probably they remember other tunes. Shall I ask the orchestra
to play something that was heard all over London thirty--forty--fifty
years ago? Shall I?”

They are for ever asking each other questions.

“Do you think anyone would dance to it?”

“I don’t know. Would we dance to _this_--fifty years on?”

He brushed aside the unimaginable future. At this moment she was his,
her voice speaking close to him, the curve of her cheek and forehead
clear beneath his eyes. He imagined suddenly that he would remember
this instant, that his future would be full of it; and it took to
itself already some of the glamour of history.

“Oh,” said she, “there’s Mr. Ordith watching us!”

The charm was lifted. He could not endure that another should peer over
his shoulder into the history-book of fancy, or that a stranger’s eye
should witness the building of this magic temple in which the moment
was to be preserved against the assaults of all time. Soon the music
faded into silence. A few feet slid on, and then stopped. The room
filled with human voices.

“That’s the end,” she said softly, and he did not find the remark
unnecessary. They sat down somewhere and talked little, each aware
of anticlimax. John was almost glad when Ordith, graceful and
self-confident, came up and took her away.

Perhaps her own emotion was communicated to Ordith; perhaps he,
perceiving it in her, realizing--as she did not--from what source it
flowed, and trying to take advantage of it, was himself entrapped. He
pursued a policy of what he described to himself as “talking big”; he
played upon an imagination already excited.

“I can’t bear to leave London,” he said. “And you are actually eager to
go! Life centres here. The people in this room have their fingers on
the pulse of the world.”

“The politicians?”

He smiled over her shoulder. “Yes. I know it is a middle-class fashion
to despise them. I can’t despise men with power and knowledge. And not
the politicians only. Everybody is here--the artists who matter, the
thinkers who are in touch. And at this moment, a crisis in the history
of the world, I am to go away.”

He made it sound a tragedy.

He knew that to Twenty Years the present is always the opportunity of
mankind--and an unpromising Twenty Years it would be if it thought
otherwise. He knew, too--for his shrewdness went deeper than the
surface--that Twenty Years has an understanding of many truths that
Disappointment, not Philosophy, describes subsequently as illusions.
But, so far as his immediate purpose was concerned, it mattered nothing
whether the ideas that dominated Margaret were illusory or not. Only
the fact of their domination was of importance to him, for they were to
be a means to his own dominion. He spun a web of dreams that he might
entangle her in it. His voice, which he could tune to the very ring of
sincerity, told her how the future was to be glorious. There was to be
battle against all the powers of evil--a new political outlook, new
relations between state and state, and between governors and governed.
That was the mission of their generation.

“We must grip the essentials,” he said. “We must permit no compromise.
And, above all, we mustn’t lose ourselves in mere talk--we must act
temperately, and according to a clearly-conceived plan.... And women!”
he exclaimed. “What a tremendous chance! Your influence is growing
every day; soon it will be direct as well as indirect. And then the
best of you will not be content to manipulate the party strings at
dinner-tables. You will be cutting them where they are obstructive. You
will come with free hands--no stale tradition--no fear of precedent--no
corruption of ideals.”

He felt proud when he had delivered himself of this. It would win
him laurels, he thought, among the forward young men, with their
pamphlets and loose collars, their carpet-slippers and their political
ikons. And Margaret was in a mood to question little. Cynicism and
doubt had small influence over her that night. Was not Mr. Ordith her
father’s friend?--and, Heaven knew! he was no vague idealist. And had
not Mr. Ordith a reputation for soundness and level-headedness where
such a reputation was most difficult to win? She paused neither to
doubt nor to believe. It was enough that his enthusiasm awakened in
her a sensation of warmth and brilliance, of assurance and power.
And, though she danced with him a second and a third time, and though
intervals elapsed between the dances, the sensation endured, and grew
in intensity, grew until--so inflammatory are wine, ideals, and the
contact of dancing--Ordith, too, became aware of its heat, and flamed
amazingly, so that he was cool-headed no more. The conflagration, he
found, gave him greater power over her--though power of a new kind. He
was too wise to speak personal endearments to her, even the lightest,
but his voice assumed a lower, more intimate tone, and vibrated now
with a passion that was not artificial. He spoke of the foolishness and
selfishness of other women, their blindness to ideals--how he loved
that word!--their fear of sacrifice, their failure to understand the
_real needs_ of the world. It was implied that she was wonderfully
different from them all. How many and far-reaching were the victories
within the scope of a mind inspired by her motives! Somehow he was to
be her ally in these victories. “We,” he said, and “I,” but never
“You,” thereby binding her to him without emphasizing her submission to
the bond. The reality of triumph is in an opponent’s ignorance of his
own defeat.

But control was slipping from Ordith. After a brief struggle he let
it go, and rejoiced in his freedom. His eyes, looking down on her,
lost their breadth of vision, and saw none of her surroundings. Her
proximity obscured all else; his touch on her overwhelmed every other
sensation. His muscles tightened his grip, but it seemed to him only
that her body was laying a heavier and heavier weight upon his arm. He
danced faster, but was aware only of greater rapidity of movement and
breathing close to his heart.

Slowly this extraordinary concentration of his mind produced its
effect upon her. First she became conscious of having, in his view,
lost individuality, of having been relegated somehow to the position
of an instrument. Her will was to revolt against that, but revolt
was contrary to her inclination. She found a certain pleasure in the
strength of the current that was bearing her away, even while she
feared it. She said something; he did not answer. She repeated it; and
from his silence understood that his mind would not receive her words.
It was as if a wave, sweeping over her head and robbing her voice of
its effect, had roused her to resistance. His arm had grown firmer
about her. Her feet were scarce touching the ground. She wanted breath
and foothold. She became frightened, active, determined to break free.

“Why are you dancing so fast?” was all she contrived to say.

But he heard, and looked down to drink in her powerlessness, to exult
in his own power, to strengthen his grip again. He could not talk. His
imagination was running on and on, dragging him with it. His thoughts,
which had no traceable sequence, were presenting to him pictures of
such vividness that he screwed up his eyes as if he might physically
see them.

“I am tired,” Margaret said, shrinking into the conventional. “Shall
we stop?” Then, a moment later, with a flash of determination that
compelled his attention: “I want to stop.”

He let her go suddenly--too suddenly. Her eyes were raised
questioningly for an instant, and, as he met them, were abruptly turned
away. He took her out of the crowd. He wanted to get beyond the range
of the many eyes that he imagined were turned upon him. She sat down
where he told her to sit.

“Listen,” he said. “I told you just now that I was sorry to leave
England. I want to tell you why. There’s so much to do here--so
much danger to be warded off. And this going away is”--he paused
feelingly--“is somehow shirking the fight. My father and I don’t agree
on all points. I should like to see Ordith’s run differently--the
position of our labour improved. I am on their side.... They know
it.... Further, the whole attitude of armament firms must be changed.
As matters stand their ambitions are warlike; their influence on
political action is--well, you can understand that. And my chance to
change all this is unique. No other young man has my opportunities. But
I stand alone, absolutely alone. I----”

“But why are you telling this to me?”

“Because--oh, don’t you feel as I do? Don’t you----”

“But why are you telling it to me _now_?”

He was seized by an impulse to put away even this rattling imitation
of reason, to make his spring now. All the world was moving so swiftly
about him that he felt only force and sensation could keep pace with
it. It pleased him to see that her eyes were frightened, and that,
though she wanted to go away, she could not move. This was power; but
he would not use it yet; he must not use it for months to come. Now he
would go on saying something while he watched her.

“Can’t you understand why I am telling it to you?”

“You talk so fast,” she said, her hand travelling to her forehead.

“Then I’ll talk slower.”

“No,” she said, under her breath; but he paid no attention. His voice
continued--to her ears as inexplicit as music.

“Between us we will lay great plans,” she heard him say presently,
and her protest against being thus included was never uttered. “Out
in the East--the home of all philosophy--we shall have time to think.
Margaret, you will help me to get all this clear in my mind?”

All what? He didn’t know or care. It sufficed that he had bound her
to him by some tie, the more difficult to break because it was so
vague. Moreover, his use of her name had been resisted only by a quick
intaking of breath.

“You will help me?” he repeated. “You must--you must.” Then, too
confident, he stooped over her and reached with his hands for hers.
By his lightest touch the spell he had laid upon her was broken. She
started up, the blood tingling in her. She knew that she had acquiesced
in something she had not considered, as if she had spoken in her sleep.
His ascendancy was revealed as menacing--a cloud that overshadowed her,
and, while it held her attention, warned her to take shelter.

“I can hear the music again.”

“But the next dance is ours.”

“No.”

“You promised. Look--your name.” He offered his programme, sure that
she would not examine it or remember the number of the dance.

And she said without looking, “I can’t dance now.”

He answered as if he were stroking her. “Ah, you are trembling. What is
the matter? Have I frightened you?”

“Frightened?” The sound of her own laugh restored her calmness. “What
is there to be frightened of? But see,” she went on, holding out her
programme, “I am sure you have made a mistake. This dance is Mr.
Lynwood’s.”

John was coming up the stairs towards them. “Then I will find you again
a little later,” said Ordith, and disappeared.

“What has happened?” John asked, looking into her face, which had now
grown pale.

“Happened? Nothing--oh, nothing. I was a little tired, that’s all.”

And, in truth, Margaret knew of no cause for an effect so overwhelming.
Looking back, she wondered how so strong an emotion had taken hold of
her. Why had she been afraid? and why now was she conscious of having
escaped, of having awakened--of having lost something, too?

“Let’s go and dance,” she said.

“No, not now,” John answered, “not if you are tired.” He led her away,
and stopped opposite two chairs. “There,” he said, “sit there for a
little while where it is cool. Don’t talk or worry.”

When she was seated he moved away a few yards, wishing to give her the
time she needed. Gradually she realized that the cloud charged with
so much power over her was indeed gone. The atmosphere seemed less
stifling. Freedom of thought and action was returning. Presently she
remembered John and was grateful because he had taken her away from
the place where she had been with Ordith; and grateful, with warmth of
gratitude, because he had known how to be silent. Her look summoned him.

“You don’t know how good you have been,” she said.

“I hated to see you hurt, to-night of all nights.”

“To-night?”

“Because everything seemed so good. I was looking forward to China and
seeing you there. To-night seemed a kind of celebration of the future.”

“But that remains,” she said, as if the recollection of the fact
surprised her. She could not forget Ordith’s power, or, for the time,
think of any part of her existence as being altogether free from his
influence. Where was he now? Was he near her? Involuntarily her hand
went out to John’s sleeve.

She tried to thank him for what he had done. Her sense of relief, of
safety after danger, made his chance intervention seem the result
of his kindness of heart; and every word she spoke, hesitating and
tremulous, between tears and laughter, was marvellous to him.

“Tell me,” he said, “what can I do? You haven’t told me the facts. Do
you trust me a little?”

“There are no facts.”

“But he----”

“Oh, leave him!” she exclaimed. “Let’s go down to where all the people
are. What time is it?” she added suddenly, as if awaking from a wild
dream to the surer business of the day.

He told her, but was certain she did not hear, her thoughts having fled
great distances by then. As he followed her, he realized dimly with
how great a force he had to contend, but he did not understand how
indirectly this force could act. He felt sure that Ordith must have
been in some manner definitely violent--have tried to kiss her, he
angrily imagined. Then her “Oh, leave him!” echoed in his ears.

“Margaret,” he said, “I haven’t been trying--to find things out. I
wanted to help if I could.”

She turned to him with a little movement of confidence which was a full
reward. “I know. Don’t think I am ungrateful. I shan’t ever forget.
Your coming made everything different--and secure again. I would
tell you about it if I could--if there was anything to tell; I think
telling would help. But there’s nothing--nothing tangible, at least.”
She shivered, as if something cold and flat had touched her. “Only a
feeling of having been caught and of having broken free again.”

Together they went into the ball-room, where faces, still smiling their
response to some jest spoken a moment earlier, seemed out of touch with
reality. This colour, this light on chin and throat, this flash of
jewels and gleaming of shirt-fronts, was as a picture in oils that had
hung unnoticed while life pursued its course swiftly, and to which, now
there was breathing space, attention had reluctantly returned.




CHAPTER VIII

THE NET


On Sunday, John and Ordith were much with Margaret, and even when she
contrived to be alone she found she could not exclude them from her
mind. To think of either was disquieting, and she needed peace. She
felt that John was watching her. He knew how she needed help and was
eager to render it would she but indicate a means. Her failure to
indicate it was being interpreted by him as a lack of trust for which
he blamed himself. He could not understand, his eyes said continually,
what he had done or left undone that repelled her confidence. And that
he should attribute her silence to a fault in himself added to her
uneasiness. She could not speak her mind to him; she could not ask him
to help her with a problem the terms of which were not yet clear to
herself. She felt that he was waiting for her to speak, and reproaching
himself with some dullness or hardness that, as he imagined, was
sealing her lips. Several times she tried to speak--if only to tell him
that she was aware of his sympathy; but words would not come.

Moreover--and this itself was an element in her difficulty--was not
John weak with her own weakness? Together they were set about by forces
stronger, infinitely stronger, than themselves. There was comradeship
in that, but not help. It was as if they were two children side by side
in a darkness that contained a menace, of which both were in different
measures conscious, but which neither was able to grapple or even to
define.

For a time, while she was in church, her trouble had been less. The
air of security, of permanence, of prosperity about the place, and the
absence of any kind of tumult within it had lulled and comforted. “The
peace of God which passeth all understanding....” She had bowed her
head with the rest, mistaking the decorous silence for peace indeed.
But, as she rose from her knees, her eyes encountered Ordith’s which
seemed half-laughingly to search and accuse her; and, as if following
a suggestion of his, she began to think that the support she had
received from the service had been based, not upon faith, but upon the
extraordinary beauty of its prose. The hymns, with their redundancies
and bad rhymes, had meant nothing to her, despite their devotion,
and to the modern prayers on contemporary subjects she had given no
heed. The balance and completeness of the Litany, the Lessons’ direct
beauty, the Collects’ vigorous restraint--upon these her attention had
been concentrated. Though the matter of the Benediction had remained
unchanged, it would have brought no comfort to her if it had been
expressed differently--by the Archbishops, for example.

“Hadn’t old man Cranmer a wonderful ear for words?” Ordith said
lightly, cutting Margaret to the quick. She felt that he read her
thoughts, or--and this with a pang of fear that was reflected in the
eyes she suddenly raised--that he had imposed his thoughts upon her.

“You don’t like my saying that?” he asked, looking into her face. And
even as she moved her lips to reply, to express somehow the resentment
that was burning in her, his power asserted itself and drove her back
to say, scarcely of her own will:

“Yes; it’s quite true.”

Like a pleasing, habitual vice, Ordith frightened and controlled
her. Her father had chosen him as her husband, and her mother seemed
to acquiesce in the choice. She pictured herself saying “No” to
Ordith, and “No” to her father and mother. She would be very calm,
very determined, and then all would be over, the battle fought and
won. Surely it would be easy to say “No.” One word to be spoken, one
definite resolve to be kept--that was all. Nowadays coercion was
impossible; the time of starvation, and imprisonment, and whips was
long past. What she had to do was to look Ordith in the face, say “No,”
and stand by her decision. It sounded easy.

And, on the other side, was the tradition of obedience to her father,
hard to break she knew, for she had failed often to break it, but not
unbreakable; and there was one thing more. Of this she thought, as men
think of all things that are too vast for their imagination’s canvas,
in a concrete, limited manner: so are we compelled to picture God in
the form of man. She thought of it as Ibble’s works and yards as she
had seen them when she had gone with her mother to the launching of
ships--bare tracts of granite setts, buildings in common stock brick
that had the motley appearance of disease, sheds of corrugated iron,
cranes that groped above her head, railway-lines that tripped her feet,
cables coiled up like gigantic snakes, flames from darkness, the mutter
of machinery and the creaking of belts, the glass roofs through which
the light came blurred and thin. The foundries, where the molten metal
grumbled and spat and threw up scum on the runner-cups, had been her
childhood’s conception of hell. The whole place filled her with terror.
She had seen the workmen, with their sullen, yellow faces streaked
with machine-oil, and eyes dulled by labour into which imagination
had never entered. Her life had been overshadowed by Ibble’s, and
not her life only, but her father’s and mother’s lives. Her parents
had been omnipotent in her nursery. What power was this, then, that
stood behind _them_ and dominated _them_? She learned to think of
Ibble’s as a tyrant inexorable because unapproachable; an immovable
background against which alone the movements of life were visible, and
in contrast to whose darkness life’s colours shone out. As she grew
older she discovered that Ibble’s did not stand alone, but was a unit
in a complex system, a string in a universal net. The nature and extent
of the net itself were not clear. These facts stood out: that nearly
all the world was in its meshes; that somehow inclusion in it was
profitable; that those who thought to break it were fools and dreamers;
that at any rate, though it was delicate and fragile so that the winds
of fate blew it hither and thither, it was impossible to break. That
was the first article in a traditional faith--impossible to break.
Margaret had seen her own mother fight to get out of it, and seen her
fail. This acquiescence in the matter of Ordith was the seal upon her
failure.

This intangible, this invincible force, that swayed all she knew,
swayed Margaret also. Though she denied it to herself, saying that she
was young and her life her own, she believed it in her heart. All her
experience contributed to this belief--the house with the wonderful
attics and passages which she and her mother had wanted to buy, but
which her father had rejected because its reception-rooms were not
magnificent enough to receive the guests of Ibble and Co.; the sending
of Hugh into the Navy because, since his intellect seemed unlikely to
qualify him for inclusion in the firm, it would be as well to have a
representative among the customers of Ibble and Co. Ibble’s was their
God. Even her father, who was said to have the controlling interest,
was himself controlled, working in sickness and health, growing tired
and hollow-eyed and nervous, all for the sake of Ibble and Co. Once he
had been seriously ill.

“I wish you would retire, Walter,” her mother had said. “Surely we
have money enough? Haven’t we every material thing we want? Couldn’t
you come out of it now? Couldn’t we go back to the old days before
Ibble’s----”

“Come out of it!” her father had answered. “My dear, I can’t give in
yet. Besides, I have my duty to do by Ibble and Co.”

They had thought Margaret too young to understand, but she had
understood something of the tragedy, for already Ibble’s foundries
were her Hell; and now she remembered it. And she was to play it out
with Nick Ordith. Some day he would be, not Ordith the individual,
but Ordith’s, the firm and the tradition. Ibble and Ordith, Ordith
and Ibble.... She had read in her mother’s mind concerning the
amalgamation, and knew what was planned but not spoken of. Her marriage
likewise was planned but not spoken of.

After all, she asked herself, making a little kick within the mesh,
what had her marriage to do with Ibble’s? But what, too, had the attics
and passages in which she would have liked to play had to do with
Ibble’s? She had but to say “No” to Ordith, she repeated--one word, one
resolve. Often, when her thoughts returned to this point, she would
laugh at herself as we laugh when we know we have uttered an empty
boast; and sometimes while she laughed there were tears in her eyes.




CHAPTER IX

QUARTERED ON THE KINGDOM


I

After leave which extended longer than any of them had hoped, the
junior midshipmen, who had parted at the _King Arthur’s_ gangway,
joined the _Colonsay_. In the sense that in their new ship there was
none senior to them they were junior midshipmen no longer. The Gunroom
would still have to be tidied by them, but, instead of Clearing-up
Stations at Krame’s command, there would be organization based upon
common consent. When the atmosphere became foul at sea, they would have
to open and shut the scuttles if they wanted fresh air, but this would
not be Scuttle Drill. Between them and an emancipation essential to
what happiness they might find in the _Colonsay_ and _Pathshire_ there
stood only one doubt. Of the Sub-Lieutenant they knew nothing but that
his name was Hartington. He was not on board when they joined, and all
the questions concerning him that they put to one another remained
unanswered.

“Anyhow,” said Cunwell, “if he kicks up a dust it will be easy enough
for us--there are six of us--to keep him steady.”

It sounded easy; but the Service tradition was against it.

“That’s bluff,” John answered. “We might be able to stave off obstacle
races and Angostura hunts if we were prepared to make a Gunroom
Revolution of it, but, as a matter of fact, we shouldn’t try. You know
we shouldn’t when it came to the point. If Hartington wants to make it
Hell for us, he can, though he is alone. But if he wants to live in
love and charity with his neighbours, we ought to have the best time of
any snotties in the Service.”

Hartington came on board late that evening, and, after an appearance
in the Gunroom too brief to give any indication of his character,
disappeared into his cabin. On his way thither he had passed John and
Hugh in the Chest Flat.

“I wonder if he realizes what an immense difference he can make to us
all,” John said. “Think, a two years’ commission in China, with no one
in the Gunroom but ourselves and a Sub we get on with! I don’t believe
he could spoil it all, if he knew.”

“I dare say we shall shake along, anyway,” Hugh answered. “But it would
be good--even if he were just neutral and didn’t go out of his way to
worry us.”

The anxiety was universal. All the midshipmen were discussing him in
whose hands their future lay. Then came Driss.

“I think Hartington’s going to be all right,” he said. “You know that,
for some reason, they have put my chest down outside his cabin--it will
have to be moved in the morning. Well, Sentley was standing by my chest
while I was looking to see if I had some pyjamas there--I came later
than the rest of you, so my trunk and tin case are still on deck. I
left them there, thinking I had in my hand-bag all I should want for
to-night. And, while I was cursing because I couldn’t find my pyjamas,
Hartington put his head out of his cabin. I had clean forgotten he
was inside, and I thought he was going to let me have it for making a
noise. But he just asked what was the matter--quite civilly, you know.”

Driss paused to allow the others to be sufficiently impressed by the
fact that the Sub in such circumstances had been quite civil.

“So I told him I should have to go up on deck and get my trunk down.
‘What do you want?’ he said. ‘Pyjamas? Come in here and choose a pair
of mine. Blue silk or white silk? They are rather attractive, don’t you
think?’”

“He lent you some?”

“So might dozens of Subs!” Cunwell exclaimed scornfully.

“Yes,” said Driss eagerly, “so they might; but not in that way. I swear
he treated me as--as, an ordinary human being in a country house might
treat another ordinary human being who was short of a pair of pyjamas.
None of the being-generous-to-junior-snotties touch. You wouldn’t have
thought there was such a thing as seniority. I believe he must come
from the South of Ireland--though I’ve never heard the name there,” he
added solemnly.

“That sounds promising,” Hugh said. “I wonder.... Oh, wouldn’t it be
great, Driss, if Hartington were like that all through!”

“I believe he will be,” Driss answered. “I’m almost sure he will be.
He didn’t even give me the pyjamas and have done with it. We talked
for quite a long time--about where we should put his photographs,
and pictures, and writing-desk--he has an old writing-desk that he’s
very keen on, and an odd taste in pictures. And we talked about other
things as well, all off the ordinary track, just as if there wasn’t any
Service at all.”

But even then they could not believe that nothing aggressive lay
beneath this apparently pleasing exterior. Driss, who had seen and
heard, found it impossible to carry conviction in face of the others’
deep-rooted scepticism. The next day routine was irregular. Hartington
went ashore soon after breakfast and did not return until the dog
watches, when he took over the duties of the officer who had been
keeping the Day On with John as his midshipman.

“Have you been keeping watch all day?” Hartington asked.

“Yes, sir, on and off. I’ve been below a good deal when there was
nothing doing on deck.”

“Tired?”

“No, not very; I’d much rather keep Days On than the regular four-hour
watches.”

“Is anyone coming up to take over from you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, you may as well go below. I’ll look out up here. I’ll send down
a side-boy if I want you.”

In the Gunroom John found everyone busy appropriating lockers and
bringing in their books and papers from their chests.

“There’s enough room for two lockers each, and three for Hartington,”
Dyce said. “Those are your two, Lynwood, in the corner--the worst
billet of the lot.... No, we didn’t just push you into them because
you were away. We cut round--someone cut for you--and you were lurked.”

“I don’t mind,” John said. “Two lockers anywhere are luxury. I’ll
get my books in. By the way, Driss, I think you were right about
Hartington. He took over the watch just now; asked if I was tired, and
sent me down.”

“Of course I was right,” Driss answered, smiling. “Did you happen to
discover where he lives?”

“No; we aren’t on a personal footing yet. I called him ‘sir,’ being on
watch.”

They unpacked slowly, pausing often to sit on the table and discuss
the most suitable stowage places for sextants and Inman’s Tables and
Seamanship Manuals. They had a feeling of spaciousness and independence
that was altogether delightful--so glorious did it seem to dispose
their own dwelling-place in their own way, instead of availing
themselves of whatever odd corners were left over by Krame and Howdray.
On the table was a pile of John’s possessions--books, instruments, and
innumerable manuscripts which, though he had no hope of being able to
shake them into publishable form, he had not the heart to destroy.
There was a foolscap book with marble covers into which he had copied
such poems as he had completed; there were penny exercise-books in
which novels had been sketched and begun; there were bundles of papers
tied together with tape; and sheets of all colours and sizes, some of
them but half covered with writing, upon which he had set down pieces
of description, scraps of narrative and dialogue, and sentences
from imaginary political speeches--fragmentary records of fiery and
ambitious dreams. How little his best friends in that Gunroom knew of
the things that were written there! How they would laugh if they read
them, for many were evidence of absurd imaginings! John turned them
over. Here was the peroration by which the _King Arthur’s_ able seaman,
“’undredth class for conduck, ’undredth class for leave,” was to bring
the Albert Hall to its feet--“jes’ as if I ’ad ’em on strings.” And
here was John’s own speech to the House of Commons on Home Rule; here
his reply to the Foreign Secretary’s pronouncement on the imminence of
war with Germany--and in the corner of the manuscript he had written
the great sentence from John Bright’s speech on the Crimean War. On
the back of an old Torpedo Sketchbook he found his notes on Lawrence’s
_Principles of International Law_--part of the equipment of a Foreign
Secretary’s critic, he remembered with a smile, and among the notes was
a passionately eulogistic review of Mrs. Lynn Lynton’s _True History
of Joshua Davidson_. Some of his essays had progressed no further than
their motto--perhaps the fire within him had dried up his pen, perhaps
a boat had been called away....

“Midshipman o’ the Watch ’ere, sir?” said the voice of an invisible
side-boy.

“Yes.”

“Orficer o’ the Watch wants you on deck, sir.”

“All right.”

“I’m going down to have a cigarette,” Hartington said when John reached
him. “Let me know if there’s a panic.”

For an uneventful hour John walked up and down at the top of the
gangway. A hand touched his arm, and he turned to find Hugh beside him.

“John, what do you think has happened?”

“What? Something to do with Hartington?”

“Hartington has been reading some of your stuff.”

“Lord Almighty! How did he get hold of it?”

“Found it on the deck in the Gunroom. He picked it up to see what it
was. Then he asked if it was private. Cunwell said No, you often let
people read it.”

“Some of it,” said John, “and some people.”

“I know. But we couldn’t do anything. Hartington smiled, and said
that, seeing it wasn’t letters and was sculling about the deck of his
Gunroom, he thought he had a right. We couldn’t do anything,” Hugh
repeated. “But I thought I’d better come and tell you.”

John thought for a moment.

“What was he reading?” he asked.

“I don’t know--verse, I think.”

“In a marble-covered book?”

“Yes, he had that. He said it looked more like a formal volume for the
public service than the odd bits of paper.”

“Well, I’d rather he read the volume than the odd bits.... But isn’t
it perfectly damnable--the Sub’s getting hold of that right at the
beginning! What comments?--the usual remarks about long hair?”

“He hasn’t spoken a word.”

“Oh well,” John said, “it can’t be helped now. It was my own
fault--leaving it on the table. I suppose I shall hear about it from
Hartington for ever and ever, Amen. I wonder why it is regarded as an
almost criminal offence to try to write verse?”

Left alone, John tried to think out smooth answers to the remarks the
Sub would make when he came on deck. So far as the Sub himself was
concerned, the damage was done, but it might still be possible to
prevent him from sharing his intelligence with the Wardroom. Of course,
the news was certain to spread sooner or later. If Hartington had not
made his discovery now, he would have made it in a week’s time, and if
the fact of there being a poet in the ship were not laughed over in the
Wardroom to-day it would be laughed over to-morrow. But John knew it
was important to gain time. If the _Colonsay’s_ officers learned first
to think of him as an ordinary midshipman who discharged his duties
with reasonable efficiency, they would tolerate his writing of poetry
as a superficial eccentricity. If, on the other hand, he was made known
to them primarily as a poet, it would be extraordinarily difficult to
rid himself of the stigma and to win back his good name.

When at last Hartington reappeared he spoke only of Service matters.
John wondered what was coming. Perhaps he had not realized that his
midshipman of the watch was the author of the verse he had been
reading. Perhaps he thought the whole affair so unimportant that he
would not trouble to refer to it. John clung to this last possibility
as long as he could, but from time to time he noticed that Hartington
regarded him curiously, with eyes that seemed to laugh at his
apprehension and discomfiture.

“Lynwood,” he said suddenly, “I shouldn’t leave my manuscript sculling
about the deck, if I were you.”

“It was all on the table,” John answered quickly. “I hadn’t time to put
it away when you sent for me. I’m sorry it made a litter. If I may go
down for a moment, I’ll get Fane-Herbert to put it into my locker for
me--I should be back almost at once. Then everything will be tidy----”
He stopped helplessly.

“I wasn’t objecting to the untidiness,” Hartington said.

The silence seemed unending. John had never felt so uncomfortable,
so utterly at a loss. He knew the contemptuous thoughts that must be
passing through Hartington’s mind. He tried haltingly to minimize his
error.

“I do it only--only in my spare time,” he said, “just as other people
do--do other things.” He wanted to explain that he meant no harm by his
poetry, but he could find no words. The poetry itself was the harm,
he knew. There was no explaining it away. “Do you mind very much?” he
asked nervously.

Hartington smiled. “Mind?” he said. And then he added, “Why should
I mind? Is it contrary to the King’s Regulations and Admiralty
Instructions to write verse?”

“No, but----”

“The point is, that most Subs would have made you read it to the Mess
after dinner, and very probably beaten you at the end of it--if not on
that pretext, then on some other. So it wasn’t very discreet of you to
leave it about, do you think?”

“No.”

“And there must be a penalty,” said Hartington, taking John by the arm.
“I suppose I must be a very bad Sub in some respects--at any rate, not
in accordance with pattern: you’ll find that out, I expect. But there
must be a penalty. So after dinner, when we have turned over to the
Officer of the Night, you will report yourself in my cabin with the
manuscript you are going to read to me, and two whiskies-and-sodas....
Do you mind reading to me?”

“Of course not,” said John, amazed. “I should like to.”

“And I want to hear more of it. So that’s settled.”


II

That evening John went to Hartington’s cabin for the first of many
times; but the first, because it was so unexpected and so full of
promise for the future, was perhaps the most marvellous evening of
all. It did not end until long after the Gunroom had been closed and
the other midshipmen were turned in. By then the ship had become very
silent and peaceful. As he climbed into his hammock, after a glance at
the curtain behind which Hartington’s cabin-light was still shining,
John’s thoughts returned to the _King Arthur_, and to the nights when
he had turned in bruised, bleeding, and covered with the filth of the
Gunroom deck. He remembered the hopelessness of his outlook then, the
sense he had had of confinement worse than physical confinement, of
being surrounded and shut in by a wall which he could never, never
break. And now--he thrust his face deep into his pillow--now he had
found at last one living soul in and of the profession to which he
was bound, in whose eyes the things he cared for were not all dust and
ashes.

Upon youth the mass of men’s opinion lies heavily. He who stands alone
in faith doubts at last; but two in faith are a sufficient army. And
John had begun to doubt. His central beliefs were these: firstly, he
believed that Art was a fine thing, a major force in life, not merely
a slave to fan merchants or naval officers when they came, hot and
tired, from their business in the City or on the bridge; secondly,
he believed--to use a term as unrestrictive as his own opinion upon
this matter--in political unselfishness. He had found the phrase
once when driven into a corner during a trivial Gunroom argument
about a newspaper article. Do you believe this? do you believe that?
they had shouted at him; and he, because he could not accept all the
implications of unqualified assent, and because he knew they would not
listen to qualifications, had answered “No” and “No” and “No” again.
Are you a Unionist? Are you a Liberal? No. Are you a _Socialist_? How
could he tell them when he had never read Marx or opened one book
written by a Russian. They hurled all the old arguments at him. If they
sent ashore a naval landing-party, that would soon settle the strikers.
Surely a man like the Duke of Westminster, with a real _stake in the
country_, was entitled to more votes than his butler, who had no stake
at all? If women were given votes, soon they would sit in Parliament,
soon they would be running battleships. Once give way and you always
gave way. What was wanted was a firm hand.

“I don’t believe it,” John said.

“Then what on earth do you believe in?”

The question was more searching than they knew--extraordinarily
difficult to answer. Yet it had to be answered. Then John had struck
upon his phrase. “I believe,” he had said, “in a certain political
unselfishness at home and abroad. At least, that’s the spirit of the
thing. I can’t explain it any better. It’s of no use to ask me what
I should do if I were Prime Minister. I haven’t his experience. I
don’t know how he is placed. But I don’t believe in your firm hand and
landing-parties. All the blind destroyers have worshipped them.... I
can’t go any further than that now--just political unselfishness.”

“That’s all very well as talk, but what would you _do_?” asked Cunwell,
the man of action.

“I don’t know. I admit I don’t know. When I’ve had a chance--if
ever--to read History and Economics, and--oh a dozen things I never
shall read, then perhaps I shall have a more definite creed.”

And as to the other part of his belief: they didn’t laugh at
Shakespeare--he had been a school subject, and was a tradition. They
didn’t laugh at him any more than at the crests on their family
note-paper. But, they asked, where would Shakespeare have been without
Drake and Howard of Effingham? It was a question of values. To them,
Art was the camp-follower of Action; to John it was Action’s equal
and honourable ally. They thought of books as ministers to the tired
warrior in his leisure hours, worthy only if they soothed him. And they
liked poetry whose rhythm they could mark with their feet.

The effect of unanimous opposition had been to make John doubt himself.
People so far divided by circumstance and experience as Cunwell and
Mr. Fane-Herbert agreed on these points at least--that political
unselfishness was the talk of ignorant agitators, and that Art was an
handmaiden. Were they right after all? They said: “Wherever you look
in the world to-day Physical Force rules us. Can you reject universal
Evidence? Isn’t it just stubborn and foolish to refuse to do homage
to a Force which, if you don’t bow your head, will cut it off? Isn’t
it wiser to support the side that has already won?” John had begun to
think that this victory must indeed be final. All his friends acclaimed
it; scarcely a book he had read, except the New Testament, seemed to
challenge it. Many of the poets sang it: not Blake--but Blake was
accounted mad.

And now, though they had spent the evening in all the happiness of
vigorous disagreement, John had found in Hartington one who denied the
finality of this victory. He had been introduced, moreover, to authors
who denied it uncompromisingly. Hitherto, such authors had been, within
his experience, few, and these few had failed and were dead. They had
seemed to have no heirs. That night he discovered that their flame was
still guarded and honoured and fed. He had turned over pages, written
by living men, that were lit with it. In France, in England, in Germany
there were eyes that saw by it. In Russia the sky was red--perhaps with
its light.

So, after all, the whole world did not believe that an Army of
Occupation must be quartered for ever on the Kingdom of God.




CHAPTER X

EASTERN SEAS


It was not long after they sailed from England that the midshipmen
decided that many of their dreams were coming true. The _Colonsay_,
though she was a poor ship to look at, passed the great lowering
battleships of the Home Fleet proudly, almost with a little toss of her
head. They might frown contemptuously at her, but soon they would be
buried in the Northern mists, ploughing up and down eternally, keeping
station on the Flag, the bondservants of the wireless at Whitehall; and
she would be away for a holiday. True, the wireless could reach her
too, but it would not take the trouble. To Colombo and back she would
be her own mistress, bound to drop a curtesy only now and then to other
people’s admirals whom she might meet at ports of call.

And those who sailed in her might look further than Colombo. There
they would take over the _Pathshire_ from her homeward bound crew,
and depart towards the freedom of the East. A small ship with its
implied intimacy and informality; long cruises independent of even
the ladylike China Squadron flagship; few fleet exercises; coaling
with shore-labour; new countries, new faces, new interests--this was
their prospect. It changed them all, and put new life and hope into
them. For two years they were to be outside the vice whose jaws were
Gibraltar Straits and the Shetland Isles. It was the release of their
lives, a visit of slum children to the open fields. From the Home Fleet
they came, and to the Home Fleet they would return, and they were all
determined to make the best of the time that was to intervene.

“It’s extraordinary,” John wrote to his mother, “the contrast between
this ship and the _King Arthur_. Ordith is odd to me--but nothing on
earth to complain of; and the other two-stripers treat the Gunroom
almost as equals off duty. Even on duty they are always polite, except
when they let fly in moments of justifiable excitement, and that does
no harm. And often they yield points of strict etiquette in a way that
makes four hours on the bridge pass like two. I don’t know how long
all this will last. I dare say that as the end of good things draws
near, the good things themselves will deteriorate. But now everyone
is so pleased with life that all goes well. Hartington, the Sub, I
like immensely. You don’t know how much happier I am. There’s always
something to which to look forward. I think the absence of that was the
trouble of the _King Arthur_, and the trouble of all the unfortunates
in home waters.”

The _Colonsay_ put in to Arosa Bay to drop ratings who were taking
passage to other ships, and of these the ship’s company took farewell
with the air of schoolboys who, going out into the playing-fields,
leave comrades to do impositions in class-rooms. At Gibraltar they
did not tarry long. Soon after the Rock had gone down over the
western horizon they were overtaken by a storm, which continued with
extraordinary violence until they were within a few hours of Valetta.
To reach the bridge was a formidable task. In the batteries, where the
fo’c’sle gave shelter against the head wind, progress was comparatively
easy, but, once over the break of the fo’c’sle, the trouble began.
There was a space of several yards between the head of the battery
ladder and the foot of the ladder that led to the bridge. Across this
space had been stretched a rope, by clinging to which it was possible
to avoid being whisked off the deck and blown, but for the friendly
intervention of a davit or a sighting-hood, into the mountainous sea.
John, heavy with sea-boots, and with skirts of oilskins clinging to his
legs, held this rope and tried to advance, but the combined strength of
legs and arms could not move him. While the boatswain’s-mate, secure
under the lee of the bridge ladder, smiled at his attempts, John pulled
and pulled but went forward not an inch. Then, suddenly realizing how
ridiculous he must look, he burst out laughing, and swiftly choked
because he had opened his mouth to the gale. And it was not until the
boatswain’s-mate--himself securely lashed to a stanchion--came to his
assistance, that John could move at all.

“Is this an official hurricane?” he said to Dyce, whom he was relieving.

“No, not yet. We are logging the wind as eleven. A hurricane is
twelve.” He turned over the details of his watch. “Which battery did
you come up?”

“Port.”

“Is that the driest to go down?”

John laughed. “There’s devilish little to choose. I think the port’s
the better.”

Dyce ran his fingers over his face. “I’m sticky all over with it,” he
said. “I feel as if I should crack if I grinned. It stings after a
time. All the same, it’s exciting on watch. You never know when the
foretopmast will go over the side.... Well, d’you know everything you
want to know? Will you take over now? I’m going to the Gunroom to fug.”

“We’ve just had a green sea in there,” said John, “so the fug is
considerable.”

The _Colonsay_ entered Valetta white with salt. Ashore there, after
coaling, John met Reedham and Ollenor, whose joy in having got so far
East was overshadowed by the thought that, when their old shipmates had
sailed for Port Said, they themselves would go westward again. “I’d
give a year’s seniority to be coming out with you,” said Reedham. “Come
and have a drink.”

An ankle twisted while playing grommet hockey on the quarter-deck
prevented John from going ashore at Port Said, Suez, or Aden, and his
knowledge of these places extended no further than the tales told by
other midshipmen of the marvellous things they saw there. Already they
had entered the atmosphere of the East. Colours had grown brighter,
near outlines more distinct. In the Canal they went into half-whites,
and as they entered the Red Sea blue monkey-jackets were discarded
altogether, and for the first time they wore white tunics as well
as white trousers and boots. The heat made the outboard wall of the
Gunroom too hot to lean against. The midshipmen who were working in the
Engine-room came up from the watches, not red with heat, but white and
trembling with exhaustion.

“This ship,” said Hugh, “may have a thousand advantages, but its
engines are not among them. The Tiffeys say they are the hottest they
have ever served with--and the Lord defend them from hotter!”

“What watches do you have to keep?” John asked.

“Now only one four-hour watch each day. It doesn’t sound much. You try
it. The indicator diagrams are the worst business--one set to be taken
every watch. I suppose I’m slow, but I can’t take a set--allowing for
mishaps--in much less than half an hour; and the temperature up there,
on the top of the cylinders, is anything from 135° to 160°. It’s a real
relief to get away into the boiler-rooms for a spell. And the more warm
and sooty lime-juice you drink the faster you sweat, so that’s no good.
But, barring odd jobs, we have to ourselves twenty hours out of the
twenty-four, which is a recompense for most evils.”

There were tales, too, of the stokers on duty on the evaporators, of
how they worked in a temperature of 126°, and how they had fainted at
their posts within three-quarters of an hour.

From Aden across the Indian Ocean the way was calm and blue. The sea
was an enormous, flat, highly-polished sapphire, and its surface was
so still by day and so luminous by night that it seemed hard like
a jewel. Astern, the wake was thin and regular, and visible almost
to the horizon. The ship, and all life in the ship, seemed to John
somehow theatrical. The brilliance of colour, the flash of white
uniforms in the sun, the absence of most of those Service activities
that ordinarily distinguish a warship from a yacht, contributed to
this effect. Superficially this life corresponded closely to that
led by puppet naval officers on the civilian stage. Here were sea
and blue sky, white ducks still new, the gleam of sun on gold-laced
shoulder-straps and gilded buttons. It was all pleasant and unreal.

“This,” said Hartington, “is very like a poster advertising for naval
recruits. It catches the eye but doesn’t convince the mind.”

“It gives one the idea of the stage, or of toys,” John answered. “The
ship goes through the water like a toy boat that you pull by a string
across a bath--nothing to interrupt quite regular bow-waves that go
oiling on and on to the very edge.”

Hartington leaned across his bunk towards his cabin scuttle. “Listen,
now,” he said. “Down there--by the water-line--not a muffled swish of
waves, but, clear and distinct, the touch of particles of water on
steel. Almost you can hear each bubble split and scatter.... You seem,
as you go East, to be able to look at everything very close, every
detail like a minutely accurate miniature--or, as you said, a toy that
you can pick up and hold under your eye. I remember, when I was a
small boy, I loved to pick up a toy horse and cart, or an engine or a
house--just for the fun of feeling like a god. I was Destiny brooding
over the nursery! I could throw a divine boot at my sister’s dolls’
tea-party--but I didn’t, because of the crockery. But often, when one
of her dolls was ill, and the doctor had failed, and the bottles were
empty of physic, I used to remove the roof of the house--my dramatic
mode of entry--and take the patient from her bed, and cure her, and
put her out in the garden. Nine times out of ten my sister approved
the miracle; but now and then, when she had had ideas of her own about
that cure--probably a journey round the world from the night-nursery
to the school-room--she used to weep because I had spoilt everything.
I remember her nurse asked me what I meant by interfering, and I said
solemnly that I had meant well--which was quite true--but that I had
been ‘playing at God.’ I shall never forget the effect of that remark.”

“And here and now,” John said, “one has a feeling of being in the
doll’s house one’s self.”

“And a horrible idea that someone is ‘playing at God’ not very far
off--Someone whose Hand might come suddenly out of nothing and pick
the painted ship up out of the painted ocean and--and drop it into the
nursery fire. I used to send tin soldiers to Hell that way.”

John smiled. “Is that the ‘fatalism of the East?’”

“No: it’s a Cockney picking up an idea of Time and Space and the other
capital letters. ‘_O Time and Change they range and range From sunshine
round to thunder_.’... Have you written more verse?”

“No.”

“What have you written?”

“Nothing. It’s too hot.”

They sipped Irish whisky and lemon beneath the electric fan whizzing
and vibrating in its cage.




CHAPTER XI

AWAY FROM THE SHIP


At Colombo the exchange of crews between _Pathshire_ and _Colonsay_ was
effected as an evolution. With the exception of a few hands left behind
for indispensable duties, both ships were simultaneously emptied into
their boats. As they met and passed the men tried to cheer, but silence
was immediately restored. There would be time for cheering, perhaps,
when, with her new freight, the _Colonsay_ left for home.

To John, who was too junior to have seen anything of the traditional
“spit and polish” in the old Channel Fleet, the _Pathshire_ was a
revelation. In China, where time was less precious than in the North
Sea, and where the menace of Wilhelmshaven was more remote, Gunnery,
Torpedo Practice, and Fleet Exercises had not made good their claim to
undivided attention. The _Pathshire_ was full of bright work, which in
home waters would have been obscured by Service grey. Her paint and
enamel glistened in the sunlight so that her after-turret was a mirror;
her stanchions were burnished like a knight’s armour; her dull metal
was overlaid with silver gilt; everywhere were decorative turk’s-heads
and whitened lanyards; her upper deck was spotless as a yacht’s.

“Think of Cleaning Stations in this packet!” said Sentley. “It must
have cost her Commander and Number One about a third of their pay to
provide all the paint and enamel in excess of the Service allowance.”

The Gunroom, they discovered, was but half a Gunroom, their quarters
having been cut into two parts by a temporary bulkhead. One part
was given over to the Warrant Officers, but, in compensation for
this, Hartington obtained permission from the Commander to use as
a smoking-room the after main-deck casemate on the starboard side.
There had been no midshipmen in the previous commission, so that all
furniture other than the scanty Service fittings had to be bought with
the Mess Fund. A few wicker armchairs, a couple of cheap card-tables,
and several ash-trays--these things being regarded as essentials--were
obtained at Colombo, and all else was left, at Hartington’s suggestion,
until they should reach the wider market of Hong Kong.

Nearly a week was to pass before they sailed again, and the midshipmen
were given leave. John and Hugh went together to Kandi. They avoided
the obvious hotel which other officers were likely to visit, and chose
a place that consisted of three small bungalows, almost hidden among
the trees that covered the hill on the less popular side of the lake.
Here came men whose experience of the “best hotels” in the East did
not tempt them to strain their finances--quiet folk, who were chiefly
remarkable, in John’s eyes, for the matter-of-fact way in which they
regarded what to him was novel and amazing. And the hotel itself, save
when a breath of wind stirred the branches that overhung it or the
sound of gong or bell came up from the lake below, was deeply silent.

After dinner on the evening of their arrival, sitting together in the
verandah that ran the whole length of the three bungalows, and watching
their cigarette smoke twist and disappear against a sky of so heavy a
purple that the stars seemed to be embedded in it, they discussed their
plans for the morrow--discussed them happily and at leisure, knowing
that their time was their own, and that any decision made to-night
might be freely reversed in the morning. As they were on the point of
leaving the _Pathshire_ an English mail--the first to reach them since
they left home--had been distributed, and each had brought his share
to Kandi unread. “Let’s keep them,” John had suggested, “until after
dinner to-night, when we shall be alone and quiet, and clear away from
the ship.” And now they brought out their letters from their pockets
and began the reading they had so long postponed. Soon there was little
sound but that of pages being turned. From far down the verandah came
the murmur of indistinguishable voices, and from time to time the hiss
of a match or the sharp tinkle of a liqueur glass.

Among John’s letters was one from Margaret, which he did not open until
all the others had been returned to their envelopes. Then he read it
slowly. When he began he was content with the moment. This evening’s
beauty and quietness, so wonderful a contrast to the nights he had
spent in the _King Arthur_, seemed a satisfaction of all his desires.
For two days he was independent of routine--free to control his own
movements, to read, to sleep, to go in and out according to his will.
He and Hugh were filled with the spirit of content that visits all men
at the beginning of their holiday. There had seemed no need to look
further, to question motives or consequences. The night was pleasant;
this letter of Margaret’s would add pleasure to the night.

But, as he read, he began to remember many things which the freedom of
his new life from persecution had caused him to forget. She spoke of
London, of political plots and rumours, of the strength or weakness
of new movements, of the expansion of new ideas. New books, new
expressions of opinion; the words of men who had been her father’s
guests; fears of a strike at Ibble’s--her letter was extraordinarily
suggestive of keenness and activity. Much had happened, more was about
to happen--and this in a London many weeks away. What, Margaret asked,
had he been doing? What had he written? He looked back over weeks
of inactivity. He had done nothing but talk to Hartington. Days had
slipped by--precious days. Since he left England he had read little,
had created nothing, had not tried to create. The storm of the _King
Arthur_ being over he had relapsed into lazy content. Time had sped.

To youth, consciousness of the passage of time comes seldom, but
coming, it brings with it pain by which age is not affected--pain
unsoftened by any acceptance of the inevitable. Still the chance; still
the opportunity to make good; still the feverish casting about for
means! And middle-age growing nearer--a vision of the insignificant man
going to and fro between his home and office, of the two-and-a-half
stripe lieutenant many, many times passed over! John saw that he had
been wasting his life.

Then he saw, in a flash that left him blind, that, unless its whole
course were changed, he would continue to waste his life. Waste--and
at the end old age, looking back upon years empty of achievement. “If
only I had my time again! If I were but eighteen once more!” It was as
if this foreseen wish had been uttered and fulfilled. He was eighteen
now. The future was still his.

The letter fell with his hand on to his knees.

“Finished?” Hugh asked. John looked up to encounter his laughing eyes.
“I have been watching your face,” he went on. “It seems to have been a
disturbing letter.”

“It was,” John answered. “It reminds me how far we are out of the world
and how infernally slack I have been.”

He held out the envelope that the writing might be seen.

“Margaret!” Hugh exclaimed. “What has she been saying?”

“She has made me think, thrown me back on things I had forgotten. It
was so good to be free of the _King Arthur_ that, during the whole
passage out, the world has seemed the best of all possible worlds. It
isn’t--or it won’t be long. Oh, Hugh, it’s all very well--a happy ship,
a good Wardroom, a good Sub, and no Gunroom persecution; but what does
it all lead to? I want to do other things--things I shall never be able
to do--and to meet other people.”

Hugh, believing that John was thinking particularly of Margaret, said:
“At any rate, some of the ‘other people’ will be out East before long.”

“You dear old fool!” John exclaimed. “That isn’t what I meant.... No;
it’s just restlessness, I suppose. I feel that all the work we do is so
like a housemaid’s--to-day’s routine the same as to-morrow’s. We never
build or make anything. For all our work we leave nothing behind.”

“I don’t see your trouble,” Hugh said. “So long as life is pleasant I
don’t want to leave anything behind.”

“We are missing so much. We get out of touch. In whatever progress
there is we have no part.”

“I know we are missing a great deal. Every letter I get from outside
makes me jealous of the people at home. They can go about and see
things, and we are shut up day in and day out.”

“How they would shout if they heard you say that!” John broke in.
“Mostly they imagine that it is they who are shut in and we who go
about--as they say--seeing the world. It’s all wrong. The world doesn’t
consist in places but in people. And the only boundaries are boundaries
of thought. Think of the people your sister listens to, the books she
reads, the opinions that count--coming to her first hand. Men and
women from abroad--Germans, French, Americans--she is beginning to be
in touch with them all. But the Service boundaries are desperately
close-drawn.”

Hugh leaned back in his chair and yawned. “I suppose we are all much
the same,” he said. “We all feel shut in--or shut out, rather--though
perhaps for reasons different from yours. Sentley wants plants and
birds--being a naturalist; and there’s not a plant or a bird in H.M.’s
ships. Driss wants Ireland; Driss is almost sick for Ireland sometimes
and he can’t go there. And do you remember Tintern?--he was starved for
music. He said to me once--dead serious--that if he could get music
he would never get drunk. He used to dream about going to Germany
and being educated--‘start life all over again with the five-finger
exercise,’ he used to say.... And the strange thing is that officers
of the Old Navy didn’t feel like that. I suppose they were made of
harder stuff. Last leave I asked an old retired Admiral about his
snotty days, and he said, ‘No, we didn’t hanker after shore life as you
young fellows do. Of course, we were keen enough to get ashore when we
could--better food and beds--but I think we were all of us glad in a
way to get back to the ship.’”

“But the Navy was smaller then, and more independent of the outside
world,” John said. “I dare say your old Admiral felt an almost personal
affection for it. But you can’t have affection for a vast machine that
is itself only a unit in a greater system of machinery; you can feel
loyalty, perhaps, but not affection. It’s like trying to fall in love
with a Board of Directors. The Service is too big and impersonal to
love. Moreover, it isn’t a free agent. You know as well as anyone what
lies behind it.”

“Ibble’s?”

“And more.”

“And Ordith’s?”

“More than Ibble and Ordith’s, more even than the whole armament ring.
Behind the armament firms are the mines, behind the mines is shipping,
behind shipping--oh, it goes on for ever expanding and expanding. It
goes out in every direction, and drags in every individual in the
world--shareholders, banks, the financial houses at home, international
finance--there it is, fully expanded again. Your sister, viewing it
from her own angle, sums it up as a Net. We are all shut up inside it,
and everyone who thinks is swimming round and round trying to find a
way out. Discontented devils--so we are! Every novel that says anything
is full of protest, and every speech--public or private. The papers
call it Industrial Unrest, the Foreign Correspondents European Unrest.
The whole world’s affected as it was not in your Admiral’s time.... And
in the Service we are shut up in a corner pocket of the Net; we haven’t
the chance even to swim round and round.”

“Margaret will never accept anything,” Hugh commented. “Father is
always telling her that if only she would watch the world as it is
instead of thinking of the world as it might be she would get on much
better.”

“You wouldn’t care much for a sister who sat down placidly to watch the
world as it is,” John observed.

“No--it wouldn’t be attractive. I don’t mind so long as she doesn’t go
to hopeless extremes,” added her cautious brother. “But she won’t do
any good. The net is there, and the net will remain.”

“Until it breaks,” John said.

Two men and a woman with a shrivelled face passed along the verandah
into the hotel. One of the men was chinking the coins in his pocket. A
dog rose sleepily from under the table by which they had been sitting,
stretched himself, sniffed the warm air, and pattered after his master.




CHAPTER XII

THE CAPTAIN IN CONFIDENCE


I

On the afternoon of the first Sunday after the _Pathshire_ sailed from
Colombo for Singapore, Hartington was sitting alone in his cabin when
a double knock sounded at the door and the curtains were drawn aside.
A pale face, with thin lips, watery, protuberant eyes, and a pitted
forehead fringed with straight, clipped hair, was thrust into the cabin.

“Hullo, Aggett! Come in.”

Aggett smiled, exposing the gaps in his teeth, and entered awkwardly.
He was an Engineer-Lieutenant of the older, rougher school. Round his
neck, instead of a collar, he wore a white scarf that was not clean.
The creases in his fingers and the thick cuticles which grew high on
his nails were stained with oil and dirt. But that scarred forehead and
those strange eyes which had the extraordinary opaque appearance of
great age--almost as if they had done service once before to some other
being now dead--proclaimed their owner’s intelligence. A flabby vicious
little man, but no fool, this Aggett appeared. And, to one who cared to
seek further, to contrast the darting movements of his hands with the
cumbrousness of his feet, or to remark how strong and decided a voice
proceeded from that poor body, Aggett seemed more than intelligent.
He possessed force and wariness, a rare power to stake all at need,
combined with a distrust of his fellows, which was valuable because it
was discriminating. He was a man whom it was impossible to imagine as a
child. No lasting affection of wife or mother could be easily thought
of as connected with him. He could have no home, no ties. He passed,
surely, from ship to hotel, from hotel to ship, making hundreds of
acquaintances but not a friend, despising and using all he met, never
introspective or lonely, sufficient unto himself.

He threw over the cabin a quick glance of disapproval. It irritated
him that anyone should take trouble to decorate his habitation; and he
was the more irritated in this instance because Hartington’s taste,
unlike that of many officers who tried to make their cabins “tiddley,”
could not be easily scorned as effeminate. The few photographs, in the
simplest of wooden or silver frames; the books, with their appearance
of dignity and quietness; the pictures--here a Medici reproduction of
a Dürer drawing, there a water-colour landscape of the hills about
Fiesole--were such as no woman was likely to have chosen. Aggett wanted
to say what he said usually to officers whose walls were not so bare as
his own, “This place is like a whore’s boudoir;” but his sense of the
appropriate overcame him, and he said:

“Well, Hartington-me-lad, sittin’ in your country residence, eh? Let’s
ring for the family butler.”

“Which means you want a cocktail? Put your head out and ask one of the
snotties in the casemate to send for Ah Foo.”

Aggett did as he was bid, sat down on the edge of a chair, and took a
cigarette from a paper packet concealed in his breast-pocket.

“Ordith wants you to come in to supper to-night in the Wardroom. Can
do?”

“Yes. I shall have to leave you early, though. I’ve got the Middle. I
shall want some sleep first.”

“Right.... Ordith asked me to come with the invite. He’s
workin’--always workin’.”

“Gunnery?”

“Yes. Fellows in the Wardroom don’t know how much work he puts in. I
know him better than most. I _do_ know. They think he’s slack ’cause
he only takes a watch now and then. But I give you my word”--he leaned
forward and smacked Hartington’s knee--“I give you my word there’s not
a man in this ship or any other damned ship who does more work than
Ordith.”

“I believe it. And he has brains.”

“Brains!” Aggett exclaimed. “I should jus’ say he has. One o’ the
smartest men alive. And no slop or sentiment. On and on like a
well-lubricated engine. And an eye to the main chance--why, I’ll tell
you.” He hitched up his chair closer to Hartington’s, and continued
with slow emphasis: “Ordith’s a man worth watchin’. Head an’ shoulders
above the Service truck. All the powers have an eye on him. Ordith and
Co.? Why, you mark my words, Ordith’s goin’ to control more ’n that
some day.... Good fellow, too. Think so?”

“I like him,” Hartington answered, “though I don’t know him well. None
of us knows him well, so far as I can see. He keeps to himself.”

“He keeps to himself where the blamed fools are concerned. An’ he looks
round slow, an’ takes his pick o’ the best.”

Hartington laughed. “So it’s a particular compliment to be asked to
supper?”

“Well,” said Aggett slowly, “I wasn’t thinkin’ o’ that. But I dare say
you’re right. He’s not a friend to be sniffed at.”

Ah Foo, light-footed and blue-clad, came in with cocktails.

“Rum crowd of snotties in your Gunroom,” Aggett said, when he had
sipped his drink and thrown a slice of lemon-peel into the wastepaper
basket. “They want shakin’, I think.”

“Why? What have they done wrong?”

“Oh, nothing in particular; but they seem to take life too easy to my
way of thinkin’. Got a nice, thick stick? A taste o’ that would do ’em
good.”

“Well, you look after them in the Engine-room,” Hartington said, “and
I’ll see about the Gunroom; then we shan’t quarrel.”

Aggett emptied his glass and rose. “Don’t think I’m tryin’ to poke
my finger into your pie. You can mollycoddle the young gents to your
heart’s content, for all I care. But you’ll find it doesn’t pay in the
long run. You mark my words.”

And he went out of the cabin, leaving Hartington to wonder what lay
behind this visit and this invitation. He had noticed that Aggett was
much in Ordith’s company, and had marvelled that one so uncouth should
be so well received in that quarter. What was now afoot? What reason
had Ordith to cultivate the acquaintance of the Sub of the Gunroom? And
why had Aggett been sent--for it was plain that he had been sent--to
sing Ordith’s abilities and importance.

When he left Hartington, Aggett went immediately to Ordith’s cabin. He
found Nick in white trousers and a singlet, mopping his forehead so
that sweat should not run down on to the drawings over which he was
bending. At Aggett’s entry Nick looked up, a pair of dividers held
between his fingers.

“Well?” he said.

“O.K. He’ll come.”

“Get a drink?”

“One cocktail.”

“Seem well disposed?”

“Fair to moderate. Likes you; doesn’t like me. Thinks I’m a coarse
brute.”

Nick smiled. “Well, you’re not a fairy, Aggett. He’s a delicately
nurtured young man, you must remember. Old county family, and God knows
what!”

“I know about that,” Aggett answered. “I don’t go much by the fruit
that grows on the family tree.”

“That’s where you are at fault.”

“Fault be damned. Then is that what you are at--makin’ the most of the
Hartington family connection?”

Nick laid down his dividers and turned to face Aggett. “No,” he said.
“That particular connection doesn’t happen to be of any use to me.”

“Well, what is it then? Look here, Ordith, I’m in with you in all your
pretty little schemes--or am I wrong? No? Very good, then. I give you
expert engineering advice--and you won’t find a better combination of
theory and practice than there is in me. I help you all I can. Probably
I get nothing out of it. I’m prepared to risk that. I’ll chance your
caring to remember me when you are Ordith and Co. But I want to know
right now what you are up to. Why are you bringing in this Sub? What
the hell use is he to be? Tell me straight.”

“I will tell you straight, although, so far as you are concerned, it’s
a side issue. Haven’t you observed that Hartington’s popular with the
snotties? Haven’t you seen young Lynwood go into Hartington’s cabin
evening after evening?”

“I dare say. Well?”

“Lynwood’s friend is Fane-Herbert. I foresee that when old Fane-Herbert
and his wife and daughter come out East we shall see much of Lynwood,
Hartington, and, of course, the son himself. Now Hartington may not
appeal too strongly to old Fane-Herbert, but unless I’m much mistaken
the women will take to him. He talks well. He may be persuasive and
have influence. And I’d rather have him a friend than--the other thing.
That’s the long and short of it.”

Aggett shot out a glance of suspicion; then covered it with a smile. He
felt that even the cautious Ordith was looking uncommonly far ahead.
Hartington to Fane-Herbert the snotty; the snotty to the women; the
women to Fane-Herbert the father--it was a circuitous approach. He
did not know that Ordith was now thinking, not of contracts but of
personalities, not of the father but of the daughter. Aggett knew
nothing of Margaret. His partnership with Ordith was a business
partnership--loose and informal at that.

“I suppose you’re right,” he said. “Anyhow, I leave it to you.”

Nick turned to his drawings when Aggett had gone, but did not
immediately begin to work. Aggett--what a dirty little man he was!
But full of knowledge and energy which was useful now, which might be
even more useful some day. It went against the grain that he should
be even remotely connected with Margaret. He didn’t know; he should
never know. And yet--those searching eyes would see, that alert brain
form its conclusions. Probably Aggett would come and make his oily
jokes about love and women and masculine weakness. They would be hard
to endure. Nick thought for a moment that he would banish Aggett from
his confidence, do without him. He was a mean creature; why not break
with him? Then Aggett’s virtues rose up in his defence. He was a
wonderful fellow to pick holes in an idea, to expose the impracticable
in a theory--a destructive critic of great ability. And Nick knew how
much he stood in need of informed destructive criticism. At night he
would discover some improvement in breech mechanism, or a perfected
driving-band or a brilliant new system of fire-control. When he rose
in the morning he would be blind with enthusiasm, aware only of the
excellence of his own idea. But the thing would need to be threshed
out. Talk was the only method, so poor a critic was he of himself. And
Aggett could talk admirably. He could put his finger instantly on a
weak spot.... Yes, Aggett was indispensable. Sly jokes and indecencies,
those unpleasant teeth, that grating laugh--they must be borne.
Margaret or no Margaret, Aggett was necessary.

“Don’t be a fool,” Nick said aloud. “Don’t give way to your prejudices.”

He dipped his head into cold water and dried himself vigorously
with a rough towel. Then he picked up his dividers, and, commanding
concentration as others switch on an electric light, began to work
quickly.


II

After supper, in a corner of the Wardroom Casemate, Nick and Hartington
sat drinking whisky-and-soda. In front of them was a vacant chair, from
which Aggett, ten minutes earlier, had been summoned to the Engineer’s
Office. Now he returned.

“Just had a star-turn in Number Four stoke-hold,” he remarked. “Stoker
off his chump.”

“Mad?” Nick said.

“Fightin’ mad. Up with his shovel and started layin’ about him. But
they brought him down all right--no damage, except to him. He’s
unconscious. They’ve got him in the Sick Bay, but they can’t bring him
round. All over with him, I’m told. Only a question of hours now.”

“That means a funeral,” said Nick gloomily. “Burials at sea are
depressing affairs.”

“Don’t wonder he went mad. The heat’s fierce, an’ four hours in every
twelve isn’t a kid’s job. Hope it don’t take the others the same way.
We’re short enough o’ stokers as it is, without ’em dyin’ off.”

“You can hardly blame them for dying, Aggett,” the Commander put in
from his distant seat.

“You stand rebuked,” Nick said.

Aggett drained his glass. “The Commander hasn’t got to run the
boiler-rooms,” he observed. “It would be different, wouldn’t it, sir,
if the Chief Boatswain’s-mate kicked the bucket?”

“Nothing to jest about.”

“No, indeed.”

“No, indeed,” the Commander repeated, and, picking up an illustrated
paper, rattled his shirt-cuffs as he turned its pages angrily.

A man appeared at the Casemate door.

“Mr. Hartington ’ere, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Captain wishes to speak to you, sir, in the after-cabin.”

Hartington rose. “Sorry, Ordith.”

“All right, my dear fellow.”

The Commander threw aside his paper. “Hold on a minute Hartington....
You say this stoker is going to die, Aggett?”

“Probable.”

“What’s his name?”

“Hammond, Zachariah Peter, Stoker First Class.”

“Right. I’ll just go in and tell the Captain, Hartington, before you
begin your pow-wow. I shan’t be a second. Come along with me.”

They went aft together, and, while Hartington waited, the Commander
passed into the Captain’s quarters, and presently reappeared.

“All right, Hartington. He’s waiting for you.”

Hartington entered. The Captain, a tall, grave man, who, but for his
beard and moustache, might well have been taken for a judge, was
leaning back in an armchair, his feet thrown up on to the fender that
surrounded the empty fireplace.

“Ah, come in, Hartington, and sit down. You will find cigarettes on the
small table.”

Hartington offered him the silver box.

“Will you have one, sir?”

“Thanks, no; I never smoke. You light up, though. I want a few words
with you.”

An uncomfortable silence followed while Hartington lighted his
cigarette, took an ashtray from the mantelpiece, and sat down.

“Now,” the Captain said, “I want to talk to you about the Gunroom. I
don’t know what your own views may be upon the treatment of midshipmen.
I hope you have views. I hope you have thought the matter out. The Sub
of a Gunroom, you know, holds a position of responsibility.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, what is your policy?”

“Put shortly, sir, my idea is to make the Gunroom tolerable.”

“You think it likely to be intolerable?”

Hartington paused before he answered. He had no knowledge of the
Captain’s own views on this matter. Was he of opinion that midshipmen
should be shaken? Was this interview to be an intimation that the
_Pathshire’s_ midshipmen were not being shaken enough? It would be
dangerous to cross him. The Old School was strong, wonderfully
tenacious, intolerant of heresy. It would be easy not to commit himself
until the Captain’s attitude was made plain.

Then he saw the Captain’s eyes watching him, but their expression
conveyed nothing save enquiry and interest. He decided to take the
risk. Many and many a time he had wanted to test his views by laying
them before a man with long experience of the Service. He said:

“A Gunroom can easily be an intolerable place, sir.”

“Still? I suppose the Service doesn’t change very fast.”

“There was a case before a Court of Enquiry only a few months ago, sir.
I have heard that was pretty bad. The junior snotties in that ship were
in the same Term as ours, so I have heard a good deal of it indirectly.”

“But perhaps that was an isolated case.”

“I don’t think so, sir. The Home and Atlantic Fleets----”

“Stop a minute.” The Captain took his feet from the fender, and raised
himself in his chair. “That’s what I want to get at. I want to be quite
frank, and I expect frankness from you. I know--of course I know--that
this chasing of midshipmen goes on. But it is very difficult for one
in my position--a Captain of a ship is more isolated than, perhaps,
many of you imagine--it’s difficult to find out the exact extent of
the evil. How much of it is genuine? How much exaggeration? And, more
difficult still, what is the cause of it? Young officers nowadays are
different from the old--differently educated. Osborne and Dartmouth
aren’t the mill that the old _Britannia_ was. They come to sea less
prepared for--for whatever harsh treatment they may receive. You
mentioned the Home and Atlantic Fleets. I’m afraid I interrupted you,
but I think you were going to limit the system--to a certain extent,
at least--to those fleets. Isn’t that so? Well--now, what’s the cause
of it all? What is there behind it? Is it the drive at home, or is it
something--something more fundamental, something in the very veins and
arteries of the Service.”

“You are better able to judge of that than I am, sir.”

The Captain leaned back. “I want your opinion.”

“I think it goes on for three reasons, sir. First, it’s the Service
tradition. There are hundreds of officers who believe--honestly
believe--that it is necessary to chase snotties in order to bring them
to a right frame of mind, in order to produce efficiency. Second--the
reason you suggested, sir--the pressure of work, the feeling one has
of living from day to day until--until something happens to break the
tension--that makes us not quite ourselves. We never trouble about the
effect on the snotty. A long view is impossible--there isn’t time. And
so we do without thinking what we should never do if we thought.”

“And the third cause?”

“It’s rather complicated, sir.”

“Never mind.”

“And I’m afraid you may think it fantastic--not quite a practical view
to take.”

“Let me have it, all the same. You seem to have thought out this
matter, Hartington?”

“Yes, sir; I have. It struck me as important--even of first-rate
importance. And the present state of affairs is so bad that there’s
bound to be an end to it soon, one way or another. It’s better that the
change should come from inside the Service than from outside.”

“You think it’s as bad as that? But no one outside knows anything about
it.”

“They will, sir. It is so bad that one day someone will wake up to it.
The Press may get hold of it.”

“We don’t want the Press in the Service.”

“No, sir. That’s why I think this business ought to be stopped from
inside.”

“There are regulations on flogging.... However, what is your third
cause? I think that is the right way to tackle the problem--see the
causes, then root them out.”

“The third cause, so far as I can see, sir, is that the Service is so
isolated and so specialized. Put briefly, it’s a government without
opposition, with the usual result of tyranny. And in the Service we
have no contact with any interests but our own--no books or pictures,
no women, if you see what I mean, sir.”

“No women?”

“Only the physical.”

“Ah! you mean we lack the refining influence!” The Captain smiled.

“I shouldn’t have put it that way, sir. I mean that if men are left too
long with men they are liable to become beasts.” An illustration of
his point flashed across Hartington’s mind. “You know what it is, sir,
after dinner in England, when the ladies are gone. It begins in talk
almost at once. And, left together long enough, men become cruel.”

“That’s true.” The Captain ran his tongue across his lips. “But you
spoke of books and pictures.”

“And plays and music, sir, and walks in the country, and games, and
riding--but chiefly books and pictures, plays and music. They are the
best products of civilization.”

“And we live among the worst--guns, torpedoes? Is that the idea? But
you can have books and pictures in the Service?”

“You can have a few of your own, sir; but that’s not the same thing
as meeting them at every turn, in every house. We are outside the
atmosphere of----” Hartington broke off suddenly. This was a senior
naval officer to whom he was speaking. Almost he had forgotten that.

“Go on,” the Captain said. “The atmosphere of----”?

“Outside the atmosphere of beauty,” Hartington said reluctantly. One
does not wisely speak of the atmosphere of beauty to post-captains.

But the Captain did not smile until he said: “You put it strangely, but
I think I understand you. We are brutalized, in fact?”

“No, sir, I don’t think so. If we were brutalized we should be brutes
ashore and brutes consistently on board. We are neither one nor the
other. It’s this--that one branch of us is starved, stunted, so that it
can’t grow, and consequently the other branch develops abnormally.”

“And I can see no cure for that. We have our job to do. There is very
little time for anything else. Of course,” the Captain added, his
words coming slowly, “when you come to think of it, our job itself is
ethically indefensible.”

They pondered that overwhelming statement in silence, each momently
unconscious of the other’s presence. When at last Hartington met the
Captain’s eyes he saw in them a strange expression, half guilty, half
amused.

“I’m afraid that’s true. We have probably struck bed-rock,” the Captain
said, with a smile. Then, suddenly serious, he added: “That goes no
further, Hartington.”

“No, sir.”

The Captain laughed--nervously, Hartington thought. “And since we
can’t abolish the Service, Hartington, or the forces behind that make
it necessary, let us return to practical politics. Taking your causes
in reverse order: We can but nibble at the third. You recommend that
the Gunroom should be made tolerable. That’s something. A decent place
to live in, so far as its size permits--some of the amenities of life
preserved--not utterly a bear-garden. Further, I propose to help, if
I can, by having the snotties to dine in here, and talking books,
or games, or travel, or the theory of cruiser screens--anything, in
short, but everyday shop and everyday women, the Gunroom topics. A
clean napkin, a smooth shirt-front, and bright glass and silver have
an extraordinarily civilizing effect. Besides, to a snotty’s mind,
these quarters of mine seem spacious, and room to move is room to
think. And your job consists in making your own personality felt; stop
them talking and thinking filth eternally. But you are up against it,
Hartington; the China Station, the naval officer’s Mecca, because on
the surface it seems slack and pleasant, is a test--but more of that
later on. Your second cause--the pressure of work, the sense of war,
and a break-up of all our lives being so close that the ‘long view’
is unattainable. Eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die; be
cruel, brutal, at any rate, unheeding, for to-morrow--God knows what
may happen! That’s the attitude. Frankly, I don’t know how to change
it. Religion, any kind of religion, any quick sense of worlds outside
our own and of time beyond our time, might change it. But that’s
hopeless in a Gunroom. There can be no God where there’s no privacy. Do
you realize that there is no place in this ship where midshipmen can
pray? By their chests, in a public passage, with marines in hammocks
blaspheming above their heads? Or they could pray on their backs in
their own hammocks if they remembered. But they are tired and sleepy,
and they forget--so the fact stands. I dare say they could do without
formal prayers. But no one can do without occasional seclusion. They
are for ever rubbing shoulders with their own sordidness, until at
last they come to think they are all sordid, and care to be nothing
else. That’s the root of the snotty’s tragedy, Hartington. I’m sure of
it. He’s never alone--never, from the moment he comes on board to the
moment he gets ashore. His mind hasn’t a chance to expand--to stray out
into the vague purposelessness from which, if you can trace them back
far enough, all right purposes spring.”

“I’ve given two of them--Lynwood and Fane-Herbert--leave to use my
cabin whenever I’m not there. There isn’t room for more, sir.”

“No, there isn’t room for more,” the Captain said. “I dare say some
of the Wardroom would do likewise if I dropped a hint, but, though it
is some gain, there’s no real seclusion in another man’s cabin. That
problem’s insoluble, Hartington, while ships are built as they are,
and so they must be built if they are to be efficient fighting units.
It brings us back again to the essential immorality of our calling,
and--and to the _forces behind_ that make our calling inevitable.
Doesn’t it?”

He broke off, smiling.

“There’s the solution of leave, sir,” Hartington said boldly.

“I know,” the Captain answered. “I’ve thought of that. And I agree: the
snotties must have all the leave we can manage to give them. But there
are two difficulties. First, officers often stop snotties’ leave--it’s
the recognized Service punishment, and the alternative is flogging.
Second----You’ve never been on the China Station before, Hartington?”

“No, sir.”

“I have; and I’m not sure that short leave is much better than no
leave at all. I can give them four or five days now and then, but you
know what happens--Hong-Kong, Shanghai, they are Hell. Japan’s better;
but even there unless by chance they go into the country, there’s
Yokohama and Number Nine, or Tokio and the Yoshiwara. The East’s a
bad atmosphere through which to see life for the first time. Let
loose from the ship’s confinement into a strange land with an unknown
language--not even a comprehensible theatre--what is there but bars and
women? What’s needed is long leave among their own people, their own
women--sisters, mothers. In the Home Fleet where distance makes that
possible the drive of work makes it impossible. What do they get--an
average of fourteen days a year, or a bit more if they are lucky. And
out here, England, Home, and Beauty are thousands of miles away.”

The Captain stood up. “But, as for your first cause,” he said, “as
for the Service tradition and the chasing of midshipmen to produce
efficiency, I can do something about that in my own ship. Fortunately
all our snotties are of the same seniority, so that there can be no
seniors trampling on juniors ‘to get a bit of their own back.’ And so
far as you yourself are concerned--well, I know your somewhat unusual
views. But other Subs may join us later on, or even the Wardroom may
demand that the snotties be shaken. And I want you to understand that,
no matter what may come--even if you get orders from the Commander
himself, you are to stand out against anything that follows the
principle of ‘the young gentlemen must be broken.’ The fact that these
things were done in Nelson’s day doesn’t weigh with me. I will have
none of it in my ship. Is that understood?”

“Quite, sir.”

“I shall hold you personally responsible.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, apart from any order of mine considered as an order, I want your
promise. You know as well as I do that the order is one I can’t enforce
from day to day. The Service etiquette keeps the Captain well aft. I
can’t see what goes on.”

“I’m as strongly against the system as you are, sir.”

“That settles the matter, then, for one ship among hundreds.
Good-night.”

“Good-night, sir.”

Hartington walked towards the door. Because a question in his mind
remained unanswered he hesitated visibly.

“What is it?” the Captain asked. “Another ‘cause’ to baffle us?”

“There was a question, sir.”

“Yes?”

“You spoke--twice--of the forces behind the Service. I was wondering,
sir----”

The Captain shook his head. “No, Hartington; we haven’t time to try to
unravel that mesh. Besides, it savours of politics, which are not for
naval officers. I have said enough already this evening--perhaps too
much unless you are discreet. Good-night, again.”

“Good-night, sir.”




CHAPTER XIII

LOOKING BEYOND


I

Those streets at Singapore where the harlots of East and West sit at
their doors and in their verandahs, stretching out their whitened arms
towards the passers-by, were investigated and discussed by the Gunroom.
They are investigated and discussed by most Europeans who pass through
Singapore, and they remain and will remain. Cunwell thought them funny;
Dyce was curious, and desired information; Sentley, who had entered
them inadvertently, left them in haste, fearful and embarrassed. John
and Hugh, who drove through them together in rickshaws, were glad when
they were clear of them.

“My God!” John said, “isn’t it amazing how beastliness spreads?”

“The women?” Hugh asked.

“No; at the moment I was thinking of Krame. But the women, too, if you
like.”

“Oh, be damned to Krame! We are free of him.”

“Yes, we are, but others are not.”

“I’d forgotten them.”

“One does forget.”

Hugh looked at him. “Cheer up, John,” he said, “the sight of the women
has made you miserable. It’s no good being miserable about them.
There’s nothing to be done.”

“I’m not miserable about them only. I’m angry because they are
helpless, and we are helpless. I’m angry for all helpless things. They
would probably tell you that they would never have come to this if they
had had plenty of money. Sweated labour would tell you that what it
wants is higher wages. And--though my reason tells me it’s all a lie--I
myself think that if only I had more money I could do the work I want
to do and be happy. We all look to money for help--that’s why we are
helpless.”

“Then it’s our own fault.”

“Oh, it starts higher than that. It’s older than we are. The Golden
Calf is the established creed. Put it wider than just money; call
it gain--any material gain: temporal power, private land, national
territory, influence; and those nights we had in the _King Arthur_, and
what other snotties are going through now, and the streets with their
harlots--they are just fragments of the result.... I’m looking forward
to seeing your sister again. She is the only person I have met who, in
her heart of hearts, seems not to care for wealth.”

“But she has always had everything she wants,” Hugh said.


II

Later in April they made Hong-Kong, where they joined the squadron.
Being in time for the Japanese summer cruise, they sailed a fortnight
later for Yokohama, whither the squadron had preceded them. Throughout
the voyage the _Pathshire_ was active in preparation for the time
when she would be called upon to compete with other ships in Fleet
Evolutions; and General Quarters, Fire and Collision Stations, and
other exercises were continually practised.

The whole of May was spent out of China. In Tokio a party from the
fleet was officially received and entertained. Each British officer was
assigned to a Japanese officer of corresponding rank who remained close
to him always, providing him with food, drink, and information. The
arrangements were perfect, and mathematically precise. The motor-cars
were filled but not crowded. Much was shown, but not too much. The
programme, of which every officer was given a copy typed in English,
was accurately followed. Not a moment was lost. Dinner was taken
between the acts at the Imperial Theatre.

Though, after the official reception, John went often to Tokio, and
found that the Japanese citizen was peaceful enough, he could never
shake off his first impression of a nation essentially military,
encouraged by its recent victories over Russia, ready for further
wars should they come. Far inland such an impression might have
been contradicted; but in Tokio, the centre of official life, it
was continually reinforced. It was remarkable and terrible that the
Japanese military mind was not even choked, as were the minds of
Western nations, by official pomposity. It seemed faultless. Salaries
were small, offices unpretentious. The nation was as an athlete
stripped.

“Just as well these fellows are our allies,” said Aggett in the
Wardroom.

Nick Ordith had much leave in Japan; indeed, from the day of the ship’s
arrival to the day of her departure his messmates saw little of him,
save when he came on board for a few hours to deposit one bag of
papers and to carry off another. Sometimes Aggett accompanied him; but
Aggett, not being supernumerary, and having ship’s duties, could not
take all the leave he desired. Nick called at many important offices,
and in all of them was amicably received. It was to be understood, of
course, that he represented no one; but, nevertheless, the Japanese
were aware of the existence of Ibble’s and of Ordith’s. In those days,
Mr. Fane-Herbert being as yet far away, perhaps Nick allowed Ordith’s
to eclipse Ibble’s, telling himself that, the understanding between the
two firms being so cordial and complete, he could do so with an easy
conscience. Further, he had prospects, sprung from his own inventive
mind, which were but indirectly connected with either firm. He wanted
experiments made, but these must be unofficial. He had ideas to sell,
but, realizing the prior claims of his own nation’s firms, he could not
part with them unreservedly. All his negotiations, which involved so
many conflicting interests, were complicated and slow, but before the
_Pathshire_ put to sea he felt that he had made preliminary progress,
some of which he would report to Mr. Fane-Herbert.


III

Sailing by way of Nagasaki, the squadron reached Wei-hai-wei on the
first morning of June. The Fane-Herberts, who had travelled overland,
were already established there, having taken a small house and equipped
it with Chinese servants. Mr. Fane-Herbert had urged his wife not to
settle down in a place so deserted. In the absence of the squadron,
he told her, there would be little company but that of the somewhat
distant regiment. But she had made up her mind, and was not to be
dissuaded. The squadron would be at Wei-hai during a part of the
summer at least, and, if rumour spoke truly, the _Pathshire_ was to
winter there alone. Both she and Margaret wanted to be near Hugh, and
taking into consideration the probabilities of the squadron’s ever
uncertain movements, they seemed likely to see more of him at Wei-hai
than elsewhere.... But he couldn’t do his business at Wei-hai, Mr.
Fane-Herbert remonstrated; the boy was quite capable of looking after
himself.

“You are quite free,” Mrs. Fane-Herbert had said, “to move about
independently of us. If the _Pathshire_ leaves Wei-hai for long we will
come anywhere you like, and return when the _Pathshire_ returns. We
shall have enough time in her absence to see Japan, and Hong-Kong, and
Shanghai, or any other places you feel we ought to see. At present I
want to see my son. Wild horses shall not move me.”

She had had enough of travelling. She liked to be settled in a home,
and did not intend to trail about the seas at her husband’s heels.

Nick invited himself to dine, and John and Hugh, who would not ask for
late leave that night, went ashore in the afternoon.

“Mr. Alter is always talking of you,” Margaret told him when, after
tea, he had her alone. “He wants more of your work, and he has given me
this letter for you.”

“I have done no more work,” he confessed.

“None?”

“None.”

“Didn’t you get my letter. I addressed it to Colombo.”

“Yes, I got that. I took it up to Kandi with me to read. I made
wonderful resolutions that night.”

“And haven’t kept them?”

“No.”

“John, you are hopeless.”

He defended himself as best he could. “I can’t help it,” he said;
“I have tried to write and I have tried to read. I have read
spasmodically. But it seems useless. I started this naval business
too early. My education has been a naval education, and--what is more
important--my life is a naval life. If you can’t be alone you can’t
think; if you can’t think you are a fool to try to write. Besides,
to write you must read and read and read. You must see life from a
thousand angles--not from one professional standpoint. And you must
feel that, for better or for worse, you are master of yourself--not
necessarily of your actions, but of your thinking.”

“But you have written in these very circumstances. Why can’t you write
more?”

“For the same reason that a man who chances upon an occasional phrase
can’t write an epic. Literature isn’t luck; it’s the result of
substantial effort.”

“Others have written who had other things to do than write.”

He wondered if, after all, he was overrating difficulties in order to
shield a lack of courage. “Yes,” he said, “but out of their office,
or shop, or factory, their life was their own. They went home--to some
kind of home. At any rate, it was theirs. A snotty’s life is never his
own. He lives in his office the whole twenty-four hours. He never ‘goes
home.’”

“Then what are you going to do?”

“Nothing.”

“So you give up?” she asked.

“Yes. What can I do?”

“And you are not nineteen yet. What’s your life going to be?”

“I may get to like it. Perhaps in the senior ranks it will be better.”

“It won’t.”

“I know. Of course it won’t.”

She was tempted to be angry because he had so early abandoned hope,
because he was not putting up a fight; but she saw that he was opposed
to forces so much stronger than any he could command that by no courage
could he unaided stand against them. Then she remembered a source
whence help might come.

“John,” she said, “I want you to fight this out.”

“Fight?”

“Because I believe it’s worth the fighting. You feel hopeless now,
partly, I dare say, because your other work prevents your writing, but
chiefly--isn’t that true?--chiefly because you don’t feel sure that you
could ever write.... You can write, you know.”

“What guarantee have you of that?” he asked, in a tone that was
unusually hard, because he did not feel hard. Her presence, her voice,
her repose above all, affected his uneasy mind profoundly. It was
amazing that anyone should care two damns whether he wasted his life or
not.

“I think I had better tell you,” she said. “I didn’t intend to. There’s
a sort of convention that you mustn’t tell people good of themselves,
but I shall tell you this now. I have Mr. Alter’s guarantee.”

“Because he said he liked my work? It’s so easy to say that.”

“No--more than that. He said you were an example of godless waste.”

“Good heavens!” John exclaimed with a laugh.

“And he said,” she went on, “that he believed you could, if you would,
be a great man. I asked him at once what reasons he had for saying
that. He gave me certain points in your work: I shan’t repeat them or
you will strain after them and exaggerate them. But he thought them
decisive. He showed your work to other men whose opinions confirmed his
own.... What now?”

“It’s wonderfully good to hear,” John said unsteadily. “Margaret, tell
me the special points he hit on. I don’t see how it is possible to be
sure at this stage.”

“I’ll tell you one point--too general for you to exaggerate and spoil.
He said that you wrote naturally, established a curious intimacy with
your audience, and that yet what you said was momentous--the rarest
of combinations. And he repeated what you heard him say that night at
dinner--that your images were chosen with the eyes tight shut or wide
open--the full vision, inward or outward. He gave instances.”

“What instances?”

“Those I can’t tell you. If I did you would be bound to imitate them.”

He thought over this in silence. “Margaret,” he said, “may not this be
mere talk? You know how great men love an occasional enthusiasm. Mr.
Alter is in no way bound by what he says.”

“He acts on it, at any rate. He went to see your mother about it.”

“She wrote that he had called.”

“He has called often,” Margaret said. She smiled as she remembered his
words, spoken after one of those expeditions to the country. “Mrs.
Lynwood is delightful,” he had said. “She understands everything except
her son. She wishes he would settle down to the Navy--a fixed income
and an open-air life. She smiles at his poetry, and says, ‘Yes, I dare
say it is good, Wing, and I’m glad he does it so well; but there’s no
money in it. And we are dreadfully poor, you know.’”

Margaret told John nothing of this. If Mrs. Lynwood did not see fit to
mention to her son that she had known Wingfield Alter long enough and
intimately enough to call him “Wing,” she had probably good reasons for
concealing the fact.

“I must think over all this,” John said. “I want to tell Hartington
about it. Hartington is the Sub.”

“The Sub?” she said in surprise. “Does the Sub listen kindly to poetry?”

“Yes, thank Heaven. You must meet him soon.... And I’ll try to write
to-night, Margaret.”

“No; don’t _try_.”

“But I want to write now. I am so suddenly happy. I have been longing
and longing to see you. And when you come you bring this wonderful
news.”

Near at hand the gulls were crying, and sampan men crooning to
themselves as they rocked their bodies over their stern oars.

“Come and tell me about England,” he said; “the Thames, the bridges,
the lights, the trains; and pictures and music, and books and plays,
and carpets and rugs; and little narrow country lanes, and hills, and
being free, and----”

“But I can’t tell you everything at once!”

“Oh, splendid!” he exclaimed. “I guessed you would say that. I have
guessed it every night for weeks and weeks. ‘But I can’t tell you
everything at once!’ Now it’s coming true. You see,” he explained, “I
have been looking forward to this.”

A tremor of joy passed through her because she had made him happy. She
began to talk eagerly, so that, for a time at least, he might forget
the ship, and might not remember, what she understood now, that “for
weeks and weeks” there had been nothing but this meeting to which he
might look forward.

From the bridge of the _Pathshire_ Nick Ordith was surveying the shore
through a telescope.

“Dull spot, Yeoman,” he said.

The Yeoman of Signals rubbed his hands. “Precious cold in the winter,
sir.”


IV

John returned to the ship in a spirit of exultation, intoxicated, not
so much by the heady wine of praise as by the discovery that he was not
altogether alone in his difficult world. Margaret cared what became of
him; apparently Mr. Alter also cared. But it was Margaret’s interest
and her personality that filled his thoughts to the exclusion of the
colder critic. He sought out Hartington, and laid the matter before
him, reading aloud Mr. Alter’s letter, and repeating the passages in it
which seemed to him unusually important.

  “DEAR LYNWOOD,

  “_I am sending this letter by Margaret lest it follow you from sea to
  sea. If she does not meet you at once, she can at least discover your
  whereabouts.

  “I have shown your work to several friends--all creative artists,
  not critics only. Their opinions support my own. Probably in your
  present situation you have no one to whom you can go for counsel,
  so I have taken upon myself the duties of adviser. You must read. I
  don’t care about the quantity, but your reading must be regular and
  sound. The modern men are excellent when you have found your own
  feet, but before you are twenty you are prone to imitation of their
  extremes--probably the worst of them. So go back to men whom you will
  not be tempted to imitate. Read the_ Actes and Monuments, _Swift,
  Addison, Walton, Goldsmith. Burton’s_ Anatomy of Melancholy _has been
  an inexhaustible quarry for later essayists. If you must have the
  living, try Mrs. Meynell for her prose. Go to De Quincey for speed
  and amazement, Poe for short stories, Fielding for action--Fielding,
  in fact, for most things. In poetry, take Shakespeare--enough,
  believe me, for your present needs._

  “_As for a method of writing--whatever I tell you, a thousand others
  will tell you I am wrong. Fast or slow? Rough-hewn or polished? That
  you must find out for yourself. I believe_ le mot juste _is well
  worth long seeking in chilly, critical moments. But if you feel
  excited about what you are writing it’s best to use a slack rein.
  Never be afraid of the whip--it’s very good to write a ‘portion’
  every day, if you have the courage to destroy it when necessary in
  the evening. The wastepaper-basket is a good, silent friend whom it
  is folly to despise.

  “Write to me whenever you care to, and send me the little that the
  wastepaper-basket does not swallow up. I have been seeing much of
  your mother lately, talking of old times and of you._

  “_Yours_,

  “WINGFIELD ALTER.

  “_P.S.--If you can find a place to do it in, read your work aloud
  to yourself--especially verse. I should have told you to read the
  Bible and Thomas Hardy and Murray’s translations of the Greek.
  Robert Bridges will teach you much of metre. Try Clutton Brock for
  scholarly prose. Margaret is taking out a supply of my books for
  you. Talk to her when you can, but don’t believe all she tells you
  about literature--and don’t accept what I tell you as anything but a
  foundation upon which to build up your own tastes. I think you might
  read Conrad, too, if you will promise to stop when Marlow begins to
  dominate you completely.--W.A._”

Hartington who thought that by this time he had a fairly accurate
understanding of the working of John’s mind, was at first astonished by
the extraordinary elation of which this letter was the only apparent
cause. It was natural that John should be pleased by the approval
and interest of a man of Alter’s standing, but his changed mood, the
laughter, the quickened speech, the heightened colour, called for an
explanation more personal. John spoke of Margaret as “Fane-Herbert’s
sister” when he spoke of her at all.

“So Alter advises you to talk to Miss Fane-Herbert when you can?”
Hartington said. “What’s the exact meaning of that?”

“She knows a good deal of books,” said John easily.

“But he doesn’t suggest that you should be tutored by her?”

“Oh, no.”

“Then it’s her talk that’s to do you good?”

“Yes.”

“Because it is _her_ talk--not for the sake of her knowledge?”

“I suppose so.”

Hartington smiled. Between them as they sat in the small cabin hung
a large red-paper lantern, lighted by an electric lead. Hartington
touched it with his foot, and set the light and shadows chasing each
other round the Fiesole paintings and Dürer’s _Hare_.

“Do you think I might ask you an extremely rude question?” he said.
“It’s important. I think it’s relevant.”

“I know what you are going to ask,” John answered. “About
Fane-Herbert’s sister? I suppose you think I am a fool to be in love
with her.”

“It makes the whole business more complicated. It means that half the
time when you think you are wanting one thing you are really wanting
another. Now any consideration of the future will be hopelessly
entangled with consideration of her.”

John explained that, in truth, Margaret simplified the issue, because,
as he said, her own ideas were so very like his own. He elaborated this
theory until he could elaborate it no more. Then he stopped suddenly.

“It’s so exciting,” he said, after a pause. “Everything is so exciting.”

The excitement of it took his breath away. He steadied the red lamp,
and watched its light glow through the tips of his fingers. Obviously
he had forgotten that his life did not consist entirely in Margaret
and literature. Of what use was it to remind him now that he was a
midshipman, very young and altogether unknown, who earned one shilling
and ninepence a day? of what use to speak of Ibble’s and Ibble’s
wealth? Hartington decided not to trouble him that night, to leave
unshattered so long as they would endure his vain, happy dreams.

“Do you think,” John said, “that Mr. Alter would put in a word with a
publisher about a novel?”

“Probably. Have you written one? Have you a great work stored away
secretly underneath your private till?”

“No,” said John seriously; “but I could write one. A hundred thousand
words. Suppose I did a thousand a day--or even five hundred--a couple
of quarto pages.... There might be money in that.”

He turned into his hammock that night to lie long awake, dreaming of
title pages, bindings, and press-cuttings, and calculating royalties.
He was generous to himself in the matter of royalties, for so much
money would be needed before--perhaps a play would be better, after
all.... Very carefully, mindful of Hartington’s warning, he excluded
Margaret from his consideration of these practical matters. But when
at last he fell asleep and could no longer deceive himself, he dreamed
of Margaret only. He dreamed that she kissed him, not that he kissed
her; of a hundred tendernesses of word and deed that were outside his
experience. They had a house in Westminster.... She looked down from
behind the grille on to the floor of the House of Commons.


V

Margaret sat very still on the edge of her bed. The last word she had
heard her father speak that evening came back to her like a tawdry tune.

“The most steel-like mind I know.”

That was Mr. Ordith’s. Steel-like: strong, supple, elastic, highly
finished. He had, too, some of the splendour, even the poetry, of
machinery: accurate, clean, with no uncertain edges, without misgiving.
And he had power.

He was a man to whom one might go confidently in any worldly
difficulty. He would know what ought to be done, and would do it at
once. He would see quite clearly one side of every question. In a way,
she supposed, it was a compliment that one who had so wide a field of
choice should have chosen her.

Then she remembered how he had watched her. She saw again, as if they
were watching her now, those large dark eyes, with their lower lids
slightly raised and puckered. It gave one a sense of being a specimen,
of being exposed. She shivered, stood up, walked to the window and
closed it. The night was hot, so she opened the window again.

“Anyhow,” she said, “_he_ doesn’t want help from anyone.” She blew
out the candle and got into bed. There were so many people who wanted
help--John among them; so many, that one might as well give up trying
to help them. With Ordith it would be an easy passage in a comfortable
ship that he would steer.

The bedclothes were tucked into place with a little jerk. She pushed
back a wisp of hair from her face as if she were angry with it. Then
she shut her eyes--tight. No need to think. No need to worry yet. Sleep.

But she opened her eyes again, and stared at the little white mountain
of her pillow.




CHAPTER XIV

WASTE AND WONDER


There is something in physical drill before breakfast that dissolves
the fabric of dreams. This John had discovered long ago, turning out
of a hammock in whose warm comfort all things had been possible, and
becoming, in the twinkling of an eye, a bare-footed, sleepy midshipman,
in dirty flannels; and this he realized afresh on that June morning
when his meeting Margaret, his letter from Mr. Alter, and his lamp-lit
talk with Hartington had become affairs of yesterday. He went into the
Gunroom, drank cocoa, smoked as much of a cigarette as time allowed
him, and went with the others on to the Upper Deck. Here all was
hosepipes and holystone--gritty to the foot. Ordith, in new sea-boots,
was walking up and down the quarter-deck sniffing the morning air. When
the midshipmen began their drill, he watched them for a moment, and
then turned away.

“Stoop-fallin’--place!” commanded the Instructor. “Feet placin’
forwards and backwards. One--two! One--two! One--two!” The midshipmen,
on all fours, moved their legs in and out lazily, reflecting that
their anatomy was remarkably unlike that of a frog. In any case--and
this, perhaps, was one of the more subtle reasons which inspired the
authorities to order physical drill--it was impossible while so engaged
to imagine one’s self addressing the House of Commons, or falling in
love, or writing a book, or, indeed, doing anything but sprawl on the
deck to the accompaniment of the Instructor’s unceasing “One--two!
One--two!” At Osborne and Dartmouth, of course, where physical drill
had been properly done, it had not been unattractive; moreover, they
were healthier in those days. But now drink, tobacco, and lack of
exercise had made drill an uncomfortable process. It was useless, too,
for they “sloped” through it, and none cared so long as the young
gentlemen obeyed regulations by being on the quarter-deck in flannels
for a stated number of minutes every morning. The fact that they
“sloped” was the young gentlemen’s fault; but not theirs alone.

None cared. The senior officers had other things to do than dry-nurse
the young gentlemen. If they eluded the regulations concerning wine
bills, whose fault was it? Whose fault if they were so bored and had so
lost interest in themselves that in their spare hours they nipped, and
smoked “chains,” and talked women? At Osborne and Dartmouth they had
been educated. At the age of seventeen and a half they had come to sea,
and their education had ceased. The senior officers had other things
to do than worry about the young gentlemen’s education. From time to
time the Gunnery-Lieutenant would dictate obscure notes about guns
that the midshipmen had never seen; or the Torpedo-Lieutenant would
mumble over again lectures on Balance Chamber Mechanism and War Heads,
of just such a kind as had been given in the training cruiser. There
was no system, no syllabus, no timetable, no programme. Sometimes,
to the active irritation of all concerned, there was a lecture; more
often there was not. There were the yearly sights to be worked out;
but these were accomplished on the communal system, and were usually
worked backwards, for reasons that will be clear to seamen. Life was
a haphazard business, in which the only regular intellectual process
was deterioration. One day John discovered that he had forgotten how
to integrate, and that all his mathematics was slipping from him.
Mechanics, too, was a thing of the past; even the elementary formulæ
were forgotten now. Electricity had gone; German had gone utterly;
French was going; Chemistry was no more than a vague recollection of
apparatus and of the red tie worn by the master who had taught him.

“I’ve forgotten everything we ever learnt at Dartmouth,” he confessed.

“So have we all,” Dyce answered.

Borne in the flagship was one Naval Instructor, who was responsible for
all the midshipmen in the squadron. Perhaps he taught the flagship’s
midshipmen; but his visits to the other ships were so rare that he
was unexpectedly popular. Because it was impossible for him to be in
two places at once, it happened that, when the flagship was in one
port of the Station and the _Pathshire_ in another, the _Pathshire’s_
midshipmen were delightfully free from his ministrations. Outwardly
they rejoiced at this emancipation, complaining only that threepence
a day was deducted from the pay of each one of them in order that, in
accordance with regulation, the Naval Instructor might be fittingly
rewarded for being at Hong-Kong while his paying pupils were at
Nagasaki. This seemed unjust.

“Our pay from a grateful Admiralty is twenty-one pence a day,” Dyce
remarked, “on which, apart from what our people provide, we live like
officers and gentlemen. And out of the twenty-one pence three go every
day to the upkeep of this N.I., who comes near us about one morning in
three months. Now, why the hell should I pay one-seventh of my total
income for an education I never receive?”

“Lord Almighty!” Cunwell exclaimed; “you don’t want the damned N.I., do
you?”

“No. But threepence nearly buys a glass of port.”

“Well, let’s put in a moan,” Fane-Herbert said.

“Moan!” Dyce laughed. “We shan’t get much change.”

However, after further discussion, their complaint seemed so
justifiable that they laid it before the powers. The powers considered
it, and decided that midshipmen in ships other than the flagship should
pay the Naval Instructor only when they were in company with the Flag.
This change was certainly an improvement; but still, when the squadron
was at sea, John paid threepence a day for the education he did not
receive from a man who sailed in a ship one-fifth of a mile away.

The apparent charm of the China Station was that there was nothing to
do; its disadvantage, discovered by experience, was that the whole day
was spent doing nothing. Occasionally there occurred “spasms”--periods
of remarkable gunnery activity, when the midshipmen spent hour after
hour on watch or at their guns, waiting for the watch to end or for the
deliverance of the next meal. One of these “spasms” took place soon
after the _Pathshire’s_ arrival at Wei-hai-wei. The ship cruised all
the week in the neighbourhood of Waterwitch and Four Funnel Bays, and
returned to Wei-hai-wei on Friday nights. But even this activity was
powerless to check the growth of the conviction which was finding a
place in John’s mind that all his preparation at Dartmouth was to be
wasted, and that, so far as the Service was concerned, his intellectual
development had come to an end. And from this conviction proceeded a
feeling that his youth and all the energies of youth were purposeless
and useless. Day after day went by and he was never called upon to use
his brains. There was routine to be followed--so many hours on duty,
so many hours standing about, so many hours of waiting. And in the
intervals there was the Gunroom, where one slept, or threw dice for
sixpences, or listened to lurid tales.

As time went on the aspect of the Gunroom became more strange and
more terrible. Usually John was not aware that anything was wrong.
Life seemed slack and easy, and he did not complain. But there were
moments when he realized suddenly that young men not yet twenty do not
naturally sleep through the daylight hours. Dice for sixpences became
poor sport; poker began; the stakes rose; a card-book was started in
which were recorded debts a midshipman’s income could not discharge.
The defaulters satisfied their creditors by keeping their watches and
running their boats for them.

Conversation became incredibly filthy. Even the elements of wit
disappeared from its indecency. The intelligence of the midshipmen was
applied to the invention of new blasphemies, the foulness of which was
the measure of the audience’s applause. There came moments when even
that Gunroom was stricken to silence; and, for a day or two, certain
expressions had to be paid for by a democratically imposed fine.

“I’m sick of it all,” Hugh said. “There’s no earthly point in it.”

“This isn’t a Mess of women,” Cunwell protested, though that was not
the expression he used.

“I dare say it isn’t. But the fact is that our pretty language wouldn’t
pass muster in a room full of men. We are miles outside any possible
limit.”

Driss opened sleepy eyes. “There’s nothing else to talk about,” he
observed, “so we talk like this. We are all sick of it--the same as
you, Fane-Herbert. But we shan’t stop. We can’t stop. It’s a habit
now.” And he rang the bell for cigarettes.

Hartington was powerless; the causes of change in the Gunroom were such
as his influence could not affect. A hot climate, monotony of labour,
and the absence of any kind of intellectual exercise or stimulus
brought the midshipmen to such a pass that first they described their
own minds as being “like cesspools”--stagnant and foul--and then ceased
to care whether their minds were like cesspools or not. From this it
was a short step to carelessness about those things for which in other
circumstances, they would have been greatly concerned--their hair,
their hands, the linen they wore, and the sheets in their hammocks.
Their health suffered, and they did not care. In body and mind they
became flabby and slack; and still they did not care. Rapidly they were
losing their self-respect.

When they were ashore the deterioration seemed to have gone not so far,
and yet far enough. There were in those parts no women with whom they
could go, but at the Club were armchairs, and a bar where cocktails
had nothing to do with their wine bills. When John went to see the
Fane-Herberts the change in him was remarkable. He would wash, shave,
and dress himself more carefully. For a couple of hours, perhaps, his
speech would be clean. But consciousness of the ship’s life never left
him, and he felt in Margaret’s presence always at a disadvantage, as if
he had entered a drawing-room in dirty boots. Self-respect is not to be
laid aside and instantly reassumed, and John was for ever sensible of
a kind of inferiority to which he could not believe others were blind.
As a result he became abnormally sensitive, interpreting a momentary
silence as purposeful neglect of himself, and imagining deliberate
coldness whenever Margaret was less responsive than he desired.

When Ordith, too, was there, John found it impossible to meet him on
even ground. Ordith was a Wardroom officer, and aware of the conditions
of life in the _Pathshire’s_ Gunroom. No doubt he looked upon the
midshipmen with contempt, and smiled to think that one of them presumed
to be his rival. Little by little John fell into the background.
Margaret, wondering at his lack of enterprise, and not understanding
its true cause, was led to imagine that he had ceased to care. His
conversation with her became colourless, his manner nervous and
embarrassed. As the weeks passed they fell further and further apart.

To this estrangement between himself and Margaret John ascribed a
false cause. He regarded it as a consequence of his own insignificant
position as a midshipman without money. He was not cynical and foolish
enough to imagine that Margaret deliberately excluded him from her
consideration because he was poor. Rather, it seemed, the practical
hopelessness of any love for him prevented its growth as naturally
as darkness stifles a flower. How should she learn to love him when
every circumstance of her own life and of his association with her was
evidence that such love must be vain? The sight of Mr. Fane-Herbert was
enough to shatter any dreams. Never was a man a more loyal citizen of
the “world as it is.” To look at his gold watch-chain was to remember
your poverty; to hear him speak of success, of the men who “got there,”
of the “youths who were likely to do something in the world,” was to
become vividly aware that you had neither succeeded, nor got there,
nor were likely to do anything in the world. When Mr. Fane-Herbert’s
business gave him a short respite, which he spent at Wei-hai-wei,
Margaret seemed more than ever unapproachable and Ordith’s position
more than ever assured.

Confronted for the first time by the problem of a woman’s mind, and
having no woman to whom he could go for counsel, John was guilty of an
error in judgment almost as often as he and Margaret met. To him, in
his present mood, every sign seemed a sign of ill-omen. If she went out
of the room when he was there he thought she wished to avoid him. If
she was not at home when he called he imagined that she had foreseen
his coming. To his ears she seemed never to speak of Ordith save with
approval.

In the meantime, Ordith made regular, methodical, and carefully
recorded progress. Margaret could not understand John. At a time
when she had been most eager to help him he had become suddenly
uncommunicative, and lately, without any kind of explanation, he had
ceased to come to the house more often than mere politeness demanded.
Her father regarded him “as one of those snotties,” no more and no
less. And Ordith never missed an opportunity.

He would come continually to the house. He would talk to Margaret
throughout the long summer afternoons, talk about himself, his future,
his ambitions--just such talk as, modestly spoken, flatters any woman
into interest. He would ask her advice, making her feel that her
decision was indeed of importance to him. He had an air of letting her
share his secrets, and a power, that amounted almost to genius, of
making his secrets not only important but amusing.

At the dance which the Admiral gave in his flagship he took entire
charge of her. She could not help noticing that in the flagship the
personality of Ordith had made itself felt. And he was in excellent
form that night, laughing, dancing with extraordinary swing and rhythm,
awakening in her an excitement that brightened her eyes and brought a
hot flush to her cheeks. Through many of the long hours in which she
danced John was in charge of the _Pathshire’s_ picket-boat, lying
alongside the flagship, waiting until, the guests being ready to leave,
the boats should be called to the gangway. He had undertaken this duty,
which was not properly his own, in order that he might avoid a direct
decision as to whether he should attend the dance or deliberately
absent himself from it. He had lacked courage either to compete with
Ordith, or, without some excuse of “duty,” to leave the field clear for
him.

“Not going to the dance?” Hartington had said.

“No.”

“Why on earth not? You are a dancing man, aren’t you?”

“I am running the picket-boat,” John had answered.

But Hartington had seen deeper than this poor excuse.

“Couldn’t you have got someone to run it for you--if you want to go to
the dance?”

“I am taking it for someone else.”

“Oh! Not your own job?”

“No.”

“You are an uncourageous fellow.”

For a moment John had remained silent. Then he had burst out: “Oh, it’s
no good. You don’t know Ordith. You don’t know old Fane-Herbert. The
odds are too big.”

Hartington had shrugged his shoulders.

“That’s for you to decide.”

So John waited in the darkness at the flagship’s side. Above him the
quarter-deck was gay with red and white bunting, and brilliant with
electric lights. John wondered if coachmen and chauffeurs felt as
he did. The colour and music were close to him, but he had no part
in them. He saw shadows move to and fro on the decorative flags,
and wondered if that shadow were Margaret’s, and what she was saying
and doing at that instant. Certainly, he reflected, he could not
be entering into her thoughts; and yet it seemed strange, almost
incredible, that she, of whom he thought so insistently, should occupy
her mind with other things--an experiment in a new dance-step, perhaps,
or the effect of her dress, or the excellence of supper. This thought,
as it were an arm that thrust him back into the darkness from which
he desired to issue, quickened his sense of remoteness. He saw all
his hopes and desires objectively, as if he looked down from a barred
window on to a world he could not enter. There, on the quarter-deck,
within a few yards of him, was Margaret; he could not attain to her,
he could not make her hear; she was dancing and laughing, eating and
drinking, unconscious of his proximity, forgetful of his existence.

He did not see her until the dance ended with an abruptness peculiar
to entertainments on board His Majesty’s ships. At once the sea,
which through the hours had lapped quietly against the steel plates,
was thrashed to foam by the propellers of the waiting steamboats. It
happened, as John had scarcely doubted it would happen, that Margaret
and her mother went ashore in the _Pathshire’s_ picket-boat. John, who
stood where the light fell on him, watched Ordith escort them down
the gangway. He saw that Margaret’s eyes were tired, as if she had
undergone some strain, but this appearance he attributed to physical
weariness. She said nothing to Ordith but a short “Good-night” scarcely
audible. Then, as she stepped on to the deck of John’s boat, she
looked directly at him where he stood beside the engine-room casing.
She looked at and beyond him as if he were not there, and disappeared
into the cabin.

He drove the boat angrily, using too much helm, and brought up by the
landing-stage, not by slowing and then stopping his engines, but by a
sudden stoppage and immediate reversal at full speed. All went well, as
if the Devil were directing his judgment. The stem swung inaccurately,
the engines stopped, and the boat came to rest with the foam boiling
around her. The passengers clambered out with the extraordinary nervous
clumsiness of landfolk in boats.

For a moment John was tempted to draw attention to himself by saying
good-night to Mrs. Fane-Herbert and Margaret. Then he changed his
mind, and kept his place by the wheel, where the brass funnel hid him.
Margaret had seen him alongside the flagship. She must have recognized
him, and she had given no sign of recognition. He would not press the
matter further.

He had other boat-trips that night, but he remembered nothing of them
afterwards except a vague irritation because he could not shout at
the shrill, silly women in his cabin to keep silence in the boat.
When he returned finally to the _Pathshire_ he was conscious of that
odd despair and misery that sometimes attacked him with irresistible
force if he awoke in his hammock in the dark of the early morning. He
seemed to have no reserve of will with which to combat it. The Gunroom
was closed, and he went into the Smoking Casemate, where he sat down
on an upright wooden chair. The room was dirty with the litter of
the day. Cards and newspapers lay on the deck and on the chairs.
Cigarette-ends exuded their juice among the dregs at the bottom of
wine-glasses. From the half-deck, where the midshipmen’s hammocks were
slung, came the sound of regular breathing, and once the cry--almost
the cry of a child, John fancied--of one who dreamed unhappily. He sat
staring at the six-inch gun that gleamed beneath the yellow beam of an
imperfect police-light. What, in God’s name, was this leading to? From
the cruelty and degradation of the _King Arthur_ he seemed now to be
degraded through his own fault. No need to sink into slackness of mind
and body; no need to drink rot-gut liqueurs in the forenoon; no need to
gamble for stakes he could not afford, or to let his thought and speech
be filled with beastliness. His own fault, he supposed; his own fault,
he tried to confess in his eagerness to avoid the finding of excuses
for himself. And yet--he glanced through the half-curtained door beyond
which the others were sleeping--were not they similarly affected? In
other ships were the same Gunroom conditions. There must be a reason
for it, outside and beyond them all; a force greater than their wills,
bearing them down, stifling and slowly destroying the instincts for
cleanness and energy which had once been lively within them.

And suddenly John perceived that his stream of life had become stagnant
and foul because it was dammed, having no outlet in hope. His care
for Margaret, his desire for poetry, his longing for progressive
intellectual work which had been allowed to develop at the training
colleges, were checked now. In his present life, and, so far as he
could see, in the future life the Service promised him, there could
be no spiritual or intellectual expansion. Day after day routine would
repeat itself. The end towards which all effort was directed was war.
War--and what then?

He could not face the questions that were crying unanswered through the
passages of his mind. He began to reckon his gains and losses at cards,
and frowned because the card-book, into which he would have liked to
look, was inaccessible within the locked Gunroom. And presently he
began to ask himself what offence of his had caused Margaret wilfully
to disregard him that night.

Perhaps for ten minutes, perhaps for an hour or more, he had sat thus,
thinking with desperate rapidity, when he looked up to find Hugh,
bare-footed, and clothed in torn pyjamas, standing at the Casemate door.

“I saw you from my hammock,” Hugh said. “You look pretty miserable,
sitting there.”

“I’ve been running the picket-boat,” John answered, as if this were
sufficient explanation. “You were at the dance, weren’t you?”

“Yes. I had to go because my people were going. A flagship dance is no
place for a snotty--too much gold lace and aiglettes.”

“I took your people ashore.”

“I know. I saw them go down into the _Pathshire’s_ boat.”

“Did you notice anything?”

“Notice anything?”

“About Margaret?”

“No. What of her?”

“Merely that she looked straight at me, saw me, and wouldn’t recognize
me.” John laughed shortly. “I wonder what crime I’ve committed.”

“I think she was excited to-night. Sometimes when I spoke to her she
answered me in that vague way of hers, as if her thoughts were far
away. Do you remember how strange she was that Sunday after our dance
in town? It was the same thing to-night.”

“Ordith?”

“Perhaps. She danced with him. I remember, as they passed me, I heard
her laugh--higher pitched than usual.” And Hugh added, with a touch of
embarrassment: “Almost as if she was afraid.”

John paused to consider. He saw her in Ordith’s arms, moving to the
music, her head thrown back a little, laughing. Then, with directness
that surprised himself, he asked suddenly the question he had long
desired and never dared to ask:

“Hugh, do you think she is in love with Ordith?”

“He is with her.”

“I know. That wasn’t my question, though. You know why I ask it.”

“She has never said a word to me about it.”

“She’s not likely to.... But what is your opinion, based on what you’ve
seen and heard?”

“My dear old fellow, how should I know? It does no good to make
yourself wretched.”

“But you think there’s cause?”

“Well, there’s a kind of glamour about Ordith, you know. And Margaret
is very young as yet. I don’t suppose her mind is made up in any way.”

John rose and shivered. “We had better turn in,” he said. “The
half-deck sentry thinks we are mad. I saw him look round the edge of
the curtain just now.”




CHAPTER XV

TRAFALGAR AND THE RED LAMP


Though assuredly not with fear, nor with any sense of impending
dissolution, the officers and men of the _Pathshire_--and, perhaps, of
the whole Navy--regarded war with Germany, in more than one respect,
as they regarded death, and assumed that the same certitude existed in
their shipmates’ minds; so that the end of peace was no more questioned
than the end of life, but only the manner of that end and the hour
of its coming. Moreover, as from men’s ordinary speech speculation
concerning the after-life is excluded, so these seamen did not speak,
and seldom thought, of the time that would come when the war was over.
The tale that German officers toasted “The Day” produced in the British
Navy sentiments altogether different from those with which it inspired
British civilians. In Service messes they smiled the national smile
at this effusiveness of foreigners, just as they would have smiled
at the gesticulations of Frenchmen or the exceeding politeness of
Japanese. To them it seemed pompous and laughable to drink solemnly to
War; they would as soon have been ceremonious concerning a Gunlayers’
Test. But this German proceeding aroused in them neither fear nor the
resentment that springs from fear. They regarded the Germans who were
said to drink this toast, not as wicked men rejoicing in the prospect
of wickedness, but as professional men who overstepped somewhat the
boundaries of “good form” in their too dramatic attitude towards their
profession.

So long as they remained in or near their ships--that is, within the
atmosphere of which Mr. Alter had spoken, and beyond the influence of
their civilian friends--naval officers saw the coming war with such
concentration on its professional aspect that observant visitors were
amazed and sometimes shocked. War would come; Germany would be the
enemy and the aggressor; but the certainty of this aggression seemed no
better reason for bitterness than a chess opponent’s initial move of
his King’s Pawn. It was attractive to wonder whether the King’s Pawn
would be moved or whether some other opening would be selected. It
was delightful to suggest the defence that Jellicoe and Prince Louis
would adopt. But, just as chess players are careful for the game’s
intricacies and not for stakes, so naval officers thought of the war
in terms of manœuvred battle squadrons and destroyer flotillas
rather than of the destinies of nations. And they assumed that German
officers, being likewise professional men, were no more interested than
they were in those aspects of war that were not strictly professional.
They imputed to the Ober-Leutnant as he stood, wine-glass in hand, no
motive more sinister than a desire to prove professional superiority;
and, being themselves convinced that they could outmanœuvre and
out-gun him, they were unperturbed that he should drink to his
sentimental heart’s content.

On the China Station the naval officer’s concern with war was, perhaps,
more exclusively technical than elsewhere. In home waters the Germans
were as unfamiliar as bogey-men, and the English newspapers were near
at hand. A speech or leading article was potent to awake, even in the
naval mind, some of those vague misgivings concerning Wilhelmshaven
upon which vulgar opinion on foreign affairs was at that time based.
But the newspapers that reached China were stale and little read;
and--most powerful antidote for political animosity--the German Fleet
was a familiar sight, and its officers were frequent guests.

The field of thought concerning war was thus circumscribed. When
the time came, the China Squadron would fight its own independent
battle in its own waters. The chess-board was set. The opposing force
was known and visible. Many a time in Wardroom and Gunroom were the
_Scharnhorst_, _Gneisenau_, _Leipzig_, and _Nürnberg_ compared,
knot for knot, gun for gun, armour for armour, torpedo-tube for
torpedo-tube, with the _Pathshire_ and her comrade ships. No doubt the
Germans made similar calculations; no doubt they, too, cast their eyes
sometimes towards Japan. But, in a subtle manner, the very closeness
of the association of those who were ultimately to be enemies robbed
that association of bitterness. The Germans were excellent seamen, and
pleasant companions at dinner. They danced well, drank well, laughed
well, and could sing a good song. When Fate ended both dance and song
the ensuing duel would be a gentlemanly trial of skill, intensely
interesting, a settling of knotty arguments, a test, for instance,
of what the Engineer-Commander could do with his main engines. The
gun-fire silent at last, the survivors would be picked up and given
whisky, or, if the weather was cold, sloe gin. The battle, important
to civilians for its effects upon trade-routes, Eastern prestige, and
a vast complexity of political issues, would be to those who took part
in it a thrilling conclusion to a technical work which for many weary
years had been hard reading.

It would be a conclusion, an end of a book to which no sequel had been
planned. After it, as after death, would be but that blank fly-leaf
whose whiteness is more emphatic than the written word FINIS. A man
whose whole life has been devoted to one object scarce dares to look
beyond its attainment. The business man speaks uneasily of the years
that are to follow his retirement; the historian wonders how he will
occupy his time when his great work has gone to press; the mother turns
from contemplation of the hour in which her child, made man by her pain
and endeavour, goes from her into the world. And the naval officer
looked infrequently and with reluctance beyond the crowning of his work.

But there were moments when it was difficult so conveniently to
restrict the vision of the future. Rumours of war were continual
reminders of war’s imminence, and, therefore, pointers towards the
years of undefined purpose that would succeed it. As each rumour was
proved false, it was impossible, in the days of reaction, to avoid some
speculation as to the results which would have ensued had the rumour
been well-founded; just as it is impossible for a man who has survived
an attack of that disease by which he knows his end must come not to
look a little wistfully beyond the gates of death. And soon after that
night on which John had, for other reasons, asked himself to what end
his present life was directed, there came whisperings of war to make
the question more insistent. Once again the rumour was seen to lack
foundation; a leaf in the great technical volume was turned excitedly;
but not yet had that page been reached upon which was written CHAPTER
THE LAST. But John knew, as did they all, that they were near the end
now--very near the end.

“I hope it comes,” he said to Hartington, “before we leave China. Out
here it will be on a smaller scale. We shall be able to see the whole
battle at once, and it will be _our_ battle. It will be simpler, more
clearly cut than that vast affair in the North Sea.”

“Do you look forward to war?”

“What else is there to which we can look forward? It’s our training.
It’s what we are here for.”

“It means untold suffering--mourning, poverty, bitterness for years to
come.”

“That may be,” said John, “but it’s our job.”

“You are a queer fellow--an idealist one moment and a shouting
militarist the next.”

“No, I’m not a militarist, though I do say I want war. I shouldn’t want
war if there was anything else on God’s earth that I could want with
a reasonable hope of obtaining it. I should take no pleasure in war
itself apart from the momentary excitement of the thing; and certainly
I’m not dreaming of political gains through war, which is the part of
the genuine militarist. I want it just as one wants a thunderstorm to
break quickly that one knows must break some time. I’m sick of the
tension, of wasting precious years in preparing and waiting. If the
end of all our work is to be ‘mourning, poverty, and bitterness for
years to come,’ if that’s what we are living for, I want an end of it.
I don’t know what is beyond. I don’t care. But, at any rate, it will
be a clean sheet--a clean sheet to spoil may be, but a chance to make
a fresh start.”

“A chance for you to make a fresh start?”

“I mean--I mean the world in general.”

“But you?”

“Oh, I’m a naval officer for good and all. It’s different for me.”

“Our trade’s going to be an odd one after the war. It may become more
or less superfluous. There may be a great pensioning-off.”

“I’ve thought about that--‘after the war.’ But I dare say there’ll be
work for us to do.”

“Yes,” said Hartington, “but work with what object? Think of it: the
work we do from day to day gives precious little satisfaction in
itself. I suppose everyone--no matter in what line of business--has
one supreme ambition that overshadows all other ambitions. But in most
lives, while a man waits for his Great Attainment he is kept going by
smaller successes, intermediate achievements that have at least some
of the qualities of permanence. The statesman waiting to pass his
Great Reform passes smaller measures that are _something_--something
that stands. Or the novelist writing his intermediate novels, or the
architect designing the houses that are to precede his Great Design, or
the shopkeeper, even, opening a new branch here and a new branch there,
stepping-stones to the Great Store of his dream, but each a substantial
achievement in itself; all these people know that, even if the Great
Dream comes to naught, they have constructed something more durable
than themselves. But the naval officer accomplishes nothing by the way.
I suppose Guns is glad if a battle practice goes well, but it all ends
in a round of drinks; no one is the happier for it. No one is a whit
the happier for anything we do.”

“The practical economists would tell you that we are indirectly
constructive because we protect commerce,” John said.

“The boy who frightens birds with his clacker is constructive in
that sense. So is the hangman with his rope. No, that’s too shallow
a foundation on which to build comfort. All our eggs are in one
basket. War is everything to us. And when the war is over and we can
say there will not be another war for fifty years, perhaps a hundred
years--certainly not in our time, what then? How are we going to live
through routine? What heart shall we put into preparation for a remote
possibility?”

“And we shall still be young men.”

“We shall have all our lives before us.”

John rested his head on his hand as if he were tired. “And even now,”
he said, “when at least this wonderful achievement of ours is in the
future and not in the past, it seems a poor thing to me. I may be
a Sub when it comes, or I may be a Lieutenant--anyhow, a cog in the
machine.”

“The Lord knows when it’s coming. We may be Admirals by then.”

John thought. He was perceiving a revealing truth. “I don’t want to be
an Admiral,” he said.

“But that, in a naval officer, is heresy and disaster,” Hartington
answered, with a hidden smile. “You ought to want to be an Admiral. At
the age of twelve you promised, as it were, to love, honour, and obey.”

“I did want to be an Admiral--then.”

“But you must want it now. You must make yourself want it.”

“Because there’s nothing else to want?”

“Just that.” Hartington was determined that, for his own sake, John
must be made to see his position with perfect clearness. “But in time
of war,” he went on, “an Admiral’s position is different from his
position now.”

“The chances are heavily against his having a command.”

“Oh, for that matter, the chances are heavily against success in
anything. To reckon on that basis is hopeless. It’s no good to count
on failure.... Imagine you have absolute success, and reckon backwards
from that, if you like. Imagine that there is war. You are the Admiral
commanding the Home Fleet. You have--you have the destinies of the
world in your hands: it would be little less than that. Doesn’t there
seem something fine----”

“Assuming, for the sake of comparison, an equivalent success elsewhere,
I’d rather shape destiny with other tools.”

“As Prime Minister?”

John smiled for a moment. Then he said seriously: “Or write a great
book. Or--oh, there are dozens of better implements.”

“But suppose--and this is the ultimate test--suppose you won a
Trafalgar?”

John looked up quickly, realizing whither he had been led. Their eyes
met. “I don’t think Trafalgar would make me happy,” he said.

He picked up the red lamp that was swinging within a few inches of the
cabin floor and placed it on his knees. Hartington settled himself
deeply in his great wicker chair.

“If that’s so,” he said, “you ought not to be in the Service. You ought
to get out of it, and try to write that great book.”

John put the lantern from him hurriedly and rose. “Do you think I don’t
know that?” he demanded, with a tremor in his voice.

“You didn’t know it sixty seconds ago.”

“I did. Good-night.”

“Good-night.”

John paused with one foot outside the cabin door.

“Do you want to be an Admiral yourself?” he challenged.

“That question does not arise,” Hartington answered.

Because he could not trust himself to speak again John went out, his
eyes aching as before a storm of tears.




CHAPTER XVI

THE ENGINES


I

About the middle of July the squadron left Wei-hai-wei to visit
Chemulpo and Seoul. John was now attached to the Engine-room staff.
He kept no more watches on the Upper Deck, attended no lectures, and
ran no boats. His connection with the executive branch was limited
to the writing up of his log-book, the taking and working out of
sights, and to certain gunnery duties of which more shall be said.
The executive officers, who objected strongly to the system under
which midshipmen were withdrawn periodically from the Upper Deck, and
by which they were thus deprived of a full complement of messengers,
boat-runners, cocoa-makers, and general assistants, had contrived on
this occasion that no more than two, John and Driss, should go below.
This arrangement, which John had at first welcomed, was soon found to
be less advantageous than he had supposed.

The control of engineering midshipmen had passed into the hands of
Aggett. He disliked all midshipmen trained under the New Scheme with
the instinctive dislike of a small-minded man for those who, in
their education and upbringing, have been more fortunate than he. He
objected to these “young gentlemen”--the phrase sounded unusually
venomous and scornful as he pronounced it--he objected to their very
presence in his Engine-room. They were intruders. At heart they were
executive officers. Their interest--if, indeed, this Lynwood had
interest in anything but his stuffy books--was in Gunnery, Torpedo,
and Seamanship. It was more than likely that, in their own Mess,
they referred to engineers as “greasers.” Damned insolence! he
thought. Damned insolence! He’d teach them.... To them, of course,
the Engine-room was attractive only as a shelter from the fury of the
Commander, a place in which they might smoke on duty. Aggett was under
no delusion on that point. They thought they could loaf while they were
engineers, and get ashore more often in harbour because they would have
no boats to run. Not one in twenty of the New Scheme midshipmen was
keen on engineering. They looked down upon it, they dared to turn up
their noses at _his_ profession. Aggett had an uncomfortable feeling
that they despised him--that they gave him salutes which were somehow
less respectful than those they accorded to officers of his rank on the
Upper Deck.

Moreover, Hartington pampered the little pigs. Midshipmen ought to be
flogged; flogging, sound and frequent, was the only way to break them.
This, in Aggett, was not mere brutality but an article of faith. He saw
in the _Pathshire’s_ midshipmen, several of whom seemed likely in any
case to be strangely hindered by temperament from conforming easily
to his ideal, young men handicapped by faulty training. He did not
believe that a sound officer could be produced unless in his days of
apprenticeship he was broken in.

He remembered how he had asked Hartington, early in the commission,
for an introduction to Little Benjamin, this being the name given
to the stick kept by most Subs for the flogging of midshipmen.
Little Benjamin, our Ruler, it was customarily called by midshipmen
themselves, or, with familiar affection, Benjy. Within Aggett’s
experience Subs had been proud of this implement. They chose it with
care, fed it with oil, put whipping on its end to prevent it from
splitting, and exhibited to all comers its balance, flexibility, and
other attributes. Aggett had seen a tea-party of lady visitors excited
to gurgling laughter by one Sub’s scientific application of Benjy
to a dusty armchair, and by the historical anecdotes with which he
had coloured his performance. One lady had collaborated by providing
with her own shrill voice the cries of the imaginary victim. And the
other ladies, somewhat shocked perhaps by this uproariousness, had
smiled, nevertheless, behind the teacups above the handles of which
they crooked such genteel white fingers. It had amused them to think
that the young men, ranging in age from eighteen to twenty, who came
into the Gunroom now and then and went out quickly that they might not
interrupt the Sub’s party, were treated as the dusty armchair was being
treated then. They had seemed to think it right, Aggett reflected, and
they were thoroughly respectable women.

Aggett had asked to see Hartington’s Benjy, intending only to
offer advice as to its treatment and care. Besides, as a point of
politeness, one asked to see a Sub’s Benjy just as one asked to see a
woman’s last-born babe. And Hartington had said curtly: “I haven’t got
one.”

“Then what do you beat the young gents with?”

“I don’t beat them.”

“Never?”

“Never yet.”

“Why not?”

Hartington had wanted to say, “Because it makes me feel sick,” but,
realizing in time how odd Aggett could make such an answer seem in the
Wardroom, he substituted, “Because I have seen no need for it.”

“Easy enough to _find_ a need, ain’t it?”

“Perhaps.”

“Well, why don’t you? It does ’em good. You’re not doin’ your duty by
them.”

“Thanks.”

“But,” Aggett had persisted, unable to restrain the curiosity which the
discovery of so eccentric a Sub had aroused in him, “but suppose the
officer of the watch or the Commander sends a snotty down to you to
have a dozen--what then?”

“It hasn’t happened yet.”

“But it licks ’em into shape,” Aggett had suggested good-humouredly,
believing what he said. “Spare the rod and spoil the child, you know.”

“I disagree absolutely.... Besides, they are not children. They are out
in the world. My help is scarcely needed in the hurting of them.”

Once again, in a scene that has already been recorded, Aggett had
returned to the attack, frankly amazed that any attack should be
needed. Couldn’t this fellow Hartington see for himself that what
midshipmen needed was firm treatment? It seemed so obvious....
And now the engineering midshipmen had been placed under Aggett’s
control. Lynwood, Hartington’s friend, and Driss--that chin-tilting
Irishman--were his to train. He’d train ’em! He’d show ’em! And if they
weren’t more tractable when he’d done with ’em, well----

So John and Driss were ordered, while at sea, “to keep watch and watch,
the Afternoon kept”--that is, they were to be on duty in alternate
watches day and night, with this relief, that in the afternoon, from
noon to 4 p.m., neither went below. In these circumstances, to suit
their own convenience, and to vary the rotation of labour, they
regarded the two Dog Watches as a single watch of four hours. By
Service custom they were excused early morning physical drill, one
being on watch at the time and the other not having come off watch
until 4 a.m.

They made out a table of their watches for forty-eight hours thus
obtaining a graphic representation of a routine which, while they were
at sea, repeated itself every two days.

  _Date_
  14th   Forenoon Watch       8 a.m. to Noon          Lynwood.
         Afternoon Watch      Noon to 4 p.m.          No Midshipman.
         Dog Watches          4 p.m. to 8 p.m.        Driss.
         First Watch          8 p.m. to Midnight      Lynwood.
  15th   Middle Watch         Midnight to 4 a.m.      Driss.
         Morning Watch        4 a.m. to 8 a.m.        Lynwood.
         Forenoon Watch       8 a.m. to Noon          Driss.
         Afternoon Watch      Noon to 4 p.m.          No Midshipman.
         Dog Watches          4 p.m. to 8 p.m.        Lynwood.
         First Watch          8 p.m. to Midnight      Driss.
  16th   Middle Watch         Midnight to 4 a.m.      Lynwood.
         Morning Watch        4 a.m. to 8 a.m         Driss.

“Keeping the First _and_ Morning,” said Driss, “will be hell.”

“After all,” John said, to encourage himself, “it means only twenty
hours on duty in forty-eight. Average of ten in twenty-four. Not so
bad.”

Driss smiled. “Now let’s make a summary. First, how many hours are
we going to get in our hammocks? Don’t forget that one has to have a
bath to get the filth off after every watch. Follow through your case
on the timetable from 8 a.m. on the 14th. After your first watch you
come off at midnight, turn in at twelve-thirty, and sleep till you are
called at ten-to-four--_three hours and twenty minutes_. On the 15th
you finish the Dogs at eight p.m.; dinner at eight-thirty; asleep,
with luck, at ten-thirty; sleep till ten minutes before midnight--_one
hour and twenty minutes_. On the 16th you finish your Middle at four
a.m.; asleep by four-thirty; sleep till hammocks are made up at
seven-fifteen--_two hours and forty-five minutes_.”

They added together the three periods of sleep, and wrote down as a
beginning of their summary:

  _Time in hammock during 48 hours = 7 hrs. 25 mins._

They stared at that.

Then John said, rather hopelessly, “Oh, well, it’s getting on for four
hours’ sleep a day. I believe some K.C.’s, when the House and the
Courts are sitting, do with less than that.”

“But when they are on duty they are not in an engine-room or a
boiler-room--not in that temperature--not standing all the time.”

“No.... I dare say we shall get some sleep in between--in the Smoking
Casemate or on the Gunroom settee. I can sleep through any noise.”

Ten hours of watch-keeping in twenty-four seems not terrible, but two
facts throw light upon its meaning. First: the Service, which does
not pamper, allotted eight hours in twenty-four to stokers--trained
men, inured to the task. Second: “Watch and watch”--twelve hours in
twenty-four--was ordered as a severe punishment to midshipmen on the
Upper Deck in harbour, not in the Engine-room depths at sea.

Moreover, ten hours of watch-keeping did not mean only ten hours of
work. The engineering midshipman not on watch at the time attended
Divisions and Quarters. He took charge of the stokers during Dog Watch
Evolutions. He wrote up his log-book, a slight task; worked sights from
time to time; and each week completed an Engineering sketch.

Aggett was careful that the sketches should not be too easy. He
demanded scale-drawings of machines in pen and ink, coloured, and with
dimensions. Perfect accuracy was essential. It was necessary to know
every detail of construction and working, and to be prepared to support
Aggett’s searching cross-examination. John’s first weekly sketch
occupied thirty-two of his spare hours.

They found, too, that in addition to their engineering duties they
were required to attend the guns. The four midshipmen remaining on
the Upper Deck were not enough, the executive officers declared. So,
whenever “General Quarters” was sounded--and at that time it was
sounded once and sometimes twice a day--John or Driss, whichever
was not in the Engine-room, went to a gun for the long hours of the
gun-practices. Time after time the hours which were theirs for rest or
sketching were occupied in this manner; they standing--and they seemed
now always to be standing--not in the Engine-room but on the sighting
platform.

In the Engine-room from breakfast to lunch; at his gun from lunch to
tea; Quarters and Evolution from four to nearly five; Engineering
sketch from five to seven; dinner from seven to seven forty-five, when
he put on dirty clothes; in the Engine-room from eight to midnight, and
again from four to eight--that was an example of such a day as came to
John three days in six while the ship was at sea. On the alternate days
he was less below and more at his gun. There was little difference in
effect.

The effect was dull, unspeaking misery; eyelids that closed, and,
being forced open, closed again; limbs gnawed by weariness; a weakness
of control that brought hysterical tears and laughter very near. The
mind strayed back to childhood and leapt out in jagged flashes towards
licentiousness. Aggett could do what he liked with them. No insult
could provoke now any desire to protest. They obeyed like whipped curs.
“Yes, sir.... No, sir.... I’m sorry, sir.”

“It’s taming ’em,” said Aggett.

Nervous exhaustion, so potent to produce obsessions, urged John to the
reading of books in snatches and Driss to interminable calculations
of minutes. Driss analyzed his day with pitiless accuracy. He would
confront John with pieces of paper on which he had written in his neat
round-hand the number of minutes he spent in sleep, in watch-keeping,
in standing by his gun, in drawing his sketch, in eating his meals.
And John, seeing from these tables that there was no time for reading,
became, for that reason, the more determined to read. He read at meals
until Hartington, who, when he was present, insisted that the Gunroom
should observe at least some of the conventions, told him to put his
book away.

“It’s the only time I can read,” John exclaimed. “You know it is the
only time I have.”

“I’m sorry,” Hartington answered; “but I’m not responsible for your
routine. I can’t have reading at Mess.”

And John, made unreasonably angry by this excellent rule, read at odd
moments for five or ten minutes at a time, crouching on his sea-chest
when he came off watch at midnight, wasting the precious interval
before he went below again at 4 a.m. He read, too, between breakfast
and Divisions, between tea and Quarters, between Sunday Divisions and
Church. He turned to his book with almost fierce devotion on occasions
when no one else would have thought it worth while to open covers that
would so soon have to be closed again. And he wrote--wild blank verse.
The scansion missed sometimes, but he did not care. He would write no
lyrics now; his indignation would not pause for rhymes. Never had his
mind been so full of themes demanding expression; never had words come
to him like this unsummoned. Tremendous phrases woke him in the night,
so that he lay in his hammock, his head a little raised, listening.
He heard nothing but the engine’s throbbing and the far-away clashing
of the revolution-telegraph. And he would lie down again and hide his
face, wondering how, even for a moment, he had been amazed and excited
by a phrase which, as he considered it, he saw to be without shape or
meaning.

It was not safe, he knew, to take any book he was reading into the
Engine-room. Its cover would betray him to the Warrant Officer who
kept the watch, to the stokers who worked near him, and to Aggett
should he enter suddenly. It was impossible to read on watch.... But
he found that he could write with impunity. He took with him a small,
marble-covered notebook of the pattern customarily used by midshipmen
for rough engineering sketches--diagrams of the lead of pipes, plans of
the boiler-rooms showing the feed system, and the like. To make these
sketches during the idle stretches of a watch was regarded, not as an
offence, but as a sign of laudable enthusiasm. So long as the usual
pattern of notebook was used everyone assumed that only professional
matter was entered in it; and John encouraged this belief when he was
writing by moving his position from time to time, by stooping with an
air of curiosity and interest over auxiliary engines that his eyes
scarcely saw, and by gazing upward occasionally in the direction of the
pipes that he might have been sketching.

Everyone was not deceived. After the performance had been repeated
through many watches a Warrant Officer said suddenly:

“You’ll be gettin’ the hang o’ them pipes before long, Mr. Lynwood?”

“Yes,” said John. “Just a few sketches in case Aggett asks questions.”

“But always the same pipes?”

“Oh no.”

The Warrant Officer seemed to smile. “Makin’ a speciality like o’ the
condenser connections?”

“No. Why?”

“You’ve been payin’ ’em partickler attention these last watches you’ve
had with me.”

John wondered how much was known. He went away to feel the crank-head
bearings, leaning far over the guard-rail, his hand stretched out so
that the warm, revolving brasses swept against his fingers. As his eyes
stared down into the crank-pit, where a dark liquid slushed to and
fro with the rolling of the ship, he wondered how many men, engaged
as he now was, had slipped, lost their hold on the guard-rail, and
fallen below the crank to be mashed instantly to death. Would a man
so falling have time to cry out? The engines would be stopped, not
because the stopping of them was of any use, but because some drastic
unusual action is demanded by the sudden entry of death. There would
be momentary commotion. Stokers would stare, their shiny, sweating
faces lurid beneath the electric light; and, as they recovered from
stupefaction, a wave of pity would pass over them all as they stood
transfixed among the steel. The auxiliary engines would rattle more
loudly in the main engines’ silence. Water would trickle down the
gleaming rods from the piston glands. And presently the engines, with a
little hiss and groan, would start again, and the blood be pumped out
with the bilge.

Overpowered by this dreadful vision, John screwed up his eyes as if to
shut it out. He walked towards the Warrant Officer, intending to ask if
ever in his experience this thing had happened.

“Have you ever----” he began; but the roar of engines drowned his
words, so that the Warrant Officer did not know he had spoken.

“How’s the poitry progressin’, Mr. Lynwood?”

“Poetry?”

“That you writes down here.”

With a queer wrench John established the connection with their previous
conversation, but his mind was now so full of what he had seen in the
crank-pit that he cared not how much had been discovered.

“Yes,” he said simply. “I do write poetry down here. What are you going
to do about it?”

“Do?” The Warrant Officer regarded the defiance in the weary, drawn
face raised to his--a face, he reflected, almost comically like those
of the half-starved urchins in the back streets of Portsmouth who had
looked up at him often enough with just this expression of defiance
that was a thin cloak for a spirit near to breaking. “Do? What d’you
think I’m goin’ to do? Go to Aggett and give him another chance to
have at you?” His voice dropped to as confidential a tone as the noise
allowed. John felt his breath upon his cheek. “I served my time on the
Lower Deck as a youngster, Mr. Lynwood, an’ I knows how it is with
midshipmen. The Lower Deck sees a lot that the Gold Lace don’t care to
see. And it ain’t against midshipmen. Them that suffer ain’t against
them that suffer. And--if I may say so, by the way--don’t you forget
_that_ when you get to the Wardroom. It’s the men who don’t forget that
the hands’ll run for.... And as for our Mr. Aggett,” he went on, “as
good an engineer he is as I’ve ever known--smart as they make ’em--but
not a nice man, not a gentlemanly man, to my way o’ thinkin’. I
wouldn’t deliver a midshipman into ’is ’ands, nor any human bein’--not
a puppy, even. No, Mr. Lynwood, you needn’t have fear o’ me. You write
your poitry and so long as your job’s done an’ you enters up the log at
the end o’ the watch there won’t be no complaints from me. But don’t
let the stokers catch on. An’ don’t you let Mr. Aggett find you at it.”

John gave indistinct thanks.

“Are you feelin’ poorly?” the Warrant Officer asked.

“N--no.”

“Well you looks precious bad, an’ Mr. Driss too. It’s a shame this
watch an’ watch. We in the Warrant Officers’ Mess wouldn’t stand
it--unless the Service had special need. The stokers wouldn’t stand
it; they’d be fallin’ in before the Captain in two ranks. Only the
midshipmen stand it. He wouldn’t try it on with no one else. Last night
we was sayin’ at Mess we wondered the midshipmen didn’t take it before
the Captain.”

“We couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t?” said the Warrant Officer, not realizing that John had meant
“wouldn’t.” “Why there’s not a man or boy in this ship that hasn’t a
legal right to take his complaints to the Captain. Couldn’t? How d’you
mean?”

“It can’t be done in our case.”

“Well, I agree in part; I don’t hold with officers comin’ up with
complaints. It’s bad for discipline.... But there is a limit to what
any man can stand. This very mornin’, when I came down here at 4 a.m.,
I found Mr. Driss goin’ to keep the watch with me. ‘When did you
come off your _last_ watch?’ I asks. ‘I kept the First,’ says he. ‘I
turned in at twenty-five minutes after midnight. I’ve been asleep for
three hours and twenty-five minutes’--all spoken cold and thin, like
someone sleep-walkin’. It ain’t natural, Mr. Lynwood. I don’t like to
see him--or you--white as ghosts, ready to drop, stumblin’ half blind
round an’ round my Engine-room. It makes me feel a brute for keepin’
you here. But if I sent you up, the first thing Aggett would say, if he
came down, would be, ‘Where’s the midshipman o’ the watch?’”

He paused dramatically.

“It’s too much,” he said, “to keep eight hours below between eight in
the evenin’ and eight in the mornin’. An’ you at your guns when you
_are_ off watch. The Captain wouldn’t have it, if he knew.”

Looking at John’s hollow cheeks, he thought, “There’ll be an end to it
soon.”

But before the end came disaster. Two days later, John, in a corner by
the evaporators, was writing in that marble-covered book. The mood
in which he wrote held him captive. He was conscious neither of the
engines’ beat nor of the ringing of the telegraph. He saw with intense
vision, only the scene he described.

“Makin’ notes?”

Aggett, with low waistcoat and bulging shirt-front, stood there, his
hands thrust in his pockets, his chin pushed forward over a choker
collar. He must have come down as soon as dinner was finished and the
wine passed.

“Gettin’ keen on engineerin’? Let’s see.”

He held out a hand into which, without hesitation, John put his book.
There was a long pause.

“Often write this balderdash on watch?”

“Two books full, sir, and what you see.”

“Why?”

“I get an idea and I write it down, sir.”

This was Aggett’s chance. At last he had caught one of them committing
a really serious offence. Officers were required when on watch to give
continuous attention to duty. Hartington could not get out of this,
Aggett reflected. He tore out a blank sheet from the notebook.

“Pencil,” he said, stretching out his hand.

He wrote on, and folded, the paper.

“Take this to Hartington. When he’s finished with you, report down here
again. I’ll wait.”

John climbed the steel-runged ladder and, passing through the great
heat above the cylinders, scrambled on to the grating which the windows
of the Engineers’ Office overlooked. In the Chest Flat he found Driss
beginning to undress before turning in.

“Do you know where Hartington is?”

“In his cabin, I think. Aggett’s below, isn’t he?”

“Yes. He has just bowled me out writing verse on watch. Sent me up with
this chit for Hartington.”

“To be beaten?”

“I suppose so. Good-night.”

“Good-night.... I say, Lynwood, it’s rotten luck. Come to my hammock
before you go below again and tell me what happens. Will you?”

“All right. Personally, I don’t care very much what happens.”

John went to his chest, changed his boiler suit and dirty shoes for
a monkey-jacket, a scarf, and pumps. While he was thus engaged Driss
reappeared.

“Hartington hasn’t beaten any of us yet,” he said hopefully.

“No; but he must this time.”

“I suppose so. I should put some padding in, if I were you, Lynwood.”

John smiled. “It isn’t the pain I care for,” he said. “Besides, I’ve
made up my mind.”

“Made up your mind?”

But John offered no explanation. With a towel thrown over his arm he
was already on his way to the bathroom to wash his hands. Presently he
was tapping at Hartington’s door.

“Hullo! I thought you were keeping the First below?”

“I am. Aggett has sent me up with this message for you.”

Hartington unfolded the paper and read:

  “_I have just found Mr. Lynwood neglecting his watch-keeping duties.
  He has been writing verse in an engineering notebook, obviously for
  the purpose of deception. He tells me that he has two more books
  stowed away somewhere, so this writing on watch is a practice of his.
  I do not wish to harm him by making an official report. A dozen cuts
  would meet the case._

  “_W. AGGETT._”

“Why did you give him this chance?” Hartington asked. “It’s what he has
been waiting for, you know.”

“I’m sorry,” John said.

“But why did you do it? Why did you take the risk?”

Feeling dizzy, as if he were about to fall, John said: “Do you mind
if I sit down?” and, without waiting for an answer, fell heavily into
a chair. Leaning across the table, he let his head fall on his arms.
Then, fearful lest Hartington should think he was acting in order to
win sympathy, he overcame his exhaustion with an effort that sent a
tremor through his body, and sat up. “I don’t think I can argue it.
I’d rather you got it over. We can talk about it some time--some time
later.”

“May I see the book?”

John fetched it from his chest, where it lay in the pocket of his
boiler suit, and, having handed it over, waited listlessly. The emotion
of the last quarter of an hour had so added to his fatigue that,
as if a high fever were upon him, he desired nothing now but to be
alone where he could lie down and sleep. He was not thinking of the
flogging; it would be a flogging in dream. He was altogether careless
of consequences, of the future that seemed so far away, to-morrow
morning--beyond the infinite reaches of that night. There were yet two
hours of his watch. Twice the slow hand of the Engine-room clock must
creep round the dial....

“What is the sequence of this?” Hartington asked.

“There are different tales, jumbled up. A bit of one and a bit of
another. I dare say they could be pieced together. But there are gaps
in all of them. I write down any scene--just as I see it.”

“Some of it is bad--incoherent.”

“Yes.”

“And some of it is filthy.”

“You needn’t read that. One writes anything--anything that’s vivid
enough to swamp the moment.”

“And some of it is----Lynwood, why didn’t you tell me you wrote this?
Why haven’t you read it to me? I judged you only by the gentler stuff.
And now, here are passages flaming with vision: the speed and pause,
the song and shock of blank verse. Do you realize----”

“Yes--yes; I realize.”

“And you didn’t show it me?”

“It was my own; a kind of sanctuary. Peace there ... everyone shut out
by flames.”

John was huddled in his chair, his feet drawn up, his eyes gazing out
above his knees. Hartington looked at the lines the writing of which
had been interrupted by Aggett’s arrival.

“Could you go on from here?” he asked, and read them aloud.

“No; not now. But don’t read them. Aggett’s waiting.”

Hartington stooped over the table and picked up a pen.

  “_I am afraid it is inevitable that you should make an official
  report,_” he wrote.

“Take that to Aggett.”

“You are not going to beat me?”

“No.”

John delivered this reply, and Aggett immediately left the Engine-room.
He jerked back the curtain of Hartington’s cabin so that the rings
clashed on the rod.

“What’s the meaning of this?”

“Surely the meaning is clear.”

“You won’t beat him?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“My reasons are my own.”

“You’ll be made to give them.”

“Oh!”

“By the Commander.”

“You intended to take this to the Commander?”

“Certainly I do; and a pretty fool you’ll look, young man. This
obviously is an offence that can’t be passed over. There’s nothing for
it but beatin’. The Commander will send you his orders.... Wouldn’t it
be easier to give way now than then?”

“I shall not give way then.”

“Refuse to obey the Commander’s orders?”

“In this case--yes.”

“On what grounds?”

“That depends. If it is to be in any way a personal matter I have my
explanation. If the Commander makes it a Service point--strictly a
question of discipline--his definite orders refused: well then, Aggett,
I take it to the Captain.”

“A real sea-lawyer, eh?” said Aggett. “It’s pig-headed drivel. And, you
mark my words--it won’t do any good. If you take that stand you may
avoid this beatin’, but the Commander won’t forget it, and the Captain
won’t forget it.”

“As a point of fact,” Hartington said, “this is all heroics. The
contingency won’t arise. This matter will not be taken to the
Commander.”

Aggett grinned. “Then I send Lynwood to you again?”

“No. That isn’t what I meant. I am not giving way. But I think it’s as
well we should understand each other. Sit down, will you?”

“I prefer to stand. And no sort of compromise’ll do for me--see?”

“All right.... Now this is not going to the Commander because you won’t
take it to him.”

“That’s all you know!”

“You won’t take it to him because you know that, if you do, I force it
to the Captain. And that brings me to the other point. I don’t pretend
to minimize Lynwood’s offence. He is altogether wrong to do what he
has done on watch. And I don’t wish to argue with you about the life
snotties lead under your orders: that’s your affair, not mine. But I do
refuse definitely to be your accomplice in producing their misery. They
are ill; they are overworked to a degree you dare not make public; it
is preying on their minds. If they don’t collapse physically and go on
the sick list they will go mad.”

“It’s not for you to interfere in my routine.”

“I know. That is why--although I think it’s an open question whether a
Sub, who is in some measure responsible for the snotties, ought not to
interfere in these circumstances--that is why I have kept my mouth shut
hitherto. But beating is within my province----”

“I’ve a damned good mind to beat him myself.”

“If you try that I go straight to the Captain.”

Aggett shrugged his shoulders. “You’re an obstinate mule, aren’t you?”
Then he allowed his anger to take charge of him. “You’re an obstinate
mule, aren’t you?” he shouted. “Don’t you see that what I’m doin’ is
bein’ done for the boy’s good?”

“That’s for you to judge. I judge about beating. If you take this
matter to the Commander, I take everything--_everything_, remember--to
the Captain. If the snotties were being treated reasonably I should
have beaten Lynwood for this--much as I dislike beating my friends.”

“You admit the crime, and you won’t punish it. I didn’t think you were
a fool.”

Hartington drew his finger across his chin. “Why don’t you mete out a
Service punishment yourself?”

“Beatin’ is the proper punishment for this kind of trash.”

“Trash? The poetry? It’s not that, Aggett.”

“That be as it may. I don’t care if he’s writin’ bloody Keats. What I
care about is that a snotty should be a scribbler at all. The sooner
he’s broken o’ _that_, the better for himself and everyone else.”

“You and I seem likely to disagree on every subject,” Hartington said.
“But you haven’t answered my question: why not a Service punishment?”

“What?”

“Well, on the Upper Deck we give more watch-keeping.”

“They are keepin’ watch and watch already, as near as may be; you know
that.”

“Yes,” said Hartington, “I knew that. It is difficult to punish them
more than they are being punished already.”

“If I chose that they should keep watch and watch,” Aggett cried,
perceiving that Hartington was amused, “it’s none o’ your business.
This goes to the Commander.” And he went out of the cabin, purposely
leaving the curtain undrawn.

Hartington rose and drew it quietly. He undressed, curled himself up in
his wicker chair, and began to read the marble-covered notebook.

The Commander heard nothing officially of John’s behaviour. Ordith’s
advice was sought.

“My dear Aggett.” Ordith said, when the situation had been explained to
him, “you will forgive my saying that you have made an ass of yourself.”

“I asked you what I should do.”

“You seem to be somewhat disarmed. Why not stop his shore leave?”

“Then he’ll sit on board and write more drivel. Besides, the punishment
is inadequate.”

Ordith spread out his hands. “It is all you have left.”

So the leave which John might have had when the ship reached harbour
was stopped indefinitely. Ordith promised himself that he would make a
pretty story of the occasion of the stoppage when next he met Margaret.
It would be good to make Lynwood and his poetry appear ridiculous.

Then, partly in generosity, and partly with a desire to irritate
Aggett, Ordith said one day to John:

“If you want a quiet place to write in, and Hartington is using his
cabin, you can sit in mine, Lynwood, any time I’m not there.”


II

The end to Aggett’s persecution, which the Warrant Officer had said
must soon come, came unexpectedly. The ship was out of sight of land.
Divisions and Prayers were over, and, there being no Gunnery that day,
the hands had been told off for their forenoon duties. Driss, who had
kept the First Watch and the Morning, came up from the Gunroom at
about ten o’clock. He stood on the quarter-deck, drinking in the fresh
air, and wondering how many minutes he might thus spend away from the
Engineering drawing which he had deserted. Because he was very tired
and thought himself unobserved he was unseamanlike enough to lean on
the quarter-deck rails.

“Mr. Driss!”

He turned to see the Captain standing a few yards away from him. He
sprang to attention, and saluted.

“Have you nothing to do this forenoon except lean on the quarter-deck
rails?”

But Driss was not afraid of the Captain. “I have nothing to do this
forenoon, sir, except an Engineering sketch. I came up for a minute to
get some air.”

“No lecture?”

“No, sir. Midshipmen engineering don’t do School. We do the sketch in
our own time, sir, working it in as we like.”

“So you came up to get some air?” the Captain said, looking steadily
into Driss’s face. “Don’t you feel well?”

But one does not betray anyone to the Captain--not even Aggett.

“Yes, sir,” said Driss in such a tone of surprise as he might have used
had his cheeks been rosy.

“Quite well?”

“Quite, sir.”

“Sure?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When did you come off watch?”

“Eight bells, sir.”

“You kept the Morning?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And your watch previous to that?”

“The First, sir.”

“First and Morning? Are you making no mistake?”

“No mistake, sir.”

“How many midshipmen are doing Engineering duties?”

“Two, sir.”

“And you keep watch and watch?”

“We both stand off the Afternoon, sir.”

“But haven’t I seen you at a gun in the Afternoon?”

“Yes, sir. The midshipman not on watch attends his gun when there is
Gunnery.”

“I see.... Are you undergoing any kind of--er--punishment at present,
or is this the customary routine?”

“We are not under punishment, sir.”

“And you feel fit?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And happy?”

Driss, genuinely surprised, looked up at him, and after an instant’s
pause answered, “Yes, sir,” in a voice which was somehow not so steady
as he could have wished.

“I see. That will do.”

The Captain swung round on his heel and went below to his cabin.

“Messenger!... Tell the Engineer-Commander to speak to me.”

The messenger fled like the wind. He knew the Captain, but failed to
recognize this mood. Ordinarily the Captain would have said, “Ask the
Engineer-Commander....”

The Engineer-Commander, stirred to unwonted activity by the boy’s
breathlessness, came quickly.

“You sent for me, sir?”

“Engineer-Commander, are you personally responsible for the routine of
midshipmen performing Engine-room duties?”

“Mr. Aggett is directly responsible, sir--under me, of course.”

“They are keeping watch and watch night and day. Are you aware of that?”

“The Afternoon is regarded as kept, sir.”

“So I am told.... In addition to their watch-keeping they do an
Engineering sketch each week?”

“Almost inconsiderable, sir.”

“You forget that they come to me for initials every week. They are
elaborate drawings.”

“A few hours, sir....”

“Let that pass.... They attend Divisions and Quarters. They are in
charge of the stokers at Upper Deck Evolutions. And they attend their
guns. All this in their watch off.”

“I am not responsible for their Upper Deck duties, sir.”

The Captain’s eyes flashed. “That was unnecessary, Engineer-Commander.
It is your duty to make your orders conform to circumstances. Have you
realized that these young officers get less than eight hours sleep in
forty-eight?”

“Surely, sir----”

“I worked it out while I waited. There are the figures.”

“I didn’t think, sir----”

“It is extraordinarily necessary to think when you have young lives in
your hands.”

“I will instruct Mr. Aggett at once to make some modification, sir.”

The Captain took back the paper on which his figures were written.
“These officers are ill,” he said. “I may as well tell you that I was
led to make enquiries entirely by the astonishing appearance of a
midshipman I found standing on the quarter-deck. He was whiter than I
care to see my midshipmen.”

“I will make a change, sir.”

“Yes.... In future, midshipmen will do duty in three watches, and they
will not be below after 10 p.m. or before 5 a.m. That will ensure that
they get a night’s sleep every other night.”

“I will give your instructions, sir.”

“And take the control of midshipmen entirely out of Mr. Aggett’s hands.
Take charge of them yourself.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That is all then, Engineer-Commander.”

The Engineer-Commander hesitated. Then he gathered courage. “If I might
make a suggestion, sir: in the circumstances, you having spoken to a
midshipman--probably the Gunroom is talking about it--would it be wise
to make this change at once? And from the disciplinary point of view,
sir, to take the midshipmen so suddenly out of Mr. Aggett’s hands might
look like--like an aspersion, in the circumstances. A little delay,
sir?”

The Captain shook his head.

“In the circumstances, Engineer-Commander--no delay.”




CHAPTER XVII

DECISION


I

When John said to Driss that he had made up his mind, he thought that
the decision at which he had arrived was unalterable. If it were
possible, he would leave the Service. The resentment he felt against
Aggett coloured his dreams of an impossible future, in which he was
to be free to learn and to write, free to build, free to love, free
to fight at no permanent disadvantage for the possession of whom and
what he loved--free as no one of his generation could ever be. But even
before relief came by the Captain’s orders he had begun to reconsider
his decision, determined that a step so momentous and irretrievable
should not be taken in hot blood. By the rules of the Service he, a
midshipman, was unable to resign. Midshipmen must be withdrawn by their
parents, and this implied that John could act only through his mother.
If the responsibility had been his own he would have accepted it at
once; for his own needs, and, he thought, the price he would have to
pay for their satisfaction, were indeed clear to him. A price, however,
would be demanded not of him only. His mother was glad that he was in
the Navy, settled in a profession that would provide him with shelter
and clothing, food and drink; and now so far advanced in it that in
less than two years she would cease to pay the annual fifty pounds
demanded by the Admiralty of the parents of midshipmen, and John,
receiving the daily five shillings that was the pay of sub-lieutenants,
would be able to keep himself. His mother had been so generous to him,
had given him so much of the little she possessed, that John could not
bear to demand more of her. The education received by him at Osborne
and Dartmouth had cost the State more than his mother had paid. If he
left the Service before the Service had had time to reap in his labour
an interest on its outlay, the Admiralty would justly require of his
mother that she should make good at least some part of its loss. She
would be forced at last to draw upon that small capital which, for all
her need, she had never touched. John knew that the Admiralty, a stern,
and yet on occasion a strangely generous department, was sometimes
disposed to waive its rights; but he could not imagine his proud mother
in the part of the suppliant widow. She would make no appeal for
sympathy or exceptional treatment. “They have a right to this money,”
she would say, “and they shall have it in full.” And she would add:
“I’m glad to pay it, John, if it makes for your happiness.” John could
hear her saying that. It gave him pause.

This preliminary cost of freedom it would, however, be possible,
though inconvenient, to pay. Beyond it lay a problem not easily
soluble--perhaps impossible to solve. By leaving the Service he would
cut himself off from the only profession for which his specialized
training had fitted him. He would have to be educated again,
apprenticed again. At a time when he might have been earning enough
money for his own support more money would have to be invested in his
career. It was probable that, for all his mother’s good-will, the money
could not be produced. The meshes of the net were close and strong.

So John fought to reverse his decision and succeeded at least in
postponing the letter by which his mother should be made aware of
it. Delay was easy, almost pleasant; for he dreaded above all else
the answer, which despite his hopes he felt was inevitable, that her
financial position made his second apprenticeship, and therefore his
withdrawal, impracticable. Such an answer would shatter in a moment
the dreams by which he now lived. Until it came hope would endure; by
its arrival hope would be definitely banished. He dared not think of
his life after that. He must leave the Service soon or not at all,
for every year would make a fresh start more difficult. If he was
forced to realize that he could not be withdrawn as a midshipman it
would be made plain to him--so plain that he would not be able to
deceive himself--that he must be a naval officer so long as he lived.
His visions of Oxford, of the House, of miraculous literary success,
extravagant though he knew them to be, were yet based upon possibility.
This possibility once removed, as it would be by his mother’s negative,
the visions themselves must perish and their consolation pass away.

Not till August was nearly over did the time come when action could
no longer be delayed. An incident entirely unconnected with John’s
desire to leave the Service impelled him to write the letter in
which his desire was expressed. The squadron had been carrying out
Commander-in-Chief’s firing. It had fallen to an elevation party from
the _Pathshire_ to board the tug which towed the target, and to spot
the fall of the flagship’s shot. John and Cunwell had gone with Ordith.
It was their duty to sit aft in the tug so that they were in line
with the target, and to record by means of a stop-watch and the Rake
instrument the time and effect of each salvo. Ordith was to observe,
calling to John, who would write them down, the errors over or short
in yards. Cunwell was to keep his eyes on the flagship, and, as the
guns flashed, say “Fire,” John pressing the knob of the stop-watch and
entering the time on his sheet.

Rain fell so fast during the forenoon that it had the effect of fog and
made firing impossible. The elevation party went to the _Pathshire_ for
lunch, and, the rain having by then ceased, returned in the afternoon
to the tug. The target was towed by a wire hawser, which was intended
to ride from side to side over the great hoop-shaped girders with
which the tug was fitted. It had been found, however, that if the wire
were given free play, instead of passing evenly over the riding-hoops
as the tug altered course and the target shifted from one quarter to
the other, it held up momentarily in the centre, swung across at high
speed, and was thus subjected continually to sudden stresses that
threatened to break it. To prevent this, the wire was secured by port
and starboard steadying-lines, and, no longer free to travel over the
riding-hoops, was kept rigidly amidships. This arrangement was itself
dangerous, and the tug’s crew were warned that in no circumstances were
they to go aft of the point of attachment of the steadying lines.

When the elevation party reached the tug there was still some time
before the firing was due to begin and they spent it with the
lieutenant in command--whom Ordith knew as Toby--sitting in deck-chairs
and smoking cigarettes. The sun had broken through a stormy sky, so
that there was golden lace on the rim of each dark hollow in the sea,
and the rigging was fringed with glistening drops that, as the vessel
rolled, fell in showers on to the deck.

Presently the “Preparative” was hoisted by the flagship.

“Time to begin,” said Ordith, and stretched himself. “Everything ready,
Lynwood--paper, pencil, stop-watch? We’d better be moving aft.”

“There’s plenty of time,” said Toby, “time to finish your cigarettes.”

Ordith drew slowly at his, and watched the smoke swept aft on the wind.
Like a cat he lay contented in the sun.

“I’m not keen on you fellows sitting aft of those steadying lines,”
Toby said. “If one of them parts, the wire will move like--like the
blade of a guillotine.”

“I confess the position is not one I should have chosen,” Ordith
answered. “But where else can we work the Rake? I don’t want my
valuable head removed.”

“I think it might be possible--God! there goes the tow!”

Toby sprang up as a tremor passed through the tug. No sound had been
audible. John, who had caught a glimpse of Toby’s suddenly white face,
moved to follow him. Cunwell, too, was on his feet.

“Unnecessary panic,” said Ordith. “It’s only one of his damned
steadying lines.”

The Engine-room telegraph had clanged, and, the engines being stopped,
the tug rolled heavily. Through the silence came a voice that contained
a suggestion of doubt: “Man overboard!” Then a moment later, loud and
clear:

“Man overboard!”

Toby, whom they could not see, shouted: “Away lifeboat’s crew--no, not
all of you--blast your eyes!... Make a signal to Flag for boats and
doctor. Keep a look-out from the bridge.... Find out who’s missing,
Hogge.”

Ordith, moved at last, went aft, followed by John and Cunwell. Toby,
standing near a blood-soaked body that lay on the deck, was questioning
a seaman whose nerves had gone.

“You shouted ‘Man overboard!’ didn’t you?”

“Yessir.”

“Did you see him go over?”

“Not _see ’im_, sir, as you might say. Thought I saw a splash, sir.”

“Splash--in this sea?”

“Well, sir--seemed a splash like.”

Toby resisted a desire to stamp his foot and shake his fist.

“Did you hear anything?”

“Wouldn’t ’ear no splash in this sea, sir.”

“No,” said Toby, “quite right; you wouldn’t.” Then, taking breath, he
continued more calmly. “There’s nothing more to be done--the boat’s
away; this man’s dead; take your time: I want to find out if there’s
a man overboard or not. What made you think there was? What made you
shout ‘Man overboard’?”

“Well, sir, there was two standin’ there talkin’. I seed ’em on’y a few
minutes gone. An’ when the accid’nt ’appened, sir, ’an I looked again,
there was on’y one”--he glanced at the body, and finished lamely--“on’y
one, as you might say, sir.”

“Then one’s gone, unless he moved away. Did you see who they were?”

“There was Skidd, sir--that’s Skidd, lyin’ there.”

“I know. The other?”

“Didn’t see no face, sir. Didn’t notice.”

Toby ran a handkerchief over his forehead. Hogge had come up.

“Well? Mustered the hands?”

“Owlett’s gone, sir.”

“Owlett? Sure he’s not away in the boat?”

“No, sir; ’e’s not in the boat, sir.”

“Right.... Was every man warned not to go aft of the steadying lines?”

“Yes, sir. Accordin’ to your orders, sir.”

“You could swear to that, if need be?”

“Swear’t on the Bible, sir. Warned this Owlett meself, sir. Never was
one to take ’eed.”

“Very good.” Toby saw Ordith, and greeted him as if almost surprised by
his presence. “Hullo Ordith.... Poor fellow! gone down like a stone.
They’ll never find him.... Fool to stand there--damned fool! Oh well!”

“Head off?” said Ordith, pointing to the now covered body.

“Nearly.... Good seaman, that. Wife and three children.”

Ordith turned for’ard as Toby left him on his way to the bridge. “Five
minutes later, might have been me.... This valuable head,” he added, a
little shaken. “And Aggett rummaging my cabin.” He patted his pockets.
“By Jove! left the keys, too.” Then, suddenly perceiving Cunwell, he
gripped his arm. “Don’t care for Aggett,” he said confidentially; “do
you?”

He returned to his deck-chair.

“Wonder if we can help Toby at all?... No.”

He moved his shoulders as if adjusting the set of a coat, opened his
cigarette-case and shut it again with a snap.

“Oh well!” He sighed, leaned back, interlaced his fingers behind his
valuable head, and, because the sun was strong, tilted his cap over his
eyes.


II

That evening two Wardroom Officers came into the Gunroom to play poker.
At the end of the table which the game left free, John sat down to
write his letter. He had been too near to death that afternoon to waste
more time.

He wrote the date and

  “_H.M.S. ‘Pathshire.’
  “China Station,
  “At Wei-hai-wei_.

  “_DEAR MOTHER_,--”

  (Then he paused. Usually he wrote “Darling Mother,” but after
  consideration he decided not to change what he had written.)

  “_I have just had your letter telling me of your work, and your
  holiday, and your talks with Mr. Alter. It was such a plain,
  interesting letter full of news that I hate myself for writing any
  other kind_.”

  (That was a poor sentence--but let it stand.)

  “_But I don’t honestly think it would be fair either to you or to
  myself to postpone writing about what I have to say this evening.
  The facts are plainly these, and I suppose I may as well come to the
  point at once_.”

  (It was time to turn a page, and John saw his mother’s face as she
  turned it.)

  “_I am writing to ask you if I may take the very serious step of
  leaving the Service. My reasons for asking this are chiefly these: I
  am not keen on the Navy. I don’t want to succeed in it--that is to
  say, the prospect of becoming an admiral doesn’t attract me. If I
  became an admiral I shouldn’t be very glad or very happy. If I won
  a Trafalgar I shouldn’t be very proud. And I think the sooner one
  leaves a profession one doesn’t want to rise in, the better_.

  “_It is not a case of sudden impulse--I have felt very much the same
  about it, though I haven’t always been quite so explicit with myself,
  ever since I came to sea, or, at least, ever since I began to realize
  what this job leads to. If I have stood it so long, why not longer?
  I have tried to fight it down. But, although I might make myself do a
  great deal of work, I can’t make myself care for it, and, after very
  long and careful consideration, I have come to the conclusion that
  the end must inevitably come._

  “_The great problem is that of money. I have always realized how
  much trouble you have taken, and how much money you have spent, in
  starting me in a profession, and I know that throwing it over now
  means a great sacrifice for you. First, there’s the cost of getting
  me out--the Admiralty will want something; then, if I am to enter
  almost any formal profession, the cost of training and educating me
  all over again; and lastly, there’s the uncertainty--instead of the
  present certainty--as to how much money I shall ultimately earn, and
  when I shall begin to earn it. It seems all money_.

  _“Of course, what I want to do is to write--you have known of
  that fatal desire ever since I could hold a pen. And I want to be
  free--but let that pass now, since this is almost a business letter.
  I should like to go to Oxford, but I’m afraid that’s impossible. So I
  think the best thing is to get out first--that’s the essential. And
  then, with a little help from you as a start, I could take rooms in a
  far corner of London and start in journalism. The future would take
  care of itself. I think Mr. Alter would help with advice as regards
  journalism_.

  “_I am very, very sorry for all this. I know the trouble and worry
  I must be causing you. If I tried to explain in detail what has led
  up to this I should never end: the causes go back further than I can
  trace them. It may be quite impossible for reasons of money that I
  should leave. If so, tell me, and I shall manage to settle down as I
  am. But I had to ask in case, just for lack of asking, I was letting
  slip the one chance of another start._

  “_I will send some little news very soon._

  “_J. L._”

“Jack Pots!” cried a poker player. The chips rattled into a saucer.
“What about some drinks?... Drink for you, Lynwood?”

“No, thanks very much.”

He put his letter into an envelope, stamped and addressed it, and
scribbled “Via Siberia” across its corner. Then, having dropped it into
a hollow-voiced letter-box, he left the Gunroom. The decision being now
inevitable, he dared discuss it with Hartington.

“Can I come in, Hartington? or--or are you reading?”

“I was. But come in and talk. Move those things from your chair on to
the bunk.”

After a short silence, John said: “I’ve written to my mother, asking
her to take me out.”

Hartington moved suddenly, his eyes shining. “Oh, splendid!” he cried.
“I am glad. I wondered if you’d ever have the guts to do that. Which is
it to be--Balliol or Univ.?”

Never had John felt more gratitude than he did for this enthusiasm.

“You think I’m right?” he asked, for the pleasure of hearing Hartington
answer: “Yes, of course you are right. Go and order some drinks, and
then come back and tell me what you are going to do--all your plans.
And we’ll drink to Oxford and the Great Work. We’ll drink to all our
dreams--yours, coming true--and mine, very like yours once.”

The drinks were ordered, and John returned.

“Probably my mother won’t take me out,” he said.

“Yes, she will. She’s bound to if you’ve made her understand--she
wouldn’t be your mother otherwise.”

“It’s a question of money.”

“Oh!...”

“Oxford’s impossible, anyhow.”

“Then, damn Oxford!... Lynwood, you _must_ get out. I didn’t. Something
interfered--never mind what. And now I know.... You must escape
somehow.”

Then slowly John explained much that, even to Hartington, he had never
spoken of before--how little money there was, and how little influence.
He talked of his mother and of Mr. Alter.

“I believe Alter would help but I don’t like to ask him.”

“Why not--if you’re going into journalism?”

“I know; but, you see,” John said, with hesitation, “I think Alter was
in love with my mother at one time. I’m not sure he doesn’t love her
still. One can’t ask favours.”

They talked until near midnight, when John rose to go.

“Even if I do get out soon,” he said, “I have a horrible feeling that
one doesn’t escape very far.” And, blind to Hartington’s questioning
eyes, he went on, speaking a part of his thought. “The powers that
encompass us are devilish strong: the Service, Fane-Herbert’s father,
Ordith--all the ring. One doesn’t defy them easily. One gets caught
again ... in the net.”

Hartington dragged from his shelf a book that John had never before
seen in his hands. He opened it where an envelope marked a place.

“Read that--from the second verse--‘_They all lie in wait._’”

“‘_They all lie in wait for blood; they hunt every man his brother with
a net. That they may do evil with both hands earnestly, the prince
asketh, and the judge asketh for a reward; and the great man, he
uttereth his mischievous desire: so they wrap it up._’”

“Go on, it’s most important to go on.”

“‘_The best of them is as a brier: the most upright is sharper than a
thorn hedge: the day of thy watchmen and thy visitation cometh; now
shall be their perplexity._’”

“That’s where you stop,” said Hartington. “And you are going to get
out, Lynwood. Good luck!--and dreams of Oxford.”

When John had left him, Hartington sat down by his writing-table, and,
in his capacity as “Lynwood’s Sub,” wrote a long letter to a man he had
never seen.

“I’m probably making a fool of myself,” he thought; “but it’s a
chance--and the need’s pretty desperate.”




CHAPTER XVIII

IN THE CROSS-PASSAGE


I

There was no Gunnery after the first days of September, and on the
fifth the squadron sailed for Yokohama in order that it might send
representatives to the Mikado’s funeral. The Gunroom was cheered by
the prospect, though the enthusiasm of the midshipmen who were then
attached to the Engine-room staff was somewhat damped by the thought of
so many days continuously at sea. John, however, had by now returned to
the Upper Deck, and to him watch-keeping on the fore-bridge had ever
been the most attractive of his duties. By night it was even pleasanter
than by day; for then the bridge’s isolation was accentuated; there
was no routine, no hurrying to and fro of the hands; no Commander, no
Captain, no Navigator, save in exceptional circumstances. The Gold
Lace, together with all that the Gold Lace implied, was securely packed
away. The officer of the watch and his midshipman drew closer together,
the barriers of Service were dissolved, and personality lived again.
Sipping the cocoa that John had made, he and his officer would stoop
over charts of strange regions and weave tales of the places whose
names they found; or, together on monkey’s island, they would exchange
reminiscences of Dartmouth and the _Britannia_; or discuss books,
women, politics, or spiritualism, according to the officer’s taste.

In the _Pathshire_ the relations between Wardroom and Gunroom were
excellent--a circumstance which, as had been said at that last dinner
in the _King Arthur_, went far towards the making of a Happy Ship.
There was not one watch-keeping Lieutenant with whom John was reluctant
to spend four hours on the bridge. It was necessary, when the watch
began, to make a swift estimate of his officer’s mood, and to regulate
his conduct accordingly. Sometimes the four hours were allowed to pass
almost in silence, and, in any case, it was not the midshipman’s part
to begin anything but a strictly Service conversation. Often it was
cocoa that loosened the officer’s tongue.

“Well, young fellah-me-lad,” Dendy, the ship’s rake, would begin. “I’m
damned bored. I don’t know about you?” This would open the way for
tales of Dendy’s invariably triumphant loves--tales which John had
found he was required, not to comment upon, but to believe. Dendy had
his moments of seriousness, too, when he would take hold of John’s arm
and explain that love could not always be lightly regarded....

Lanfell, a stolid salt-horse, was a less amusing companion. At times
when other officers were more carefully dressed, Lanfell had a habit
of appearing in a sweater and scarf, an incredibly old monkey-jacket
and trousers, and a pair of sea-boots. When at sea he would ask his
midshipman how he would moor ship, or rig sheers, or lay out a bower
anchor, and the watch was liable to degenerate into a peripatetic
seamanship lecture. If he could think of no more questions he would
sometimes consent to be diverted into lighter paths; but even then his
imagination led him with painful regularity to a football field. He
was never tired of explaining that he was neither a mathematician nor
a theorist.

“I can’t chase _X_--never could,” he would say. “And in a destroyer
with a sea running I’d rather have a drop o’ rough seamanship than all
your ballistics.”

“Then you don’t believe in specializing, sir?”

“Specializing? Oh, I don’t know. I suppose the specialists have the
pull. But there’s still room for the seaman--more room than most
fellows think.”

There were times when Lanfell’s faith failed him, and he saw himself
as a salt-horse eternally waiting for promotion; but such misgivings
he drowned quietly. His skin would become pasty and opaque, his eyes
heavy, his movement cumbrous. Then, by taking violent exercise and cold
baths, he would restore his health and hope. The Service suited him,
and, save in those periods when his wine bill mounted prodigiously, he
was happy.

The most exciting watch-keeping partner was undoubtedly the First
Lieutenant; but his visits to the bridge were voluntary, and
unfortunately few. He would appear at odd hours--usually at night
when he had been unable to sleep. At first he would take no notice
of anyone, but stand at the end of the bridge, staring down upon the
chains. Then, rousing himself jerkily--every movement of his was a
jerk--he would do breathing exercises, a performance so strange
that the Quartermasters shook their heads and sometimes tapped their
foreheads significantly.

When the breathing exercises were finished the First Lieutenant would
turn swiftly, his cap over his eyes, and rattle up to monkey’s island,
where the officer of the watch and his midshipman were standing by the
compass.

“Ee!” he began. This was a strange sound, peculiar to himself, which
was forced from his throat--apparently in spite of some physical
obstruction. “Ee! Finish your watch for you. You go below. Anything to
turn over?”

“Can’t you sleep, Number One?”

“No. Ee. Yes, I mean. You push off. Mm?”

One night, after such preliminaries, the First Lieutenant being left on
watch, he rapped out at John:

“Ever seen a sea-monster?... Ought to see a sea-monster.... No, boy,
don’t look mazed. This isn’t a Peter-Piper-Picked-a-Peck exercise.
Common sense. Ought to see a sea-monster. Good for snotties. Mm?”

After a pause. “Seamen’s fairies. Believe in fairies. Believe in
fairies, believe in God. Look for sea-monster and you have your eye on
the Devil. Catch sea-monster; catch Devil by tail.”

Other midshipmen had been known to laugh, as they thought, politely;
but John knew the First Lieutenant too well. Left alone he would
presently become comprehensible and interesting. Interruption would
drive him into silence.

Soon he began a rambling disquisition upon the probable anatomy,
functions, and habits of sea-monsters. His talk was full of the
technicalities of doctors and zoologists. The longer a word the more
rapid his pronunciation of it.... From sea-monsters to prehistoric
beasts, and thence to were-wolves and vampires was an easy progress.
Of the supernatural he spoke with none of the nervous suggestion of
one who visits séances. He did not persuade or argue, and his tales,
frankly imaginary, seemed to be told to himself rather than to John.
They were wonderful tales.

“D’you read Algernon Blackwood?... Ee.... More fun to spin the yarns
yourself. Mm? Now, if ever you get writing, don’t lose a sense of
Eternity. That’s what the modern people lack. Brilliant enough: dozens
of women--acid mostly; brilliant like chandeliers, though--not stars.
So taken up with their own few years they forget the rest. Scramble
for the nuts; forget the tree; forget the forest; forget the hawk
overhead. That’s why Hardy sits in the inner parlour with the giants
and all the others rattle their mugs in the taproom. Know Hardy? Every
word a new link in chain from Adam; every kiss taught by Eve. Sense of
Eternity.... Sense of Eternity makes a watch pass quicker. Read Gibbon,
boy, when the Commander curses----”

“Light on the port bow, sir!” sang the look-out in the foretop.

“Aye, aye.... Take a bearing, boy.” He took off his cap and flung it on
to the bridge below. “Ee.... Signalman o’ the Watch--my cap. Dropped
it. Bring it.” And when the Signalman had come and gone he added to
John: “Must keep them awake. Must remind ’em I’m here. They like it.
Bad for morals to stare too long at the sea. Breaks the morbid current
if you bash things about. That’s why Cabinet Ministers ought to have
Jesters with balloons. Smack on the head with a balloon restores sense
of proportion. Mm?... What was the bearing?... Take the Corporal of the
Watch with you and go the Rounds.”

Almost any occasion--especially the solemn and pompous--might be
enlivened by the flight of the First Lieutenant’s cap. Once he had
hurled it, without explanatory comment, into the midst of the ship’s
company when they were engaged in prayer during quarter-deck Church.

“Sorry, padre,” he said afterwards. “Forgot about you. Fellow talking.
Had to stop him. No other means of communication.”


II

After the Mikado’s funeral the _Pathshire_ visited Vladivostok and
Nagasaki before returning to Wei-hai-wei. The way of life ran smooth,
and seemed to John to run the smoother because for him its direction
might so soon be changed. His hope, at first so weak, of a favourable
answer from his mother, had fed upon itself, until at last it had
become almost a conviction. He had ceased to think of his future as
that of a naval officer.

This sense of approaching emancipation and the thoughts of independence
by which it was accompanied changed his attitude towards Margaret.
His hope had so grown that now once more it included her. From a
midshipman, from an officer who throughout his life would be dependent
upon the pay of his rank, she was separated by impassable barriers of
wealth, influence, and competition. But now, in the light of his new
hope, the barriers between him and her seemed no longer impassable.
He would at least have the chance to construct ladders of fame and
money before it was too late. He would be able, too, to bring those
ladders near. The Service etiquette and tradition would bind him no
more. Ordith, for instance, would cease to be his superior officer. He
would not be borne away to sea, nor would his shore leave be stopped
at the moment when he most wanted to see Margaret. Mr. Fane-Herbert,
whom it was impossible not to regard as some kind of naval chief
with additional advantages of wealth and civilian freedom, could not
continue to treat him as a junior officer of no account. The blind
alley would open into a clear field. Opportunity would increase.

Or, at any rate, this is how John’s sudden optimism led him to regard
his future.

Margaret was one of a small party that came on board to tea with
Hartington early in October. It was a Gunroom party, to which Ordith
was not invited. Its beginning had been difficult because civilians
seem always to require so much space that a warship cannot provide.
The chairs, which had been comfortable enough until it was necessary
to invite ladies to sit in them, appeared suddenly to be in a shocking
state of disrepair. Never had Gunroom china seemed so thick or Gunroom
fare, for all the preparations that had been made, so brutally
masculine. The corticene, scarred with burnings of cigarette-ends,
cried out for rugs to hide it.

The ladies, however, were tactfully blind to these deficiencies. The
tea had been a success. At Hartington’s suggestion the party broke up
so that the guests might “see over the ship,” he having conveniently
forgotten that they had “seen over” it many times before. He himself
took charge of Mrs. Fane-Herbert. Margaret was left to John.

Having examined the Upper Deck twelve-pounders in the view of all the
world, he took her into the ammunition and cross-passages, where he
knew none other would be. The electric lights flared from polished
metal and white enamel; the atmosphere was heavy; their lightest
footsteps clattered and resounded. But John was oblivious to all this.

“I’ve never seen you in such good spirits,” she said. “Tell me why.”

“Because I am going to leave the Service.”

“Leave it--for good?” She drew in her breath.

“Yes. I’ve never told you. I haven’t had a chance to tell you. My leave
was stopped for a time, and I never seemed to be able to get near you.
You know why my leave was stopped?”

“Yes. Nick told me.”

Nick! So it had gone thus far. “What did he say?” John asked.

“He said that what you did was a serious offence--technically.”

“Technically?”

“I mean he seemed to sympathize in the circumstances. He told me about
Mr. Aggett and the watches you were keeping. He told me everything.”

“And he sympathized?”

“Yes. You needn’t say it like that, John. I believe it was he who
persuaded Mr. Aggett to stop your leave instead of taking it further.”

“Did he tell you that too?”

“No; but I read between the lines.”

“Ah!”

“And father said he thought you had been lucky.”

“So Nick told _him_?”

“I don’t know who told him. Nick may have done. It’s been the talk of
the fleet.”

John winced under that.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “We oughtn’t to have talked about it. I’ve made
you wretched.”

“No. I don’t care now--now I’m going to get out.”

“When is it to be?”

“I wrote home at the end of August. The mail takes just over a
fortnight each way. I might get an answer--to-morrow.”

She said after a moment’s thought: “Oh, I am glad, tremendously glad
... for you.”

The thought of John’s leaving China, of his returning home, troubled
her. It brought Ordith and the inevitable decision nearer. Somehow
John’s absence--though lately his presence had meant so little to
her--would weaken her own defences. Now that he was breaking free of
his net, his company and the likeness of his situation to her own as
she conceived it had become suddenly more valuable to her. A safeguard,
she told herself.... And yet, more than a safeguard.... She looked at
him nervously. She wanted him not to go. She would be alone when he had
gone.

“You know,” she said, “this--all this life--doesn’t suit me better than
you. We’re together in that. And you are escaping.”

“It’s no good without you.”

He had spoken on the instant. There was no going back. He said, before
she could interrupt him:

“Margaret, you must listen. One can’t go on alone. I can’t. I don’t
believe you can. We are both caught the same way. I’m getting free. You
must, too. Oh, you must, Margaret!”

“It’s impossible.”

“Now, yes. But couldn’t we come to an understanding now? And later----”

He was stricken by doubt for the meaning of her word “impossible.” He
tried and failed to read her face.

“Or did you mean----”

“You are not out of the Service yet, John,” she said.

He was sure now that she had intended to check him. That reminder of
the Service--which she had spoken partly to gain time, partly to drag
back her own thoughts to realities--seemed to him a deliberate thrust,
well aimed. He was still in the Service, still a snotty--powerless.
It became a source of embarrassment that she was beautiful and wore
beautiful things. His imagination drew for him a picture of her
dressing-table, spread with silver; of her furs; of her soft dresses,
orderly and exquisite; of her maid brushing that wonderful hair--and
of the vast house in London, with its stone steps for ever in the
twilight of a frowning porch, and its stern door, of which the handle
was but an ornament not made to turn. In contrast were his barbarous
sea-chest and hammock, his own small home tucked away in the country,
and his one shilling and ninepence a day.

He had been a fool to think that she--oh, a thousand times a fool!

Feeling that the moment and, above all, her cruel thrust had given
him the right to say what for long years--until he was more than a
snotty--he might not say again, he flashed out:

“Come what may, Margaret, you’re the best I have on earth.”

And he turned away, leaving her to follow him out of the ammunition
passage. She, not knowing how she had wounded him, not realizing
how her one word “impossible” had been misinterpreted, moved her
lips to speak. His last phrase--a direct statement rather than an
exclamation--thrilled her. He had meant every word of it. It was
the finest tribute a woman could hear spoken; and he had given it
finely--every syllable swift and clear-cut like sharp-edged flames. And
yet----

She did not speak. She stood without moving. Already he was a few paces
away--the nozzle of a fire-hose glinted between them: and he did not
turn round. There would have been no need for speech had he turned. She
would have run to him. They would have made great plans, too brave to
be impossible.

But he did not turn, and in a moment she began to follow him.




CHAPTER XIX

CRISIS


I

Mr. Fane-Herbert had recently returned to Wei-hai-wei after what his
household was led to believe had been a prosperous absence. He bullied
the Chinese boys with cheerful energy; he patted Margaret’s hand, and
chuckled at the jokes which he gave her to understand he would have
made but for her innocent presence; he allowed his moustache to rest a
little longer than usual on the forehead his wife raised to him each
morning when, after entering the breakfast-room, he exclaimed, rubbing
his hands, “Ah, nice hot coffee! Nice crinkly bacon! What more can a
man want?... Well, well--good-morning, everyone. Morning, my dear”--all
these being signs that the world was revolving as he wished it to
revolve.

Ordith had immediately been in attendance. One morning soon after the
Gunroom tea-party he and Mr. Fane-Herbert were shut up together for
three hours.

“That dreadful business!” said Mrs. Fane-Herbert. “Why can’t your
father take a rest, I wonder?”

“He likes it, mother.”

“Yes, dear, I’m afraid he does. It seems odd--looking back. Times
change. Things take a grip on one as one gets old.”

“Not only when you get old, mother.”

“No?... Oh, Margaret, darling, are you happy? I do so want you to
be happy. If you let anything spoil your life it will be as if mine
were spoiled a----” She dared not say, “a second time”; but she went
on quaveringly, determined to say now what she had in her heart lest
afterwards she had not the courage to say it. “I’m not very strong, you
know. I may not be able to do all I should wish for you.”

“But, mother, you were strong enough in refusing to follow father from
place to place when he came here. You put your foot down then, didn’t
you? And you won.”

“Ah, yes. But that’s like choosing furniture, or moving from place
to place, or any of the small things. I can win because your father
yields. He doesn’t really mind. He is very kind about such things.
But on _matters of essential principle_”--how often and often had she
heard that ugly phrase, spoken as if by a dictatorial Chairman to a
subservient Board?--“on matters of essential principle I don’t oppose
very firmly, not now. It only makes trouble, and does no good in the
end.... He always makes me feel that perhaps I’m wrong, after all. He’s
a very clever man, you know, dear--your father; clever, and strong. He
knows more than I do of the world.”

“Dear mother!”

“So, Margaret,” Mrs. Fane-Herbert went on, “you must fight your own
battles. And be strong. And whatever I say afterwards--for I’m not
often like this ... now--remember what I think.... And that I do love
you.... And that compromise with truth is no good--ever. Once beaten,
always beaten.”

She rustled into a chair, her white fingers clasped on her lap.

“Fear is--oh, dreadful! like a foot in the door. You can never shut
it out. You never seem to be--to be quite alone again.” Then, with an
expression of appeal and warning in her eyes, she added: “That’s all I
can say--I think that is all I can say.”

There was more finality in her tone than was warranted by the closing
of a conversation. When the door had shut softly on its latch and
Margaret stood alone, she realized that her mother had spoken to her as
she was not likely to speak again.

With a sensation of sadness creeping over her she went out into the
garden--its cool air, its pale sunshine. As she passed the window of
the room in which Ordith and her father were discussing business she
thought she heard her own name--“Margaret.” Why were they speaking of
her? Perhaps her imagination had cheated her. Chance anyway!

With a little toss of her head she walked down the gritty path and
paused, turning her face into the wind, which blew cool on her forehead
and throat. The clouds were like great tigers springing up from behind
the hills. The water was flecked. The ships’ white ensigns were driven
out on the wind so that they seemed stiff, like toy flags painted on
tin.


II

When, after many congratulatory farewells and an exchange of confident
good wishes for the future, Ordith had parted from Mr. Fane-Herbert, he
saw Margaret in the garden. He paused with his hand on the outer door,
which he forebore to close lest the sound of its catch should make her
aware of his presence. Her right shoulder was turned to him, and she
was looking seaward. He threw over the slim form, slightly inclined
against the wind, a glance both critical and passionate; for it was a
peculiarity of his mind that, unless he were in wine, its faculty of
criticism was little affected by desire. Yet, even as he thought calmly
of her beauty and the amazing excellence of her body’s pose against
that pale, tawny sky, the idea of possession--or, rather, an impulse
towards such an idea, for there was nothing deliberate, no defined
imagining in this--came to him, and passed over him like a cool hand,
infinitely light of touch, causing him to shiver imperceptibly and
his eyes to narrow as if they were about to close. His throat opened
slightly to receive a breath quick drawn through the mouth. He became
conscious of the solidity of the brass knob against his palm, and, as
his fingers moved a little, of the chill of the metal they had not
previously touched. Then he closed the door, and went forward.

“You, Nick! How long have you been standing there?”

“Standing?”

“I--I had an idea that you had been.”

“No, this moment I shut the door. What made you think that?”

She moved her shoulders and smiled, dismissing the idea.

“You’re not staying to lunch?”

“No, I’m lunching at the Club. I’m coming again in the afternoon.”


III

He summoned Aggett by signal to share the meal, and when he arrived
gave him cocktails and a carefully censored account of the business
negotiations with Mr. Fane-Herbert. For several days, well aware that
negotiations were in progress, Aggett had pressed for information, only
to be met by a shaking of Ordith’s head.

“Not yet, my dear fellow. Honestly, I don’t know how we stand. I’m not
clear in my own mind how far Fane-Herbert has advanced. All in good
time. As soon as I have anything definite to tell you, I shall let you
know at once.”

Aggett had waited impatiently, but with a show of patience. Upon
Ordith’s good-will depended his chances of leaving the Service and
of obtaining a position on the technical staff of that imaginary
firm, Ibble and Ordith. He had, therefore, a personal interest in the
foreshadowed amalgamation. He knew, too, that until these arrangements
for amalgamation reached their final stage Ordith and Mr. Fane-Herbert,
though they were ostensibly allies with regard to the Eastern
Contracts, would continue to provide for the competing interests of
their respective firms, strengthening each one his own position in
preparation for the ultimate settlement.

Aggett feared that this rivalry, conducted under the cloak of friendly
co-operation, might cause a rupture. Ordith, confident of his own
powers, might snap his fingers at Ibble’s; or Mr. Fane-Herbert,
relying upon Ibble’s weightier establishment, might decide to remain
independent of the younger firm. Amalgamation was almost certainly
to the interests of both parties; without doubt it was to Aggett’s
interest. Breakdown now would be disastrous, and Ordith, he knew, was
prepared to go far to prevent it. But could he be trusted?

Aggett was not without misgivings. A disagreement in detail, a slight
on Ordith’s pride, an angry word--Aggett imagined his friend gathering
up his papers and walking out of Mr. Fane-Herbert’s room, never to
return. Moreover, Aggett perceived clearly by what personal, as
distinct from commercial, motive Mr. Fane-Herbert was urged towards
the amalgamation. He had no son worthy to receive his vast bequest of
influence and wealth--for Hugh’s powers were obviously inadequate. And
the firm of Ibble was to him more than a business. It was his life’s
work. For its sake he had sacrificed many things that when he was young
he would have sworn never to sacrifice. In it he had invested not only
money, but an unrealizable capital of labour and affection, and his
sentiment insisted that, when he was gone, Ibble’s should continue to
be identified with one of his own blood. Yet, if none of his own blood
possessed the necessary ability, outside help must be accepted. There
was but one way to compromise. His daughter must carry on the personal
tradition; her husband must provide the administrative capacity. Also,
because Mr. Fane-Herbert had learnt not to give without receiving, he
was determined that the husband must bring with him more than brains.
He must add like to like, possession to possession. And the choice had
fallen on Ordith, who was qualified in youth, ability, and endowment.

But Mr. Fane-Herbert’s view of the world led him to believe that the
amalgamation without the marriage ought to be opposed. If she were not
tied to Ordith, Margaret might marry any fool, and cease to exercise
the influence on policy which her immense holding would place at her
command. She might even sell out, and devote the proceeds to God knew
what ridiculous frippery. The Fane-Herbert tradition might come to an
end. He might lose his immortality.... The projects of marriage and
amalgamation were therefore inseparable in Mr. Fane-Herbert’s mind.
This was the fact upon which Aggett dwelt. Ordith must act, must
act immediately. Every moment of delay was dangerous, pregnant with
discord. The marriage once effected, the settlement once made--the
settlement was the point--there could be no retreat from amalgamation.

As Aggett came ashore he had decided, at the risk of unpleasantness, to
draw Ordith’s attention to this aspect of the matter; but he was soon
to discover that the risk was unnecessary. Lunch was a tedious meal, at
which conversation on engrossing topics was debarred by the presence of
others, but when it was over, and the patron saints of armament firms
had been invoked, in silence but with perfect understanding, over many
a glass of wine, the two men returned to their quiet corner and were
again at ease.

“It amounts to this,” said Ordith presently. “Point one, the Eastern
Contracts: he has been doing good work, so have I. There’s much yet to
be done, but the outlook is excellent.”

“Does he know that you have been squaring your own yard-arm when he
wasn’t looking?”

“He does. I know as much of him. That cancels out.”

“Right. I don’t like it--I’ll tell ye why in a shake. But go on.”

“Point Two, the Amalgamation: we have both agreed to support it--I,
of course, on my father’s behalf--but on one condition. Point Three,
Yourself: your billet is fixed. You go on the permanent staff. Start at
fifteen hundred--I’ll get seventeen-fifty for you when it comes to the
point. Rises after that by agreement. As for those plans and gadgets
in my cabin, there’s nothing said yet. Nothing can safely be said of
them till the amalgamation’s completed. But you stand in with me there.
You’ll have to trust me.... Satisfied?”

“Yes,” said Aggett, “though I fancied two thousand.... But what about
Point Two and that condition? You skidded over that, sonny.”

Ordith laughed--perhaps with embarrassment. “Simply a--er--personal
matter,” he said, and stopped.

Aggett glanced sidelong without moving his head, and winked. “What’s
up with ye, Ordith? Think I don’t know? Stammering lover, eh? The part
don’t suit ye.... Bo-oy! Couple o’ cocktails.... Yes, you son of a
----, two piece, two peecee! Chop chop!” He held up two fingers at the
blinking Chinese waiter. Then to Ordith: “That’s to celebrate.”

Ordith smiled. It wasn’t worth while to get angry with Aggett. “It
was rather odd,” he said, “I didn’t care to be too direct about
the--about my personal point. It’s devilish difficult to introduce
your own marriage into a business discussion without making it sound
too business-like. Oh yes, you may grin. It’s damned easy for you to
be cynical at long range.... But to me, although you may choose to
think otherwise, and although I may at times have given you reason to
think otherwise, to me this marriage is something more than a business
proposition. I nearly left it out for decency’s sake; very nearly
decided to take my chance without preliminary safeguards.”

“But you didn’t leave it out, after all,” said Aggett drily.

“No, Aggett; as you observe, with such sympathetic understanding of my
character, I didn’t, after all. You never know; the most callous father
may be touched by sentiment and drive a hellish hard bargain at the
last moment. Then I should have looked a pretty fool. Besides----”

“Besides, I’ve always read in the pretty story-books that all the best
brought up young gents approached the parents first. So you’re in good
company.” Aggett drained his glass and shouted for more cocktails.
“Drink up, ol’ man, and come to the point.”

“Well, I was infinitely tactful--screwed up my courage and shied off
again half a dozen times. Then, thank Heaven! Fane-Herbert opened
the subject himself. I thought he had been keeping something back.
‘Ordith,’ he said, ‘you must pardon my questioning you on a side-issue.
I shouldn’t venture to do so if I was not reasonably certain of being
able correctly to anticipate your answer.’”

“Sounds like a lecture,” said Aggett.

“Probably he had thought it out. He was talking at the picture above my
head. ‘I think we’d better be frank,’ he went on. ‘I think you ought to
know that I regard your marriage with Margaret as an essential adjunct
to any scheme of amalgamation.’ Then he explained why. He as good as
told me--but polite as the Devil himself, mind you--that he wouldn’t
associate Ibble’s with Ordith’s unless he had guarantees that I should
look after the Fane-Herbert interest. And, where I am concerned, he
regards a husband’s self-interest as the only reliable guarantee.”

“D’ye blame him?”

“No,” said Ordith, with faint irritation.

“Then the thing’s fixed.”

“You think so? There’s another person concerned, you know.”

“The girl? She’s as keen as mustard. Besides, she’ll do as she’s told.”

“The last statement may be true,” Ordith said, with his trick of
formality. “The first is, unfortunately, a lie.”

“I’ve watched her dance with ye.”

“But dancing is not marriage.”

Aggett exposed his teeth. “Less difference than ye think,” he rapped
out.

Having reached a stage of mental development at which virginity seemed
an unjustifiable defiance of manhood, he delighted in the marriage of
any woman he had known unmarried. He was satisfied by it as numberless
people, who had no interest in legislation or in the constitution,
were satisfied when the House of Lords had its wings clipped. He never
refused an invitation to a wedding unless it was that of a widow.

Margaret was a girl the prospect of whose taming particularly pleased
him.

“You mark my words,” he said. “She may jib the first time. But you
stick to it--it won’t last long. If she tries to stand out, she’s got
no one to talk to, not a soul to plot her little rebellion with. Ye
soon get fed with rebellin’ alone. The girl don’t stand a chance.”

“Very pleasantly put to the prospective husband.... Incidentally, the
father isn’t a brute.”

“How d’ye mean? Surely he’s fixed? You said he was fixed.”

“He might conceivably unfix. He can’t exert pressure beyond a certain
point. What’s more, Aggett, I don’t want him to.”

“Now that’s generous of ye, that is--not ‘beyond a certain point.’ God!
Ordith, old man, that’s you all over. But don’t ye see that there’s no
goin’ back for Fane-Herbert now? It ain’t jus’ a pers’nal question.
He’s got Ibble’s behind him.”

Ordith nodded. He reflected that he himself might have conducted
this affair differently if Ordith’s had not been behind him.... And
yet--well, it was no damned good to sentimentalize now. He called
for more drink as a set-off to Aggett’s frequent generosity, settled
himself in his chair, and, banishing misgiving as only the greatly
successful men of this world can banish misgiving, allowed Aggett to
talk.

Aggett liked to generalize on this his favourite subject. His aids to
the imagination and the care he took that his friend’s glass should
not long remain empty produced in Ordith a brightening of the eyes and
a certain fixity of smile. From the state of mind of which these were
the outward signs Aggett drew vicarious pleasure. He explained, with
careful avoidance of personalities which Ordith might have resented,
his theory of the advantages to be obtained by impetuous attack upon
girls of the difficult kind.

“No good hummin’ and hawin’ from t’other end of the room. They can
hum and haw better than any of us. ‘Engage the enemy more closely.’
That’s the signal. I always have a feelin’ with the villain in the
story-books. I like the breakin’ of these proud young things.”

Never a word of Margaret herself.

Ordith was scarcely listening now, but, as the speaker intended,
his thoughts followed Aggett’s, though with change of phrase and
manner--followed them through the succeeding talk until at last he rose
to go.

“Go an’ prosper, sonny,” Aggett said; “an’ Ibble an’ Ordith’s and all
thy gods go with thee.”

Ordith started on his way to the Fane-Herbert’s. It was irritating to
one on his quest to be reminded of the assistance of these gods. He
didn’t like to think of Margaret in their net--compelled. “She’s got no
one to talk to,” Aggett had said. “It ain’t jus’ a pers’nal question.
He’s got Ibble’s behind him.... The girl don’t stand a chance.” Poor
little Margaret! Poor little----

But Ordith dragged himself out of that slough.

“Ass!” he said. “No good whining that drivel. Too many cocktails.”

He took off his hat, stood still, and gathered self-control. Then,
looking at his hat, he thought it a pity that he was not in uniform.
Even upon Margaret, used to it as she was, the blue and gold would have
produced effect. As he approached the house his mind was clear and calm.


IV

Margaret knew in an instant for what purpose he was come. As he crossed
the room and placed himself on the hearthrug she knew that the crisis
she had so long expected was upon her at last. Though he spoke of a
dozen trivial things of which he had spoken many times before, there
was no doubt in her mind that this speech was but preparative to
attack. There was a stiffness in his pose like that of an actor who
is ill at ease. His feet were apart; his body was inclined slightly
towards her; his hands were behind his back. She found that, despite
herself, she acted and thought defensively--and in the bottom of her
heart was a feeling that even her defence must ultimately prove of no
avail.

She heard him telling her calmly that he loved her and wished to
marry her. Then she heard him giving reasons, outlining the future,
speaking at last as if she had given her consent. His eyes were fixed
on her and held her; but, with an effort that was a physical shock,
she broke free of his gaze. At least he should not assume consent. She
would not be edged by this slow process into compliance. She would say
something--anything to break the intolerable evenness of his speech.
She let go of the back of the chair by which she had been standing.

“No.... Wait, Nick.... I----”

He waited not an instant, knowing that he must give her no opportunity
to recover herself or to reorganize her defence. He put his arms
outside hers, and swept her to him. Mind and body, she seemed
enveloped, borne down. The strength, the impetus of him overwhelmed her
as flames and smoke, bursting suddenly forth, overwhelm the opener of
a door in a burning house. She was too sick and faint to do more than
force her head a little backwards, and, catching sight of the black and
white notes of the piano, attach to them the strange significance which
belongs to things far, far distant from us--the significance that the
cool frosty stars possess in the mind of one who perceives them from
the window of a room in which fire has trapped him. In the same second
Ordith was aware that her body, become limp, reposed almost its whole
weight on his arms.

And she heard him urging her with words that seemed to grow more and
more musical until at last she was listening pleasurably to them. His
nearness, his strength, his tenderness even--for where there was no
struggle there seemed now no kind of brutality--were becoming sweet to
her--just as the snow becomes warm and comforting to the wanderer who,
sunk by the roadside, is about to cross the line of sleep and death
beyond which is no waking, no resisting, no troubling any more. It was
so good to yield, so easy to say the one word he was demanding with
murmured reiteration.

But she did not say it. She knew she must hold out, as the lier in the
snow knows he must keep awake. “Keep awake!” The words themselves
seemed part of a dream. She tried to put up her hands to thrust him
away, but the impulse led to no more than a faint movement of her
fingers. Then, as she opened her lips and no sound came his kisses
fell on her mouth and throat, and her poor little struggle flickered
out. She had said no word, but the thought came to her, as of a thing
accomplished, “That’s over.... Of course ... I knew.... His wife--his
wife. Always.” Whereupon the consciousness that he was still holding
her reasserted itself and filled her with sudden horror and fear.

Then miraculously--for she remembered nothing of the movement that
released her--she found herself standing clear of Ordith. He had let
her go. In the open doorway, upon which Ordith’s eyes were turned,
stood Hugh, an amazed, embarrassed Hugh, who was saying, “Heavens! I’m
sorry. I didn’t know ...” and hastily shutting the door.

For the first time Ordith was at a loss.

“Well?” he said.

She sank down in a chair.

“Please go away.”

At his least movement towards her she sprang up, white and trembling,
but calm of voice.

“No.... I can’t bear it.... And please never come back--never.”

“But you said----”

“I said nothing.”

“No--not said, but----”

“Oh!” she exclaimed quickly; “I may have been wrong outwardly. But
don’t blame me for having deceived you. You were never deceived.”

He smiled at her as at a child momentarily in a foolish mood, and went
out of the room. On the stairs he met Hugh.

“I’m awfully sorry, sir. I had no idea.”

Ordith laughed. “Nothing,” he said, “nothing at all.... By the way,
there’s nothing official--no definite engagement as yet, so don’t go
and worry her about it. Better act as if you hadn’t seen, unless she
speaks to you of it.... You weren’t meant to see.”

So Hugh was bound. Ordith went on his way to report to Mr. Fane-Herbert
the development of the campaign. Together they considered the position
and reassembled their forces after the not unexpected reverse.

“The difficulty,” said Ordith, “is that she forbade me to see her
again. Having regard to the standard of honour by which we live, that’s
something of a tail-twister.”

“You will, of course, continue to come to my house on my business. The
rest follows in time.”

Ordith turned the pages of a magazine. “The sad thing is that in five
minutes or less she would have consented.”

“You’re a queer fellow, Ordith. But there, I suppose you are in love
with her; I’m sure I hope so. Five minutes or five months, what does it
matter? Obviously she doesn’t know her own mind. I’ll talk to her this
evening.”

Ordith, his head bent over an illustration, looked up under his
eyebrows. The most amazing trait in Fane-Herbert’s character was his
complacency. There he stood, unruffled, speaking of Margaret as of a
baby who had been naughty but who would in time learn to distinguish
between right and wrong.

“I’ll talk to her this evening.”

“Oh well,” Ordith thought in excuse for himself, “she’s got to live
either with you or with me.”


V

Margaret said nothing to Hugh of what he had seen, nor did he question
her. She made no attempt to argue with her father, for there was
no arguing against what he called his “plain statement of facts,
spoken for her own good.” By this she was given to understand that,
in rejecting Ordith, she had acted with rash impetuosity which, on
account of her youth, her father was ready to pardon. Next time--and
she smiled at the authoritative tone in which he spoke of this second
opportunity--next time, of course, she would revise her decision. As
for her having forbidden Ordith to see her again--that was ridiculous,
childish.

“In any case,” Mr. Fane-Herbert said, “you understand that he
is a friend of mine, and the business we are conducting is most
important--of the utmost importance. Therefore he must come to my
house. You do not intend to shut yourself in your room, I suppose?”

The incident of that afternoon was not afterwards mentioned. Mr.
Fane-Herbert would neither himself remember that Margaret had refused
Ordith nor would he allow others to take the fact into account. After a
decent interval Ordith began to visit the house again. He met Margaret
so often, and with such smiling tact, that some kind of reconciliation
became inevitable. She met him first in her father’s presence. The
encounter was unexpected; there was no retreat; and it was impossible
to pretend that she was unaware of Ordith’s presence. Her choice was
between a scene, in which her father’s intervention was probable, and
a recognition friendly enough to make complete estrangement impossible
in future. And she shrank instinctively from such a scene.

The absence of any apparent breach in his sister’s relations with
Ordith caused Hugh to assume that, though some difficulty might have
arisen, the incident he had witnessed was at least a prelude to the
engagement of which Ordith had spoken. For long he said nothing of this
to John, but at last the rumour which Aggett had put into circulation
made an explanation inevitable.

“They say Ordith is engaged to Margaret,” John said. “Is that true?”

“She has told me nothing of it,” Hugh answered.

“But you know----?”

“I saw----”

“What? Tell me. There’s no harm in telling me now. The whole ship’s
talking of it.”

“So far as I know there’s nothing definite. I haven’t heard Margaret or
my father or my mother say one word about it. All I have to go on is
that I saw him kiss her, and he still comes to the house, and they seem
friendly enough. There may be a hitch. Ordith said it was unofficial;
and it’s not for me to question Margaret. There it stands. You know all
I can tell you, John. These good people may be beforehand with their
rumour, but I’m afraid they’re on the right track.”

“Thanks,” said John, after a pause; “now I know, anyhow.”




CHAPTER XX

WINGFIELD ALTER


John’s request to leave the Service did not find his mother wholly
unprepared. Her realization of the mistake he had made had been
earlier than his own, and for many months now she had considered
the possibility of obtaining his release should he demand it. The
difficulties were, as John knew, wholly financial. She could afford
to pay the sum which the Admiralty would require as the price of his
liberty, but she could not re-educate him as she felt it was essential
he should be re-educated. If he abandoned the Service he would have
to earn his living as an unqualified man. Journalism? She had heard
enough from Wingfield Alter to teach her the meaning of life in the
lower ranks of provincial journalism. And the alternatives for the
unqualified were a clerkship in a City office or manual labour.

To Wingfield Alter, from whom she might have sought the advice and
assistance she so badly needed, she would not go. On the evening after
the arrival of John’s letter her resolution on this point nearly gave
way. The need was imperative. It was her son’s need, not her own.
And Wingfield Alter would help abundantly and willingly--she knew
that. Yet, it was impossible to approach him. If it had been no more
than advice she needed she might not have hesitated; but it was
money--money. No fair words, no tact of his or hers could disguise that
fact. And before he helped her son he would ask her to marry him. She
foresaw that quite clearly. Her request for help would, in effect, be
a request for a proposal.

She closed her eyes, pressing the lids tightly together.

When she opened them her mind was made up. Years ago, when it was
impossible that they should marry, she and Alter had cared for each
other too well and with too much silent restraint for her to spoil
it all now. Because she had been married no word of love had passed
between them. When the strain became unendurable, he had gone away with
his wife, leaving her to dream through a few months, and then to marry
John’s father. And now, John’s father being dead and Alter’s wife too,
they met again. She knew he loved her still, but he had said nothing.
Why she could not imagine. He must _know_; he must have seen. She had
no doubt of him--why should he have doubt of her? Why? Heaven knew! She
would do no more. She would not go to him.

She could not go to him.

Meanwhile, Alter was waiting for signs and failing to recognize them.
He was not, he told himself, the man he had once been, and to his eye
she seemed to have changed very little in all the years. Moreover, the
fact that there had been real affection between her and her husband
made her seem difficult to approach. He was by no means convinced
that her old love for himself had survived. It was natural that their
present friendship should have taken its place, and any attempt on his
part to insist upon love might sever the friendship for which now he
chiefly lived.

Then came Hartington’s letter. John needed help. It gave Alter his
chance, his opening. But he could not be blind to the fact that, if he
offered to help the son, the mother, in accepting, would feel that she
had placed herself under some obligation; and, whether the offer of
marriage were coincident with or subsequent to the offer of assistance,
the acceptance of one would at least be a powerful argument for the
acceptance of the other. And he wanted her choice to be free. He wanted
her to accept him for his own sake, not for that of her son. Yet, apart
from all other considerations, he was eager to help John because he
felt that John was worth assistance. Alter had reached the point in the
lives of successful men at which the highest good and the most intense
personal satisfaction seem to spring from the help it is possible to
give to others.

Far into the night he sat with Hartington’s letter on his knee,
considering how best to help, and cursing the impossibility of
frankness in this instance. It would have been so easy could he have
gone to John’s mother and have said: “You can count on me. Have
the boy out. I’ll see him through Oxford. I’ll give him the start
which, as I understand him, is all he needs. And all this you will
please regard as a side issue. It has nothing whatever to do with our
relations with each other. There’s no kind of obligation on you.” But
that was impossible. This, by the evil decree of Fate, was a question
of money, and money set up an obligation which, where man and woman
were concerned, no good-will or friendship could nullify. Hartington
said that John had written home. The letter must have arrived. If he
went straight to her now, making no mention of his knowledge, she
would inevitably look upon him as the man who was able to solve the
problem with which her son had confronted her. Her decision would be
influenced one way or the other. And, what was more, she would tell him
about John; she would feel bound to tell him. He would have to confess
foreknowledge, and unending complications would ensue.

No; there was one thing to be done, one thing only. He went to his
table and wrote to Hartington.

  “_His mother cannot possibly afford to re-educate him. Therefore, she
  will certainly refuse to apply for his withdrawal from the Service,
  and she will persist in this refusal unless extreme pressure from him
  forces her to act at last against her better judgment. You and I, Mr.
  Hartington, must pull together in this matter. I am interested in
  Lynwood; I am sure he has real ability; and I am willing and eager
  to take full responsibility for giving him a fresh start. But, for
  reasons of my own, I cannot at present approach his mother on the
  subject. Before I go to her it is necessary that the prospect of her
  son’s leaving the Service should be banished from her mind. She must
  feel that a decision has been taken in which Lynwood himself has
  acquiesced, and that the whole matter is over and done with. Then,
  and not till then, I can go to her_.

  “_Your job is to obtain Lynwood’s complete acquiescence. You must say
  nothing of my intent to help him. You must persuade him to bow to
  the inevitable with the best grace possible. In other words, when his
  mother’s refusal arrives--and it should reach the ship in the same
  mail with this letter of mine--he must write again to her, accepting
  her decision, and--for the sake of her peace of mind--accepting it
  willingly...._

  “_It is not necessary for me to give in detail my reasons for
  requiring this of you. I suspect that you have already guessed them.
  It is enough for me to say that I wish Mrs. Lynwood to be under
  no obligation to me. Also, when I go to her, I want her not to be
  thinking of her son’s future. She must feel that that is settled,
  and that young Lynwood himself is satisfied with the settlement.
  Then, knowing her to be a free agent, I shall be able to act more
  easily...._

  “_Write to me at once and tell me what Lynwood does. Give me,
  too, your considered opinion upon the question of his leaving the
  Service. It may be a little difficult, when the time comes, to
  persuade Mrs. Lynwood that her son’s acquiescence was not indeed the
  result of a change of mind. Like most women, she thinks the Navy
  an ideal profession for men. A letter from you, telling me of the
  circumstances in which Lynwood was persuaded to accept his mother’s
  decision, and giving a definite assurance--supported, if possible, by
  his own words spoken privately to you--as to his real inclination,
  might be needed to persuade her that, for all his apparent consent,
  he is still at heart eager to break free...._”

Having finished his letter, Wingfield Alter returned to those words
he had written, “break free.” They implied more than he had meant to
imply; but, as he considered them, he had no desire to weaken his
phrase.

“My God!” he said aloud, “the younger generation is in a hell of a
mess!”

He picked up an envelope and laid it face downwards on the mantelpiece.
On its back he wrote:

  “_Children of Capital; Children of Labour. They suffer in the
  transition. They pay for the bitter triumphs. They are weighed down
  by the pride. If the young men could but learn that gain is without
  profit they would know that force is barren. When all the world has
  that knowledge_”....

He tore up the envelope.

“But that’s the coming of the Kingdom,” he thought. Did he himself
believe, with absolute belief, that force was barren? It was easier to
compromise, to risk nothing, to wait; safer to go slowly. Everything
would right itself in time. That was a comfortable thought--but a lie.

He shifted his feet on the carpet, and, turning, peered beyond the soft
blur of his reading-lamp into the dark room. And a phrase came upon
him suddenly, like galloping hoofs ringing close in the dark against a
frost-bit road. Its strange rhythm startled him as if it had been the
clatter of horses riding him down.

“... Finally to beat down Satan under our feet ... finally to beat down
Satan under our feet....”




CHAPTER XXI

THE CURRENCY


I

It happened that his mother’s reply, reaching the _Pathshire_ in the
middle of October, came to John soon after he had learnt of what he
believed to be his irretrievable loss of Margaret. With her loss his
need for her became more instant. While she had belonged to none other,
and his own future had been at least not closed to dreams, he had
hesitated to admit, even to himself, that he loved her. The lesson of
the complete insignificance of midshipmen, which the Service teaches
with such energy and eagerness, had been so deeply impressed upon him
that, even in a matter so personal as this, he had been unable to
forget it. “For drill purposes,” as the Service says, snotties did not
love--they had women; and it was indeed ridiculous in one whose pay
was twelve-and-threepence a week to contemplate any love that might
lead to marriage. Moreover, John had felt that Time was on his side,
and Chance as yet not a declared enemy. He had dreamed of a swift end
to his snotty days, of expanding fortune, of reinforced hope. He had
wished to justify his claim to Margaret before making it.

It had seemed enough that she should stand for the imaginative, the
creative, the permanent--a contrast to that professional side of his
life which he took to be destructive and ephemeral. But now all these
things were changed. By his mother’s letter it had been made clear
that there would be no expansion of fortune, no reinforcement of hope,
no breaking free into a new world. Margaret ceased to represent the
possibly attainable.

The outlines of his vision of her were thus sharpened. Now that she and
his hopes for the future were at once taken away from him he saw her as
he had never seen her before. Her personality stood out more clearly.
A new fierceness and impatience entered into his thoughts of her. That
the worldly difficulties in the way of his claiming her were as great
as ever mattered no longer. That he was still a midshipman mattered not
at all. There was no denying now that he loved her--that fact dominated
all others, sweeping aside doubts, and arguments, and misgivings.

For a time this singleness of purpose was a source of happiness, a
stimulant, the effects of which rapidly passed away. At last John went
to Hartington, and showed him the fateful letter.

“Well,” Hartington said, “what are you going to do?”

“It’s definitely the end,” John answered. “It’s no good to go on hoping
to leave the Service. I’d better settle down to it, I suppose.”

“What are you going to say to your mother?”

“Oh, some lie. I don’t want her to worry her soul out. Better make
her believe I’ve changed my mind. How does one change one’s mind
convincingly?”

Together they planned his reply.

“It’s all very well for me to say I will settle down,” John said, “but
there’s no incentive in this job. I shall always look outside it. And
yet, God knows, I shall take it lying down like the rest of them:
grumble and grouse, but never break free, never rebel. Isn’t it odd
how one submits and submits, until at last the average N.O. begins to
believe, ‘Oh well, it isn’t so bad, after all’?”

“Even the cabhorse gets accustomed to his cab--perhaps gets to like it
in the end.”

John answered: “I begin to see the wisdom of breaking snotties while
they are young. I suppose it’s kinder in the long run.”


II

As autumn drew on to winter, the cold of Northern China closed down
on Wei-hai-wei, and, after a short cruise to Ching-Wang-Tao, the
_Pathshire_ lay in harbour until Christmas-time. John saw little of
Margaret, and never saw her alone. To meet her now was an exquisite
agony, for her beauty, of which he seemed never before to have been
fully aware, had that amazing power to baffle and astonish which is
the attribute of ghosts. For him the former Margaret still existed,
but under a cloak of unreality. Her friendly smile, her deep, quiet
eyes, that reflected laughter as a great lake reflects the lamps
swinging on the boats of _fête_, her manner of giving him her hand, of
inclining her body a little backwards as she spoke, these things were
familiar with the familiarity of a persistent memory--in the light of
circumstance they were no more substantial than this.

The cold became intense; there were enormous stoves in every part of
the ship; the ice made the scrubbing of decks impossible; officers
kept watch in hoods and gauntlets of fur, and the men were shrouded
in wool. In such weather there could be little activity. The Gunroom
found nothing better to do than smoke, and gamble, and drink, and
tell stories of women who were now inaccessible. And with Christmas
Day came an opportunity for outbreak. To-morrow they were to sail
for Woo-Sung--that is, for Shanghai. Christmas was their last day in
harbour, a climax, an end to many months.

In accordance with Service custom the men had decorated their messes,
and the Captain, followed by all the officers in order of seniority,
inspected them. The mess-tables were covered with good things--cakes,
jam, cigarettes, tobacco. At the end of every table stood a man with a
plate containing samples of the mess’s Christmas fare, and from every
plate each officer as he passed by was compelled to take a morsel. They
ate what they could, and carried the rest in their caps.

When Captain’s rounds and Church and Divisions were completed, the
Gunroom was entertained by the Wardroom. John drank cocktails with
everyone, drank so many that he lost accurate count of them, and
emerged with nothing but a vague consciousness of the figure eleven. He
refused to believe he had drunk so many, for he was strangely sober.
His speech was a little quickened, but his legs were steady and his
brain was clear. Oh yes, his brain was clear. And he wasn’t making as
much noise as those other fellows. They were further gone than he; the
Wardroom was further gone than he.... And the Wardroom was drifting
into the Gunroom; hospitality was being returned: cocktails were
circulating again.... What about wine bills? Would they run their wine
bills over?... Wine bills be damned! All these cocktails were going
down to the Mess. Hartington had said so. They would be charged on the
Mess share. And anyhow, seeing it was Christmas, the Captain----

“Thank God we’re going to Shanghai to-morrow!” Dendy exclaimed. “Then
to Hong-Kong. Life moves again. Here’s to the pretty ladies what takes
pity on the lone, lorn N.O.!”

John had another cocktail from the tray presented to him by the Chinese
boy. He must go steady with those cocktails. Three since he came to the
Gunroom; the third must be made to last.

“What about putting in for leave together at Shanghai?” said Dyce’s
voice. “What about night leave?”

“Could we get it?”

“I have friends there--genuine friends. We could say we were going to
stay with them.”

“Commander’d see through that.”

“Commander doesn’t want to.... Commander knows snotties’ human
beings--animals, like the rest.” Dyce put down his glass on the table.
“Anyhow, means getting out of the ship for a night....”

“D’you know where to go?”

“Find out from Dendy--he knows the ropes.”

“I----”

John drank, that none might read in his face the workings of his mind.

“That fixed?” said Dyce.

“Yes.”

A great shout went up at some joke. Heads were thrown back, slack
mouths were opened. Someone slapped his thigh to show his appreciation
of the current wit.

“That’s good ... hellish good!... D’you know the one about the Irish
girl who----”

John’s glass slipped from his fingers and broke with a clean, tinkling
sound. A heel ground the fragments....

The Wardroom officers went their way. The Gunroom sat down to lunch.
There was a basket of champagne, brought by the Captain’s steward....

Through the long afternoon the Wardroom and the Gunroom slept. Through
the dog watches they slept. A few stirred for supper.


III

Night leave was granted at Shanghai. As many midshipmen as could be
spared from ship’s duties accepted it and went ashore. They went with
a light conscience, for this affair of women had long ceased in their
eyes to have any connection with right or wrong. They regarded it
neither from the social nor from the moral standpoint. They did not
consider it more seriously than a civilian considers a visit to a
theatre. To them it was a break in routine, an escape from sameness, an
obtaining, in the only accessible form, of that change of association
which is as necessary to the mind as is change of diet to the body.

“In the only accessible form”--in that phrase was the essence of the
truth. When first they went to sea they had no taste for drink, no
habit of women. What relief they needed from the inevitable hardness of
work and discipline they found as other men find it, in the company of
those whose interests differed from their own professional interests.
According to their tastes they read, or played games, or danced, or
flirted. They talked to their mothers or their sisters, and forgot;
they went to a theatre and forgot; they saw colour, silk, pictures,
furniture, and forgot; they hunted, or read some poem, or walked
on high hills, and they forgot with the saving and strengthening
forgetfulness of sleep. So men live; such is the meaning of recreation.

In Gunrooms these things, which have in common that their appeal is
imaginative, do not exist; and the inhabitants of Gunrooms--and not
of Gunrooms only--because the imagination must needs be fed somehow,
seek relief where they may. The _Pathshire’s_ midshipmen were not
naturally drunkards or gamblers, nor were they naturally corrupt. When
they had gone home on leave from the _King Arthur_ they had not drunk
or womanized; when they returned from leave they had found the tone of
the whole Gunroom temporarily changed. Leave, a chance to break free,
an opportunity to meet women other than harlots, had cleared their
minds as the opening of a window clears a foul atmosphere. For a time
blasphemy had been unpopular, foul language infrequent. But by the
pressure of circumstance they had been driven back into the old ways.
Now they thought lightly of drinking in excess and of going with women.

“You R.N. snotties,” a merchant service officer had told John, “have
the filthiest minds I know.”

That night on which leave was given Hartington dined with the Captain.

“Well,” he said, “what of your snotties now? I suppose they are off
with the women. One can’t blame them. There’s nothing to be done
out here. They can’t be given home leave.... But the devil of it
is, Hartington, that even in home waters they don’t get leave worth
speaking of.... The fact of their having women doesn’t worry me.
The trouble is that snotties’ minds, their whole manner of life,
their outlook--it’s like a gradual debasing of a currency.... They
are strange people, the Powers-that-Be. Give them an invention or a
strategical idea and they’ll work on it untiringly, develop it with
amazing ingenuity and care. Give them boys, as fine human material
as is to be found in the world, and for four and a half years they
educate them magnificently. Then, before they are eighteen, when their
minds are in a most impressionable stage, these boys are sent to sea.
They are subjected to persecution; they are flogged continually for
no specific wrong-doing; they are deprived of all opportunity for
solitude or thought; they are put in a crowded mess where they are cut
off from intimate association with men older than themselves, from
women of their own kind, from art and culture, from trees and hills,
from all legitimate amusement. And the Powers know it. They have
absolute authority in the Service, but the evil continues. Wine bills
are limited on board, and there is a free issue of prophylactics, but
the evil continues. I know the difficulties--the inevitable conditions
of sea-service, the need there is that snotties should be taught
discipline by a short method. But it’s an odd thing, Hartington, that
men with ability and power, who have the interests of the Service at
heart, should be unable to find any means of preventing that waste and
wrong.”




CHAPTER XXII

MARGARET IN THE NET


I

In the early days of the New Year, when the _Pathshire_, after her
voyage to Woo-Sung, had proceeded to Hong Kong to refit, Margaret
found herself singularly alone at Wei-hai. Her mother and father were
with her, but their presence accentuated rather than lessened her
sense of isolation. She could never shake off her consciousness of
the opposition of their wishes to her own. They did not argue with
her or seek to persuade her. They gave her no opportunity to state
her case. Instead, by their kindness, by their consideration of all
her inessential interests, they made her understand that if she would
repent and make reparation they were ready to forgive and forget.

Forgive!... There were moments when she rebelled in her heart against
the idea that she stood in need of forgiveness. But her rebellion
lacked support and objective. If her mother had sought to persuade,
she too could have persuaded. But this tacit assumption that she had
done wrong and foolishly, this treatment of her as a child with whom
it were idle to negotiate, this slow pressure of silence and unwelcome
generosity--there was no fighting against these things.

She began to understand the secret of her father’s power over men. He
did not threaten, he gave no opening for retaliation; but he impressed
upon her continually and with infinite patience a sense of the extent
of his own resources and of her lack of resource. It was as if she
fought one possessed of unlimited reserves. She might hold out a month,
she might hold out a year, but the time would come when she would fail
and yield, and abandon all she had defended.

Why, then, struggle?... Was that the question that all the opponents
of her father were at last persuaded to ask themselves?... It would be
easier to yield. She had only to accept Ordith in order to escape for
ever from the intolerable atmosphere of coercion which filled her own
home. As Ordith’s wife she would be, in many respects, independent.
If she could but overcome her increasing fear of him, her instinctive
shrinking from his touch, her dread of his presence, she might be
happy.... And what was the alternative? So long as she was unmarried
she could never escape from her home. Her thoughts went out to John,
but there was no help in him. He was caught as she was caught. Through
different channels the power of Ibble’s was exercised over them both.

“Some day,” she said suddenly to her mother, “some day the young men
will break free.”

“As one gets older one learns the meaning of compromise. I have learnt
it myself,” Mrs. Fane-Herbert answered.

“That may have been true of the last generation.”

“It’s true for all time.”

“But don’t you feel, mother, that everything is going to change?
There’s going to be a catastrophe, a great breaking-up. And at first
it will be a tragedy--flat tragedy. We shall pay for all that’s gone
by--the young men will pay. And out of it will come----”

“Nothing will come of it. Revolution, chaos, a military dictatorship,
and then slowly back to a system essentially the same as the old.”

“I’m not speaking of a political revolution--only. Not a change of
means, but a change of motive.”

Mrs. Fane-Herbert smiled at her. “You strike truth, Margaret.” Then,
swiftly serious, she touched her daughter’s hand. “You know what you
are asking for--a revolution for Christ?”

“Yes.”

“Do you believe that possible?”

“I----” For a moment Margaret could not speak. “It must be made
possible. It can’t go on like this. We must substitute the motive
of Sharing for the motive of Gain. It’s the only way out. It’s the
only way to stop the cruelty everywhere--in slums or in the Congo or
in Gunrooms--that horrible kind of cruelty which is half-excused by
a plea of the necessities of competition.... I suppose it does mean
a revolution for Christ.... Mother, why do you make it all seem so
difficult?”

“Because I didn’t want your father’s daughter to starve for a dream.
There is no leader for such a revolution.”

“But if Christ came again?”

“To end the world?”

“No; if He came now--as a man.”

The elder woman’s eyes filled with fear. Her white fingers trembled on
the necklace she wore.

“Did I ever give you that idea--that hope? Is it your own?”

“Yes, it is my own. Why do you ask? Why do you look like that, mother
dear? Are you afraid? What have I done wrong? Tell me.”

“I had that hope when I was a child. It is like knowledge of sunshine
in a darkened room. But you are tied down, Margaret. You can’t move.
You can’t pull back the curtains. It is terrible to be aware of one’s
own captivity.”

“‘_As the fishes that are snared in an evil net_,’” Margaret said.
“Mother, I don’t believe--I believe there _is_ a breaking free. I
believe----”

“Ah!”

It was like a cry, soft, from a great distance, almost inaudible.


II

For several weeks Margaret would lie awake through the early hours
of the night. At first she strove to think connectedly, to lay plans
and make resolves; but always she would fall to wondering whether her
mother, whose girlhood must have been strangely like her own, had made
these very decisions, and, when the test came, had failed to give them
effect. And by this wonder her mind was carried towards acceptance
of the inevitable. There would come blank periods in her thought
when, oppressed by what seemed a clear perception of the futility of
effort, she would see her own life as a cockleshell adrift upon the
seas of Time. She had no recollection of a Departure, no sure hope of
a Landfall. God had closed His eyes, was sleeping; and she was alone,
unguarded, unperceived.

Unperceived. This thought clung to her through the night on which
her father told her that Ordith was coming on the morrow. It made
easy the acceptance of ease. She lived in the moment, noticing with
unprecedented pleasure certain details of her room’s appearance--the
soft roughness of the blankets, the beading on the brass handles of her
dressing-table, the pale lights of blue and gold that mingled in the
bevel of her mirror. She undressed slowly. Once, with her hands and
arms raised above her head and her chin thrown back, she watched the
light and shadow move over her bosom and throat as she drew breath....
A sudden weakness overcame her; her arms dropped; she was surprised by
the strange, wild expression in her reflected eyes. Her face seemed
thinner, her eyes more deeply set; upon her lips pallor had fallen.
This would be her appearance when she was older; this, a little
accentuated, would be her appearance as she lay dead.... Something she
wore brushed and hissed against the eiderdown. She turned quickly and
laid her outspread hand upon the bed, so that light billows of satin
rose between her white fingers. She touched her arm with a slow caress.
With her nail she caused a long, shrill sound to issue from the silk.

Frightened by the unknown spirit that possessed her, she stood in
the middle of the room, swaying from her feet, her lips parted, her
eyes wide. The intolerable stillness within, the lifeless folds of
the flowered curtains, that would hang in just those folds though she
slept, though she died, laid some spell upon her, and she strained her
ears for the low murmuring of the sea. A board creaked beneath her.
There, close to her, in her own room, were evil presences--or was it
that a Presence was withdrawn and the room empty, and she alone?

Unperceived.... She crouched beside her bed because as a child she had
thus knelt to pray. The scent of linen, the pressure of her finger-tips
upon her forehead, the fragrance of her own hair--why did these
memories of Childhood’s bedtimes come back to her now with mockery and
sadness? Their significance was changed, and their sweetness gone from
them.

“O God, make me pray. Take away this insistence of touch and sound and
sight. Make me believe the Spirit is powerful still, and can prevail
... and shall prevail; and that life is not just living in the body and
the hour. And give me----”

It was as if she had been speaking to one who, unperceived, had gone
from the room. She had not been heard. Throughout the prayer she had
been thinking how the pile of the carpet was pressed down by her knees.

For long she remained kneeling, her face hidden, her hair dark over her
hands. She knew what she would do: she would take Ordith. She might be
afraid at first, but soon he would win her, soothe her. Of course she
would take him; that had been planned, preordained.

She was almost asleep. Her weight pressed the edge of the bed....
Ordith would teach her, hold her. She would give herself----“God,
why am I so hedged round--forsaking what is lovely, though I see its
loveliness--like all the young, because I must. Jesus, pull me out of
this even now--so late--even now.”

Her lashes moved against her palms. The light came through the pink
edges of her fingers.... Was that only hypocrisy? Was she willing,
after all? A tremor of excitement ran over her, and she pressed her
elbows into the bed and shut her eyes again.... Anyhow, in fifty years
it wouldn’t matter.... And Christ would not come again. It was foolish
to--to starve for a dream.

The room was cold. Her shoulders were bare, and her feet. This physical
consciousness was like the touch of a hand.


III

Throughout the morning Margaret looked forward to her encounter
with Ordith with that mixture of passivity and restlessness which
alternately lulls and excites the sensitive boy who, something of a
hero among his schoolmates, awaits his flogging. After breakfast Ordith
and her father disappeared; after lunch they disappeared again. She and
her mother, possessed by a common thought which neither would express,
faced each other in a silence that was half-nervous, half-determined.

Early in the afternoon her mother complained of a headache, and went to
her room.

“You might have my tea brought up to me, Margaret.”

“Poor mother!” Margaret thought. “She’s hoping that I am going to be
sensible. Ought I to tell her I am going to be sensible--just to set
her mind at rest?”

But she did not move. She let the silence of the room close round her.
Presently, after many hours it seemed, the door of her father’s room
opened and shut, footsteps sounded in the hall, and Ordith entered.

“Alone?” he said.

It was strange that she felt so calm, so decided, so completely
mistress of herself. A twist of annoyance because he asked so
unnecessary a question--that was all.

“Are you ready for tea?” she asked.

“Indeed I am.”

“So you lay aside the burdens of state. Is father coming?”

“I expect he is.”

“I don’t,” she said, under her breath. Then, aloud: “I’ll go and ask
him. You might ring.”

She looked into her father’s room. He was sitting by his desk, a spiral
of blue smoke rising from the ash-tray at his side.

“Tea, father?”

“Yes, you might send in a cup to me. No milk, no sugar, and strong,
_doushka_. I’m dead tired.”

He had used the Russian word which had been his pet name for her in the
nursery, which she could not remember his having used since she was a
child. She went to him and stood by his chair, wishing she could love
him.

“You are not ill, father?”

“No--no.”

“I think you ought not to work so much. Surely you have earned a rest?”

“I couldn’t retire, darling. You don’t understand.”

“I’m beginning to understand--how it holds you. Couldn’t--wouldn’t it
be possible, father, for you to throw your mind back to the old days
and what seemed worth while then?”

“We are not young twice,” he said, trying to laugh.

“No ... but that’s true of the young as well as of the old.”

He would not understand her. She withdrew a pace from him and steeled
herself.

“You want me to marry Nick,” she said, and went on: “You know what it
means, and that he doesn’t love me. And you know what that means.”

“I think he does love you.”

“Physically.... I’m going to say it, father. I’m going to be straight
this once.... A girl can tell what a man’s thinking about her. And if
it’s ... what Nick thinks ... it’s like being stripped--there--in the
middle of the room.” When her breath came more evenly, she said: “And
when you think that the girl was once a little child extraordinarily
in touch with Christ, made for sunshine and flowers, and warm
affection--almost a part of Him, wondering for the first time about
stars and distances, and so--without fear--about death, and love, and
time----” She broke off. “That’s the chance, the raw material of the
spirit. And then fear creeps in, and the craving for power--they creep
into the nursery. We start compromising because others compromise; we
are cruel in self-defence, evil for the sake of good--and our motives
are confused until we don’t know what’s right or wrong. Our seeing of
Christ is out of focus, and we talk--honestly as honesty goes--of a
man’s being ‘too Christian,’ of ‘adapting Christianity to the needs of
the day.’ And so at last I don’t think badly of you for wanting me to
go--in there.” She made a gesture towards the room where Ordith was. “I
make excuses for you. It seems quite reasonable. And, more amazing, you
don’t think badly of me for consenting.... Yes,” she added, meeting his
quick glance, “I do consent. You needn’t worry.”


IV

She returned to Ordith with high confidence. The Chinese boy who had
laid the table was sent to her father with tea, and she gave orders
that a tray should be taken to her mother’s room. When the boy had
gone, she leaned over the fire with hands outstretched.

“Cold?” Ordith said. “Sit by the fire, then--there, on that long thing.
I’ll manage tea.”

From his chair he could look down upon her. For a time they scarcely
spoke. He was content to watch her; she to submit. His empty cup
tinkled on the saucer as he set it down.

“Do smoke.”

He leaned forward.

“Have you forgiven me?”

“Yes.” She would not give him the pleasure of a fight.

“Quite?”

“Quite.”

Unprepared for this acquiescence, he was disconcerted. She smiled as,
without looking at him, she became aware that he was ill at ease. For
the last time, perhaps, he was suppliant now. Soon no mysteries would
divide him from her. Soon----

But she liked him for being afraid, for his embarrassment, his
momentary helplessness.

“You old fool, Nick!”

“For doubting? Then--Margaret, I’m ghastly afraid of frightening you.
But I do love you. I do love you, Margaret. You’re different from
me--on a different plane--that’s what makes it difficult. But I love
you, body and soul. Margaret----”

“And soul!”

The implication stung. “You mean----”

“Never mind what I mean. I’m not quite sure myself. I don’t care.”

He could not wait to think it out. Perhaps she had meant nothing. He
said:

“You know what I am asking.”

“I don’t love you,” she said, before he could speak, “nor you me.”

She faced him suddenly.

“There’s one question I want to ask you, Nick,” she said evenly.
“Whatever your answer may be it will not affect my answer. So the
truth.... If I consented to be your mistress, would that be enough?
Would it?”

“Good God, Margaret! what a question! No, a thousand times, no!”

“Put aside the business aspect of this marriage. Think of the personal
only. What is it you want in me?”

“All of you.”

“Body and soul?”

“Yes.”

She bowed her head. “I wonder if you believe that. I think you
do.” Then, in a flash, “Oh, Nick, we do lie to ourselves! I was
wrong in a way. It’s possession you want, isn’t it?--abstract
possession--ownership--gain!”

“Is that wrong?”

“You’re a man,” she said simply, and, with caught breath, “Thank God
for that!”

He was careful, in the light of his experience, not to approach her,
not to touch her. This time she should come to him.

“Come, Margaret,” he said; “don’t let us be fools.”

She looked across at him. So she was to move towards his chair, and sit
at his feet--and sit at his feet. He would touch her hair, her hands,
her shoulders. That would be yielding. That would be, very quietly, the
end....

That would be extraordinarily like an oleograph--“in the firelight.”

She thrilled to laughter, and slowly, like recognition of an unfamiliar
acquaintance, laughter came. It was as if she had wakened from some
ridiculous nightmare; as if a shaft of light had fallen across a dim
room, revealing countless absurdities that the dark had concealed. And
laughter fled suddenly--stifled her a moment, and was gone.

In the stillness, she remembered--as something long passed--the sharp
sound of her merriment. Looking round the room, she saw the piano
standing open, and beneath its polished lid the black keys and the
white. First it was their sharp contrast that seemed to interest her;
then, as her attention dwelt on them, they assumed a certain power of
reminiscence, of suggestion, as if they were symbolic of something
outside themselves, something in the past peculiarly significant to
her. With a mental process similar to that by aid of which dream and
reality are separated until they stand recognizably on either side
of the line between sleep and waking, with the laborious thought of
one struggling against the last influence of a drug, she remembered
how those black and white notes had imprinted themselves on her
consciousness when, on that other occasion, Ordith had so nearly
mastered her. The days intervening between that time and the present
ran before her in swift procession. She saw herself as she was then;
as she was now--then, fighting, determined, clear in mind; now, with
even her will gone. By subtle process she had been changed, for the
circumstances were unaltered. Slowly, day by day, by patience, by
silence, by implied menace, by the bluff on which her father’s power
depended, her fortress, unknown to her, had been undermined. Her father
had come very near to winning, very near.

He should not win!

If she had not seen herself as a figure in an oleograph and laughed....
The ways of salvation!

She laughed again. Ordith, with the first laugh still ringing in his
ears, moved as if to come to her. But, on the instant, the tension that
had held her failed. With the sob, not of a woman but of a little girl,
she drooped and trembled and hid her face in her hands. She was crying
like a child who, having come through some great fear, breaks down
under confidence restored: tears of relief, of sanity snatched back,
held--just held.

“Margaret!”

She dropped her hands, raised her head. Her eyes were swimming and
glistening with tears, her cheeks flushed as if with happy excitement.

“Oh, leave me alone, Nick--please--please! Nick--please. Promise you
will leave me alone always.... I’m frightened. You could get anything
you wanted at last. But you don’t want me--not really. It’s so much to
me; so little to you. Please, Nick, is this the end?”

“If you wish it.”

She seized his hands between hers. “Even if he persuades?”

“Yes.”

“Your word? He’s so strong....”

“My word.... Margaret--oh, you child!--I do care for you now more than
ever.”

Suddenly he kissed her.

“There.... Have your own way. I’m not a devil, Margaret dear. But your
seeing is different from mine--and your gods, I think. They won’t have
us together.”

“No.” She looked up with sudden curiosity. “Nick, you are superstitious
like all great men? You--you wouldn’t have me now if I asked you? Would
you? Would you?”

He smiled at her with understanding, and admitted, “No.”

“Something--inside you--says ‘No’?”

He nodded.

“Then I’m safe--quite safe.”

This amazing childlikeness!

“As your gods keep you,” he said.

And she, with the embarrassment of one who returns a formal
congratulation, answered: “And yours ... and yours, Nick. You’ve been
good.”




CHAPTER XXIII

AN INSTANT FREE


I

Mr. Fane-Herbert decided to be in London with the spring. Ibble’s and
Ordith’s were to remain independent, an arrangement of which both he
and Nick Ordith saw the advantages, and which Aggett alone regretted
wholeheartedly. Three weeks in Japan would complete Mr. Fane-Herbert’s
work in the East, and to Tokio he went, with Margaret and her mother,
at the end of February.

Soon afterwards the _Pathshire_, having finished her refitting, sailed
for Yokohama, and on the first Friday in March, John and Hugh, who had
obtained week-end leave, arrived at Kamakura. That evening, when the
hotel dinner was over, they sat together in the verandah of John’s
bedroom. Below them stretched the lawn, its size exaggerated by the
semi-darkness, its nearer edge, gloomy under the hotel’s shadow,
slashed, where the gleam of windows fell upon it, with parallelograms
of yellow light.

“They come to-morrow,” Hugh said.

“This will be the last that you’ll see of them before they leave for
home.”

Hugh nodded. “Margaret will be glad to go.”

“Because Ordith stays?”

“Partly--though I think she has cast off Ordith and the thought of
him.... But she’ll be glad to be rid of the place and its associations.
London will give her something else to think about.”

“It’s almost incredible,” John said slowly, “that anyone out here now
should be able to reach London within seventeen days. It seems further
away than that.”

“But I like the East,” Hugh protested.

John laughed. “Good God!” he exclaimed, “so do I; but that has nothing
to do with it.” He knocked out his pipe against the verandah rails.
“Anyhow,” he said, “it’s a long lie-in to-morrow. Throw us a cigarette,
Hugh.”

He looked out across the lawn, across the broad belt of trees that
stood between the garden and the beach. The sea was near--not that
sea into which steel ships vomited their bilge, but the quiet sea of
kissing sands and straight horizon which had been his first love.
To-morrow did not matter; that darkness, those stars unsnared by
sextants, that sea undivided into ranges, were suggestive of too many
to-morrows, too many yesterdays. From an open window came voices and
laughter, and the tinkle of a curtain being drawn.

“Women,” Hugh said.

John leaned over the rail.

“That curtain has cut a patch of light out of the lawn. They’ll all go
out one by one.”

“Ours won’t--not yet. I’m not going to turn in for hours.”

“I know,” John said, reading his thought. “I hate wasting leave in
sleep. Even if I turn out late, I like to wake early, and imagine
the Reveille sounding and the calling of ‘Guard an’ steerage.’
‘Show-a-leg, show-a-leg, lash up and sto-ow!’--and you lying in bed,
with the whole day before you--away from the ship.”

“This being Friday,” Hugh observed, “we have to-night, and Saturday
night, and Sunday night--two clear days.”

“I wonder what would happen if we didn’t go back--if we hid somewhere
and never went back--if we started on our own. Why should we go back?”
John said, for the sake of saying it.

“If we didn’t, we’d be caught. If we weren’t caught, we’d starve....
The extraordinary thing is,” Hugh went on, in a puzzled voice, “that we
can’t stay as we are. I’m happy as can be sitting here; yet I shall get
up presently and put an end to this evening by going to bed. I don’t
want to move. It’s glorious here in the dark.... Look at the lawn--like
a great pool.”

“You want to lay hold on the instant,” John said. “You can’t any more
than you can lay hold on eternity. They are the two infinities that
meet somewhere. Probably from some point of view--if only you could
reach it--the instantaneous and the eternal appear as one and the
same. But the proofs we have of that are pretty vague: there’s that
extraordinary consciousness--coming for no apparent reason--that a
given instant is of tremendous importance, that it is going to be
remembered, that somehow it’s a source of unknown events to come; then,
at the other end of the scale, there’s the recollection of certain
instants--more than mere memory, a kind of preservation. An instant
years-old by the measure of time, remains intact, perfect; and you
know that it’s never going to perish or fade. Usually the occasion was
trivial....”

“I wish,” said Hugh out of the silence, “the Commander could hear his
young gentlemen talking like this.”

John laughed uneasily. “I had managed to forget the ship.”

“All the same,” Hugh went on, “I like vague talk. I like listening to
you--even though I don’t understand too much of it. Vague talk gives me
what I imagine you were driving at, what you spoke of before--a sense
of eternity.”

A watchman’s bell rang faintly in the distant village. When it could be
heard no longer, John said:

“A sense of eternity--what a phrase that is!”

Light, quick footsteps sounded on the path; then the heavier tread of a
man. The girl stopped suddenly, touched her companion’s arm, and, when
he looked down, laughed breathlessly--an odd laugh, half-confidential,
half-embarrassed.

“Oh, Torwood,” she exclaimed, “I do so _love_ this East!”

He threw his arm round her, and, with a tremendous air of
proprietorship, almost dragged her indoors. Little gasps of excitement
were her show of protest. As they passed through the room below the
man could be heard speaking quick words to her, in a voice unevenly
controlled; speaking with strange disregard for the public room’s
bleak emptiness and for the nearness of those who were sleeping, for
the stare of electric bulbs, which, when they shine singly over places
deserted till the morning, have so intent an air of watchfulness and
curiosity.


II

On Saturday evening Margaret and Mrs. Fane-Herbert reached the hotel.
After dinner, Mrs. Fane-Herbert said to John:

“I hear you changed your mind about leaving the Navy.”

“It was scarcely a question of my changing my mind. It didn’t get as
far as that. You see----” He looked aside and saw that Margaret was
watching him. “At any rate, I am settled down to it now,” he said.

Hugh broke in with talk of Kamakura.

“When does your leave end?” Margaret asked.

“Monday.”

“You must go back to your ship, then?”

“Yes, by noon.”

She turned to John. “And you, too?”

Something in her intonation caught his attention, and he looked swiftly
at her.

“Yes,” he said. “You must send us news of London as our share in your
home-coming.... I want to hear of your great-grandmother’s welcome.”

“Her great-grandmother?” Mrs. Fane-Herbert put in.

“The portrait, mother--the one over the stairs.” Then to John: “She’ll
give me comments with her welcome, a lecture for her runaway.”

There was a hint of bitterness in that; but John’s remembering that
conversation on the first evening she had known him stung her with
the sting--half-pleasant, half-painful--of childhood days recalled in
dark moments. For now she was easily stung to sorrow or to a kind of
fierce joy. She had wanted desperately to talk, to tell someone how
free she was--Ordith being gone. Untold, her freedom seemed incomplete.
But neither her father nor her mother had spoken. They had learnt the
facts, accepted them; she had attempted no explanation; not one word
had been said. This silence had a hardening quality. Her experience,
the vivid remembrance of which might have flowed easily away, was
somehow frozen in her mind, like a sin unconfessed. There was no one to
whom she could go. Warmth of heart, comradeship, the simplest affection
she starved for. But this being left alone, this frigidness of spirit,
this intolerable independence....

John had known, at least, that her heart was full. It was as if she
had seen a friendly face in the midst of a vast unnoticing crowd. When
she said good-night to him she gave him her hand with new confidence.
Then, out of his sight, she was suddenly angry with herself as for a
foolishness, a weakness for the first time realized. An instant she
stood unmoving outside her bedroom door--her mind tripped somehow,
taken unawares.

And in the morning she settled at once to a book, glad of an occupation
so isolating.

“You’re very deep in that book, Margaret,” Hugh said, as he passed her.
“Aren’t you coming out?”

“I want to finish it before lunch. Do you mind?”

“I see the last of you and mother to-morrow.”

“I’ll come this afternoon, ... or shall I come now?”

He looked into her upturned face. Her hand was on the arm of her chair
to raise herself.

“No, you odd sister.... No; you’re not to come--of course not.”

She went late to lunch, and was surprised to find Hartington at her
mother’s table, with John and Hugh. He said that his leave lasted only
till that evening.

“Can’t you stay and go back with us to-morrow?” Hugh asked.

“No.” He shook his head. “But I wanted to see the homeward goers before
they went. That’s really all I came for.”

The meal over, he had no difficulty in seeing Margaret alone, for she
felt that it was to see her he had come.

“Well,” she said, “secret emissary, what is it?”

“You know there’s something?”

“You are full of suppressed news.”

“Yes; good news--oh, such good news!”

“Thank God for that!” she breathed.

“You expected bad?”

“I fear it always. There’s nothing definite that I expect. But
somehow----”

“No,” he said quickly. “This is good, anyhow. Lynwood is free--through
Wingfield Alter.”

She gave no sign of pleasure so eager was she. “How? Really free?”

“Really free,” he smiled. “Are you beginning to disbelieve in
freedom?... The mail came in after Lynwood left the ship. A letter for
him from his mother, and a letter for me from Alter. I have them both
here. Alter is to marry Mrs. Lynwood. He has taken the first definite
step towards getting Lynwood out of the Service.”

“When will he be free? Will he come home with us?”

“Not possible. It takes time. But now it is only a question of time--a
couple of months, perhaps.”

“You haven’t given him his mother’s letter?”

“No.”

“You haven’t told him?”

“No; I came to you first. I want you to tell him.”

Something stifled her inclination to ask “Why?”

Hartington went on hesitatingly: “It means so much to him, you see.
It’s such tremendous news, because he has no hope or expectation of it.
So ... Miss Fane-Herbert, I want you to tell him.”

Her eyes widened for a moment. They looked out beyond Hartington. Then,
with abrupt decision, she said, with a fluttering, pleading gesture
towards him: “No; you. You must tell him. It’s your right. You brought
it about.”

“I wrote to Alter--that’s all.”

“It came about through you. Oh, long before the writing of that
letter, you helped him--didn’t you?--perhaps not deliberately. You
don’t realize how much you have done for him. Certainly you don’t
realize what he feels for you--the strangest mixture of affection, and
admiration, and respect--but overwhelming. You are all that’s best in
men for him! And he’d like you to bring this news. He’ll be glad, years
on, that it was you who brought it. Friendship between men is so much
more substantial, more secure. You must tell him,” she concluded. “It’s
your right.”

“Why do you insist so much on right? I waive it if it exists. That’s
why I came here.”

“Oh,” she cried, with a smile in acknowledgment of his unveiling of her
half-pretence, “I want it to be you!”

He laughed back at her, so that her colour came....

He took John away into the country roads, where the cherry-trees were
in blossom and the sun lay flat on the long, low, irregular branches,
reminding them of illustrations in Japanese fairy-books. There, as they
walked, the news was given, the two letters read.

“You’ve done all this,” John said, and remained speechless.

“I can’t help wondering what it is exactly that I have done or helped
to do. What’s it going to lead to?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that this--the breaking free--is a beginning, not an end.”

“I know.... But there’s time enough to think of what’s to come. I won’t
think of it now.... Hartington, couldn’t you come too?”

“No; we shape different courses now.”

“But we three shall see each other often--in London. I’ve never seen
you in London. And at Oxford, you must stay with me there.”

Hartington looked wistfully at him. “Oh yes,” he said, “we shall see
each other often.”

They found on their return that the others had finished tea. Only Hugh
remained by the empty cups. He sprang up to meet them.

“I am glad, you civilian! Margaret told me.”

“She knows?”

“I told her,” Hartington said. Then, “Have I stolen your news?”

“There is no one left to tell,” John answered, laughing. “I want to
tell thousands of people.”

Later, he asked: “Where is Margaret?”

“I don’t know. She disappeared after tea.”

They sat smoking. Everything was pleasant to John now: the click of
a cigarette-case being shut, the tapping of the cigarette, the long
silences in which none of them had need of speech. The afternoon had
begun to fail. The sun slanted yellow across the window-panes and fell
in rippling beams of light and shadow upon the pale matting. Outside,
the lawn and distant trees had taken on those soft golden tones which,
at the approach of summer’s dusk, flow across English fields, investing
them with kindly magic. Then the church tower seems more than ever
still; the churchyard silent, but not terrible. The bird rustles in
the hedgerow; you imagine his bright eyes. The cricket stumps yellow
against the green; the shadows flicker on the pitch; the bat sounds
clearer, sweeter; the ball runs smoothly, and with peculiar ease; the
players and the umpires in their white coats grow nebulous and vague.

“‘And a ghostly batsman plays to the bowling of a ghost,’” John said.

“Back in England already?”

“This summer in England!”

He went bareheaded into the cool air, across the lawn, springy under
his feet, down the path among the trees where the white sand lay
heavy, on to the shore. There was Margaret, near the waves’ edge. He
approached her, and, because she was so still, touched the billowing
muslin she wore.

“You know?”

“Yes. John, how happy you must be! Always you’ll remember to-day. It’s
your hour--one of the three or four. They go by so soon.”

“And you? Are you not happy?... You are free, too.” He faltered as he
spoke of this, of which she had never spoken.

She shivered, as if a cold breeze had struck her.

“Yes.... I understand.... I, too, am free. I know.”

She turned to him eyes full of light.

“Oh, Margaret,” he cried, his arms outstretched, “don’t look towards
the future. To-day’s enough, Margaret. What is it you are afraid of?”

She said, trembling under his touch, close to him so that her dress
brushed lightly against his coat, “What is it we’re both afraid of? We
are both afraid.”

For answer, in his primitive wisdom, he swept her to him, overwhelming
her thought. Lip to lip they clung, she imprisoned, silenced, caught up
from fear. His arms about her in fierce pressure were a whole armour
against doubt--more than armour, a charm, for the arrows themselves
were diverted and flew wide of her, forgotten. Flames ran down her as
his mouth burned against her throat, and her lips, opened now, were
full of the sharp sea-wind.

She fell from him a little, still held.

“That once,” she said, with caught breath, “that instant lives. That
stands. Nothing can touch it or steal it.... Don’t let me go--not yet,
my darling--don’t let me go!”

He drew her close again, but more gently. And she said:

“It’s our victory.”

“Nothing reverses it.”

“Tell me----”

He told her his love again and again, her arm drawing him down so that
the fresh scent of her hair was over him.

“Nothing takes those words back”--his kiss fell on her--“or the touch.”

“But here we begin,” he protested, wondering at the jealous terror that
possessed her. “We shall go on from this for ever. Nothing is taken
away. We build and build. In a few years, when I----”

“Oh!” she cried, “in a few years--who knows? We don’t break free
so easily as this, John. The net sweeps wider than we know. It
yields--that’s its strength. And presently it draws us in again. So
it will go on--till the breaking.... You see, even you and I go on
strengthening it, making new meshes despite ourselves. If ever we are
to stand together in the world, first you have to gain money and power.
You have to fight. Then--it’s inevitable--we would have to teach our
children to fight--equip them for ‘the battle of life!’ And they would
look round to find themselves in _our_ net.

“But it’s going to end. The world will change its motive when this
motive of gain has made it suffer so terribly, so obviously, that it
realizes the cause of its suffering. We have to suffer--we or our
children. It’s near now. The whole system may smash--the good with the
bad--perhaps that’s the only way; and we may slip back into the Dark
Ages again. I don’t know....”

“But now----” John said.

“Now? Yes--that’s ours.... Oh, for God’s sake! touch me and hold me as
if you would never, never let me go....”

And presently, standing away from him, she was saying with composure:
“Let’s go back. It’s getting dark. Look how the colour is fading from
the sea.”

They went up the beach to the edge of the tree belt. There she checked
him. Turning, they looked down upon their tracks to where, in the
instant now gone by, the sand had been roughed and broken by their
feet. Soon the water, which from the gathering darkness had drawn its
first gleams of phosphorescence, would smooth their footprints away.




CHAPTER XXIV

ONE YEAR LATER: THE WORLD IN THE NET

“_Our fathers understood not thy wonders...._”--PSALM cvi.

“_Our fathers have trespassed ... our fathers have fallen by the sword,
and our sons and our daughters and our wives are in captivity for
this._”--2 CHRON. xxix.

“_We have sinned with our fathers...._”--PSALM cvi.


Under the hot sun of an early August day in 1914 John walked from
Parliament Square towards Whitehall. More than a fortnight earlier he
had gone to the Admiralty and offered his services for the war. His
name had been added to a long list of applicants for whom employment
could not immediately be found. The same morning he had offered himself
as an infantryman to a corps which was awaiting permission to form new
battalions, and his name had been taken again. Now an official telegram
had brought him to London.

In the forecourt of the Admiralty he met Tintern, who had entered at
the corner nearer to Trafalgar Square.

“You, Lynwood--I thought you were at Oxford.”

“Not yet. I’ve done the exams. I was waiting for the term to begin in
October.”

“What are you doing now? Volunteering?”

“Yes.”

“I nearly chucked the Service myself a few months back. Glad I didn’t
now. War breaks the monotony of routine. It’s what we, who stayed in
the Service, have been preparing for. And even you, who made up your
mind to break clear away--you have been roped in again. It comes to the
same thing in the end.... They’ve emptied the college at Dartmouth, you
know--all the cadets going to sea.”

Together they went up the steps into the great building, through the
many passages of which, after enquiries made of a messenger, they began
uncertainly to thread their way.


PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY BILLING AND SONS, LTD., GUILDFORD




Transcriber's Note


A half-title page has been removed from the text.


The following apparent errors have been corrected:

p. 33 "class" changed to "class."

p. 39 "running" changed to "running,"

p. 40 "heart," changed to "heart"

p. 166 "brillance" changed to "brilliance"

p. 168 "written?" changed to "written?”"

p. 189 "‘Yes," changed to "“Yes,"

p. 193 "snotties" changed to "snotties’"

p. 322 "come----’" changed to "come----”"

p. 322 "old.’" changed to "old.”"

p. 322 "Christ?’" changed to "Christ?”"

p. 323 "afraid." changed to "afraid?"

p. 337 "went on" changed to "went on,"

p. 341 "him?’" changed to "him?”"


The following are used inconsistently in the text:

ashtray and ash-tray

forebridge and fore-bridge

sideboy and side-boy

watchkeeping and watch-keeping








End of Project Gutenberg's The Gunroom, by Charles Langbridge Morgan