Grand Canary (17 page)

‘My advices were at fault,' he answered shortly. ‘And the agent is going to hear about it. The thing is more serious than I was told. Now I have positive information. You'd better take my suggestion. Stay down in Santa Cruz. There it's quite moderately clear. It'll suit you well enough for the time being. No point in shoving yourself into danger. Only common sense.'

She shook her head, said slowly:

‘Sometimes things don't work out best by common sense.'

He made a chafing movement with his papers.

‘You will go then?'

‘Yes.'

Studying her more carefully, his testy expression altered. He held out his hand, fixed her with a less frosty eye.

‘Good luck, then,' he said. ‘Keep out of the night air. And don't get nervous.'

A feeling of his regard warmed her. The shadowy smile returned.

‘I reckon I'm not the nervous kind,' she said. And, turning, she moved away. She stepped down the companion. Then, as she passed into the starboard alley-way, the light suddenly quivered in her eyes. Advancing towards her was Harvey Leith. They met face to face in the middle of the passage and, with a sort of stupid numbness, she did not make way. He was obliged to stop. For a full ten seconds silence dangled disjointedly between them; then, driven by confusion, she blurted out:

‘We're going now. I've just been taking good-bye of the captain.'

He stared at her so fixedly his features were like a mask; it seemed to her that all the bitterness of the early days of their acquaintance was back, so lifeless was his face, his eyes so cold.

‘Well,' he said at last. ‘ Good-bye.'

Instantly she crimsoned, feeling with fresh intensity his deadly power to wound her. And immediately, too, she was confronted by the fact that she was leaving him, that she would never again see him, a fact hitherto so little realised it struck her now like sudden fear.

‘And now perhaps you'll let me pass,' he said wearily, ‘or shall we sing one last hymn together?'

‘Wait,' she cried out. ‘Don't go yet. Don't go.' And, driven by the uncontrollable desire to detain him, she thrust her hand forward and held his sleeve.

The feel of his forearm beneath the thin cloth sent a shiver along her skin, which ran shamefully into her blood.

‘Will you promise – promise me something before I go?' She stammered out the words, hardly conscious of what she did.

‘Why should I promise? I have no obligation to you.'

‘Not to me,' she gasped, ‘but to yourself. Oh, I'm not thinking about anyone but you.'

He stared fixedly at her plain, upturned face now twitching with her emotion.

‘It hurts me,' she went on quite wildly, ‘to see how you neglect yourself. Today you haven't been down for a single meal. You eat nothing. Oh, you don't take care of yourself.' Incoherently she broke off, her eyes glistening towards him; then, with a rush of fresh courage, she went on, her tone abandoned, beseeching: ‘ I know I'm making a fool of myself. But I don't care. I know you hate me. But that won't stop me. There's something about you that makes me burn to help you. I'd put all my trust in you. I know you can do great things. And oh, you've suffered so much. I don't want you to suffer any more. I don't, I tell you. I can't bear that you should suffer. Can't bear it. Oh, please, please let me think that you'll be careful of yourself. Let me know that and I'll – I'll go away happy.' Her hand slipped down his sleeve; convulsively she pressed her fingers into his palm.

‘Don't do that,' he cried instantly, recoiling from that tremulous touch as though he had been stung.

‘I know, I know,' she cried with a jealous pang. ‘I know you're in love with her. Don't think I haven't seen it. Yet even that can't stop me. She can't feel for you the way I do. And she's gone, you see, just as I'll be gone. But my thoughts will go on. On and on. You can't escape them. You can't, I tell you. I'll pray for you. Yes, I'll serve you through my prayers.'

There was a frightful pause filled by her loud and quickened breathing.

‘Please don't,' he said in a low painful voice. ‘You are upsetting yourself. And all – all for nothing.'

The ring of futility echoing through his tone seemed to goad her; but as she made to speak a voice behind arrested her abruptly.

‘We're ready now. All waiting for you.'

It was Rodgers, armed with his level, penetrating stare; and beside him was her brother.

She stood stock-still; then her hand fell back with a gesture of hopelessness. For an instant her eyes strained towards him; then, without another word, she turned; with lowered head she began to walk down the deck.

‘Well –' said Tranter indecisively. He stammered his goodbye, offered his hand to Harvey. Gone now was the old effusive, manly grip; the hand was flabby, cold as a fish's tail. Rodgers said nothing. His look encompassed Harvey with a cold disfavour, then he turned his angular back and stalked off.

Harvey stood motionless, his face set and quite expressionless. Thus he watched them cross the gang-plank and enter the waiting conveyance. There was a jingle of harness; a stamp of hoofs; a spurt of white dust. Still motionless, he saw them drive off slowly to Laguna. To Laguna, where there was yellow fever.

He alone of all the passengers remained upon the ship, which lay quiescent in a queer silence – like the rifled silence of a hurriedly deserted house. Alone! It was a dreadful word; a word which fastened on to him. He who had craved solitude, who had always been sufficient to himself, was now riven by the pangs of loneliness.

Seated in his cabin with a book upon his knee, he made pretence of reading. But the print was blurred, the words meaningless. A strange, chaotic retrospect of all his life tormented him. Useless – quite useless! The sense of his own inadequacy grew upon him. The incident which had terminated his career at the hospital presented itself suddenly in altered form. He began dimly to be sorry, not for himself, but for those three who had died. Poor devils, he thought, they didn't have a chance.

Impatiently he flung the book upon the bunk, sat staring for a long time at nothing. Then there was a knock, the door opened, and Trout came in, bearing the familiar hot-water can.

Harvey followed the movements of the steward as he set down the can and silently touched the cabin to order. Then a singular impulse caught him. He took out his pocket-book, extracted a note, offered it to the steward.

‘Take this,' he said, ‘ for looking after a damned ungrateful swine.'

Trout made a delicate gesture of distress.

‘No, sir. No, indeed. It's been a pleasure. Time enough when we get back.'

‘Take it,' said Harvey roughly.

The steward took it; stood for a second disconcerted; then scraped himself out with a murmur of thanks.

Why, thought Harvey, did I do that? He had begun by cursing Trout; now with a rush of sickly sentiment he had given him, quite inopportunely, a pound. It was too enigmatical for him to fathom. He gave it up. Then his eye was caught by the brass can standing by his washstand; and the prospect of a solitary dinner so suggested filled him with dismay. When the ship was docked, Renton dined unfailingly in his cabin; Corcoran – yes, even Corcoran – had left him; without thought, apparently, of return. He would be alone, alone. Again the melancholy word sank into him.

He had been so desperately self-confident in the past, clenching his fists in the face of friendship, scorning all sentiment with a scathing final wisdom. And now he had learned that his wisdom was not final.

Why had he learned? Love! Six months ago that word would have roused him to derisive laughter; a contemptuous jibe at its inanity. But now he neither laughed nor jibed. He thought of Mary.

Was he never to see her again?

He longed to see her. She had said once, in her inarticulate way, that life was governed by strange and subtle undercurrents beyond the power of reason. At the thought, that strange fatalism which had been born within him quivered with a breath of trembling hope. Through all his life he had expressed himself in terms of hard, incisive fact. But now dimly he was conscious of another force, higher, more intimate than reason.…

He sighed heavily, stood up and looked out of the window. Work had ceased along the harbour, but it was still clear. Beyond the breastwork of the mole the roof-tops of the town rose up, one upon the shoulders of another. They were silent yet clamorous. They seemed to beckon. Then, through his brooding, suddenly an overpowering restlessness rose up in him. I can't stay on board, he thought. I simply cannot stay.

It all happened in a moment: the thought merging to decision. Seizing his hat, he swung out of the cabin and made for the quay.

The air was cool; his hurrying steps slackened to a quieter pace; he gained the end of the mole, crossed the road beyond the customs, and entered the Plaza. And there he paused.

The shops were closed; the glittering front of the hotel repelled him; he was surrounded by strangers. What was there for him to do? Around him in the square, beneath the tufted palms, people were strolling up and down. The men walked separately from the women: two orderly promenading streams. There was neither excitement nor commotion; simply an indolent enjoyment of the evening air. The presence of disease within the town made no ruffle upon the surface of its placid life. That life went on, languid and untroubled; today was here, tomorrow could remain; it was sublime philosophy. For a moment Harvey stood watching, then abruptly moved away. Still that restlessness was in his blood. He wandered to the left, out of the main thoroughfare, away from the lights, into a network of narrow streets, where at the turn of an alley an ancient building loomed before him. It was the cathedral, and on a sudden impulse he entered. A service apparently had finished; the scent of wax and incense hung in the air; some women knelt before the central altar, their figures bowed and motionless, steeped in the blue dimness of the place. He stood very still, taken by a strange wonder. He seemed to see the church as it had been years and years ago; heard almost with awe an echoing of all those vanished footsteps; as from a flaming torch the tang of burning cedar came to him. He moved slowly beneath the invisible nave like one who vainly seeks for something – perhaps for peace. Stopping now here, now there, he stared at the broidered vestments, the relics, the thigh-bone of Pope Clement, the cross planted by the Conquistadores. And then he came upon the flags. Before him, in their glazed case, they limply hung, two ensigns taken from Nelson in the assault upon the town. He looked at the flags, thinking of the hands which long ago had touched them. And he had suddenly a curious desire to feel the texture of the tattered stuff. All at once his fingers tingled; across his mind there came a singular sense of pain. And yet it was not pain. A queer emotion, indefinable, evoked by the vision of these flags: a flash of retrospect and melancholy mingling in one swift pang. There was something: then it was gone. He could not place that odd sensation; its source was inexplicable; but it disturbed him none the less, and left him with a hollow sadness.

Still distressed that such emotion could be wrung from him, he turned away, came out of the cathedral, stood indecisively upon the worn steps. Now it was quite dark. From the sea a flashing beam swung round, illumining his figure for an instant with brilliant light. It was like his thought, that unexpected flash: an instant's light, then plunging back to obscurity.

Behind him lay the shadows of the church. And before him what? He came down the steps, struck off at random along the water-front. His loneliness was pressing upon him like a curse. And again he was assailed by the desire to escape. He thought: What has come over me? If I don't get away from myself I shall go mad. And, on the impulse, he crossed the cobbled street and turned into a lighted café which stood beside an old lumber-strewn ship-chandler's yard.

It was a poor place, a common wine-shop, low browed, half sunk beneath the level of the street. The floor was of stone, the tables of unvarnished wood. Above, an oil lamp swung from a central chain. Behind the bar a young Spaniard stood in his shirt sleeves, eating his supper of black bread and olives. From time to time he turned his head to spit the stones across his shoulder: the turning of the head was a delicate concession to politeness. Upon the wooden benches a scattering of customers were seated, all men, all of the class that hangs about a water-front. They looked curiously at Harvey as he seated himself at a table. And he looked back at them. An odd sensation of surprise took him that he should be here; he was confused almost by the transit of his own being from the ship to the cathedral; from the cathedral to the tavern. But had any man the right to question his pre-appointed presence in time and space? It was no mere matter of volition; nor yet of chance. No mingling of circumstances, no splitting of the seconds through infinity, could have brought him to this tavern at this hour. It was his destiny. He felt this with absurdly positive conviction.

The waiter brought him a glass of wine, scuffling his flat feet, which were cased in enormous canvas shoes. Flapping the table clean of slops with a dirty cotton cloth, he laid down the glass, received the money as though it were an insult, and returned to his olives.

Harvey sat with his head bowed forward, looking at the rich brown wine. Then he picked up his glass and emptied it. There was no fear – that stupid craving of the past was gone. That, too, came over him with absolute conviction. How had he ever thought there was escape that way? Not now! His condition now was different; he, himself, had altered beyond all recognition.

He sighed inaudibly and lifted his eyes, which were arrested by an unexpected sight. A man was standing in the doorway. He stood there for a moment looking behind him. Then, ducking his head beneath the lintel, he stepped in. It was Corcoran.