From a distance the _Euphrosyne_ looked very small. Glasses were turned
upon her from the decks of great liners, and she was pronounced a
tramp, a cargo-boat, or one of those wretched little passenger steamers
where people rolled about among the cattle on deck. The insect-like
figures of Dalloways, Ambroses, and Vinraces were also derided, both
from the extreme smallness of their persons and the doubt which only
strong glasses could dispel as to whether they were really live
creatures or only lumps on the rigging. Mr. Pepper with all his
learning had been mistaken for a cormorant, and then, as unjustly,
transformed into a cow. At night, indeed, when the waltzes were
swinging in the saloon, and gifted passengers reciting, the little
ship—shrunk to a few beads of light out among the dark waves, and one
high in air upon the mast-head—seemed something mysterious and
impressive to heated partners resting from the dance. She became a ship
passing in the night—an emblem of the loneliness of human life, an
occasion for queer confidences and sudden appeals for sympathy.
On and on she went, by day and by night, following her path, until one
morning broke and showed the land. Losing its shadow-like appearance it
became first cleft and mountainous, next coloured grey and purple, next
scattered with white blocks which gradually separated themselves, and
then, as the progress of the ship acted upon the view like a
field-glass of increasing power, became streets of houses. By nine
o’clock the _Euphrosyne_ had taken up her position in the middle of a
great bay; she dropped her anchor; immediately, as if she were a
recumbent giant requiring examination, small boats came swarming about
her. She rang with cries; men jumped on to her; her deck was thumped by
feet. The lonely little island was invaded from all quarters at once,
and after four weeks of silence it was bewildering to hear human
speech. Mrs. Ambrose alone heeded none of this stir. She was pale with
suspense while the boat with mail bags was making towards them.
Absorbed in her letters she did not notice that she had left the
_Euphrosyne_, and felt no sadness when the ship lifted up her voice and
bellowed thrice like a cow separated from its calf.
“The children are well!” she exclaimed. Mr. Pepper, who sat opposite
with a great mound of bag and rug upon his knees, said, “Gratifying.”
Rachel, to whom the end of the voyage meant a complete change of
perspective, was too much bewildered by the approach of the shore to
realise what children were well or why it was gratifying. Helen went on
reading.
Moving very slowly, and rearing absurdly high over each wave, the
little boat was now approaching a white crescent of sand. Behind this
was a deep green valley, with distinct hills on either side. On the
slope of the right-hand hill white houses with brown roofs were
settled, like nesting sea-birds, and at intervals cypresses striped the
hill with black bars. Mountains whose sides were flushed with red, but
whose crowns were bald, rose as a pinnacle, half-concealing another
pinnacle behind it. The hour being still early, the whole view was
exquisitely light and airy; the blues and greens of sky and tree were
intense but not sultry. As they drew nearer and could distinguish
details, the effect of the earth with its minute objects and colours
and different forms of life was overwhelming after four weeks of the
sea, and kept them silent.
“Three hundred years odd,” said Mr. Pepper meditatively at length.
As nobody said, “What?” he merely extracted a bottle and swallowed a
pill. The piece of information that died within him was to the effect
that three hundred years ago five Elizabethan barques had anchored
where the _Euphrosyne_ now floated. Half-drawn up upon the beach lay an
equal number of Spanish galleons, unmanned, for the country was still a
virgin land behind a veil. Slipping across the water, the English
sailors bore away bars of silver, bales of linen, timbers of cedar
wood, golden crucifixes knobbed with emeralds. When the Spaniards came
down from their drinking, a fight ensued, the two parties churning up
the sand, and driving each other into the surf. The Spaniards, bloated
with fine living upon the fruits of the miraculous land, fell in heaps;
but the hardy Englishmen, tawny with sea-voyaging, hairy for lack of
razors, with muscles like wire, fangs greedy for flesh, and fingers
itching for gold, despatched the wounded, drove the dying into the sea,
and soon reduced the natives to a state of superstitious wonderment.
Here a settlement was made; women were imported; children grew. All
seemed to favour the expansion of the British Empire, and had there
been men like Richard Dalloway in the time of Charles the First, the
map would undoubtedly be red where it is now an odious green. But it
must be supposed that the political mind of that age lacked
imagination, and, merely for want of a few thousand pounds and a few
thousand men, the spark died that should have been a conflagration.
From the interior came Indians with subtle poisons, naked bodies, and
painted idols; from the sea came vengeful Spaniards and rapacious
Portuguese; exposed to all these enemies (though the climate proved
wonderfully kind and the earth abundant) the English dwindled away and
all but disappeared. Somewhere about the middle of the seventeenth
century a single sloop watched its season and slipped out by night,
bearing within it all that was left of the great British colony, a few
men, a few women, and perhaps a dozen dusky children. English history
then denies all knowledge of the place. Owing to one cause and another
civilisation shifted its centre to a spot some four or five hundred
miles to the south, and to-day Santa Marina is not much larger than it
was three hundred years ago. In population it is a happy compromise,
for Portuguese fathers wed Indian mothers, and their children
intermarry with the Spanish. Although they get their ploughs from
Manchester, they make their coats from their own sheep, their silk from
their own worms, and their furniture from their own cedar trees, so
that in arts and industries the place is still much where it was in
Elizabethan days.
The reasons which had drawn the English across the sea to found a small
colony within the last ten years are not so easily described, and will
never perhaps be recorded in history books. Granted facility of travel,
peace, good trade, and so on, there was besides a kind of
dissatisfaction among the English with the older countries and the
enormous accumulations of carved stone, stained glass, and rich brown
painting which they offered to the tourist. The movement in search of
something new was of course infinitely small, affecting only a handful
of well-to-do people. It began by a few schoolmasters serving their
passage out to South America as the pursers of tramp steamers. They
returned in time for the summer term, when their stories of the
splendours and hardships of life at sea, the humours of sea-captains,
the wonders of night and dawn, and the marvels of the place delighted
outsiders, and sometimes found their way into print. The country itself
taxed all their powers of description, for they said it was much bigger
than Italy, and really nobler than Greece. Again, they declared that
the natives were strangely beautiful, very big in stature, dark,
passionate, and quick to seize the knife. The place seemed new and full
of new forms of beauty, in proof of which they showed handkerchiefs
which the women had worn round their heads, and primitive carvings
coloured bright greens and blues. Somehow or other, as fashions do, the
fashion spread; an old monastery was quickly turned into a hotel, while
a famous line of steamships altered its route for the convenience of
passengers.
Oddly enough it happened that the least satisfactory of Helen Ambrose’s
brothers had been sent out years before to make his fortune, at any
rate to keep clear of race-horses, in the very spot which had now
become so popular. Often, leaning upon the column in the verandah, he
had watched the English ships with English schoolmasters for pursers
steaming into the bay. Having at length earned enough to take a
holiday, and being sick of the place, he proposed to put his villa, on
the slope of the mountain, at his sister’s disposal. She, too, had been
a little stirred by the talk of a new world, where there was always sun
and never a fog, which went on around her, and the chance, when they
were planning where to spend the winter out of England, seemed too good
to be missed. For these reasons she determined to accept Willoughby’s
offer of free passages on his ship, to place the children with their
grand-parents, and to do the thing thoroughly while she was about it.
Taking seats in a carriage drawn by long-tailed horses with pheasants’
feathers erect between their ears, the Ambroses, Mr. Pepper, and Rachel
rattled out of the harbour. The day increased in heat as they drove up
the hill. The road passed through the town, where men seemed to be
beating brass and crying “Water,” where the passage was blocked by
mules and cleared by whips and curses, where the women walked barefoot,
their heads balancing baskets, and cripples hastily displayed mutilated
members; it issued among steep green fields, not so green but that the
earth showed through. Great trees now shaded all but the centre of the
road, and a mountain stream, so shallow and so swift that it plaited
itself into strands as it ran, raced along the edge. Higher they went,
until Ridley and Rachel walked behind; next they turned along a lane
scattered with stones, where Mr. Pepper raised his stick and silently
indicated a shrub, bearing among sparse leaves a voluminous purple
blossom; and at a rickety canter the last stage of the way was
accomplished.
The villa was a roomy white house, which, as is the case with most
continental houses, looked to an English eye frail, ramshackle, and
absurdly frivolous, more like a pagoda in a tea-garden than a place
where one slept. The garden called urgently for the services of
gardener. Bushes waved their branches across the paths, and the blades
of grass, with spaces of earth between them, could be counted. In the
circular piece of ground in front of the verandah were two cracked
vases, from which red flowers drooped, with a stone fountain between
them, now parched in the sun. The circular garden led to a long garden,
where the gardener’s shears had scarcely been, unless now and then,
when he cut a bough of blossom for his beloved. A few tall trees shaded
it, and round bushes with wax-like flowers mobbed their heads together
in a row. A garden smoothly laid with turf, divided by thick hedges,
with raised beds of bright flowers, such as we keep within walls in
England, would have been out of place upon the side of this bare hill.
There was no ugliness to shut out, and the villa looked straight across
the shoulder of a slope, ribbed with olive trees, to the sea.
The indecency of the whole place struck Mrs. Chailey forcibly. There
were no blinds to shut out the sun, nor was there any furniture to
speak of for the sun to spoil. Standing in the bare stone hall, and
surveying a staircase of superb breadth, but cracked and carpetless,
she further ventured the opinion that there were rats, as large as
terriers at home, and that if one put one’s foot down with any force
one would come through the floor. As for hot water—at this point her
investigations left her speechless.
“Poor creature!” she murmured to the sallow Spanish servant-girl who
came out with the pigs and hens to receive them, “no wonder you hardly
look like a human being!” Maria accepted the compliment with an
exquisite Spanish grace. In Chailey’s opinion they would have done
better to stay on board an English ship, but none knew better than she
that her duty commanded her to stay.
When they were settled in, and in train to find daily occupation, there
was some speculation as to the reasons which induced Mr. Pepper to
stay, taking up his lodging in the Ambroses’ house. Efforts had been
made for some days before landing to impress upon him the advantages of
the Amazons.
“That great stream!” Helen would begin, gazing as if she saw a
visionary cascade, “I’ve a good mind to go with you myself,
Willoughby—only I can’t. Think of the sunsets and the moonrises—I
believe the colours are unimaginable.”
“There are wild peacocks,” Rachel hazarded.
“And marvellous creatures in the water,” Helen asserted.
“One might discover a new reptile,” Rachel continued.
“There’s certain to be a revolution, I’m told,” Helen urged.
The effect of these subterfuges was a little dashed by Ridley, who,
after regarding Pepper for some moments, sighed aloud, “Poor fellow!”
and inwardly speculated upon the unkindness of women.
He stayed, however, in apparent contentment for six days, playing with
a microscope and a notebook in one of the many sparsely furnished
sitting-rooms, but on the evening of the seventh day, as they sat at
dinner, he appeared more restless than usual. The dinner-table was set
between two long windows which were left uncurtained by Helen’s orders.
Darkness fell as sharply as a knife in this climate, and the town then
sprang out in circles and lines of bright dots beneath them. Buildings
which never showed by day showed by night, and the sea flowed right
over the land judging by the moving lights of the steamers. The sight
fulfilled the same purpose as an orchestra in a London restaurant, and
silence had its setting. William Pepper observed it for some time; he
put on his spectacles to contemplate the scene.
“I’ve identified the big block to the left,” he observed, and pointed
with his fork at a square formed by several rows of lights.
“One should infer that they can cook vegetables,” he added.
“An hotel?” said Helen.
“Once a monastery,” said Mr. Pepper.
Nothing more was said then, but, the day after, Mr. Pepper returned
from a midday walk, and stood silently before Helen who was reading in
the verandah.
“I’ve taken a room over there,” he said.
“You’re not going?” she exclaimed.
“On the whole—yes,” he remarked. “No private cook _can_ cook
vegetables.”
Knowing his dislike of questions, which she to some extent shared,
Helen asked no more. Still, an uneasy suspicion lurked in her mind that
William was hiding a wound. She flushed to think that her words, or her
husband’s, or Rachel’s had penetrated and stung. She was half-moved to
cry, “Stop, William; explain!” and would have returned to the subject
at luncheon if William had not shown himself inscrutable and chill,
lifting fragments of salad on the point of his fork, with the gesture
of a man pronging seaweed, detecting gravel, suspecting germs.
“If you all die of typhoid I won’t be responsible!” he snapped.
“If you die of dulness, neither will I,” Helen echoed in her heart.
She reflected that she had never yet asked him whether he had been in
love. They had got further and further from that subject instead of
drawing nearer to it, and she could not help feeling it a relief when
William Pepper, with all his knowledge, his microscope, his note-books,
his genuine kindliness and good sense, but a certain dryness of soul,
took his departure. Also she could not help feeling it sad that
friendships should end thus, although in this case to have the room
empty was something of a comfort, and she tried to console herself with
the reflection that one never knows how far other people feel the
things they might be supposed to feel.