The traveller was homeward bound, and his liner made its landfall,
and turned for Portland and its London pilot. There was no welcome in
that look of the coast of home. The shadow of land to port might have
been the end of all the headlands of the seas. It was as desolate as
antiquity by twilight. There was no rain, but the chill cut to the
bone. The sky was old and dark. This frown of the north-land subdued
the comfortable life of the ship; it fled below. The little cheerful
groups dissolved without a word. The decks were deserted, except for
two odd figures, muffled like mummies in a shelter on the lee side. He
could find nobody who would face it with him. He strolled aft to the
shelter where some men who knew the East used to meet, before dinner,
to smoke and yarn, but only a steward was there, a disillusioned
familiar who was brusquely piling the unwanted wicker chairs--throwing
them at each other.
Somehow even the satin-wood panelling of the stairway to the saloon,
with its bronze balustrade, appeared now to be out of place. It did
not accord with cold draughts. The glow lamps shone in emptiness, the
palms in the corners were dingy. He suspected the life of the ship had
suddenly absented itself, and was behind closed doors, whispering of
a crisis to which he could get no clue. As he descended to his cabin
he paused to watch an officer, muffled in a greatcoat, pass from one
side of the ship to the other on a deck above him, but the man was
pre-occupied and hurried, and did not notice that the ship had another
lonely ghost wandering about her.
In his cabin the little gilt image of a Buddha, Putai Ho-Shang, the
god of children and earthly joys, passive and happy, regarded him
cheerfully from the clothes chest. That token of the East had more sun
in it than all the world into which the steamer had now come. The image
was old, perhaps as old as that fading recollection of a land along
which the ship was now cruising for haven. Might not that recollection
fade utterly before the haven was reached? Was that image cheerful
with tidings that were nearer to the springs of life than anything
known under the skies of the north? Was it that knowledge which made it
confident? There was a suggestion of derision about its happy smile,
as though it had a word which made it invulnerable to this bleak air,
and to the driving darkness that was the headlong confusion of a region
which had lost its light and faith.
The bugle called to dinner. He took no notice of it. He thought he
would sooner pack up; at least he could then confirm, putting away
some good things he had found in Brunei, Palembang, and Canton, that
somewhere life was ardent and young, and was light-hearted while making
beautiful things. He placed a porcelain bowl beside Buddha. The two
were worth looking at. If you stood in a certain way a golden dragon
was hinted in the azure of the bowl. The man who made that did not work
in a north-east wind. When he opened his camphorwood chest it filled
his cabin with a suggestion of warm nights, of a still sea in which
the reflections of the stars were comets rising from the deeps, of the
figures of motionless palms drowsing with their heads above a beach.
Well, that was over. But he had seen it. Time, now, to put it away,
except as a private thought.
But, as he packed away his silks and porcelain the image steadfastly
quizzed him. That token of another order of things reclined
luxuriously, as if asking him what he was going to do about it,
though knowing he could give no answer. He put away everything but
the image. He left that in the seat it had occupied all the voyage.
He would not touch that yet. The voyage was not quite over. That idol
was like an assurance of good. It might be the sign of a wisdom which
understood all that he knew, and yet still could contemplate affairs
with equanimity, though the sun and the lotus were far away. The image
was completely foreign, as incongruous in a ship as he himself would be
in a temple; yet you could believe that Putai Ho-Shang was in a place
his philosophy comprehended, though that place was chill and cold to
him; that in his cheerful mind every extension of the mechanics of
industrial progress was provided for, and all the important devices of
the busy men who motived that machinery. It would appear as simple to
him as the acts of children. He would know all about it, and the end
to which it was destined.
The face of the little Cockney steward was at his elbow, with its
sardonic smile. “Your tea, sir. We’re nearly in.”
“Where are we?”
“Just orf Southend. Fine morning, sir. The pier’s plain.”
It certainly was a fine morning. The captain passed him on the deck.
“Hullo, here we are again. Looks good, doesn’t it? We’ve done nicely,
too. She came along last night like a scalded cat, though there was
just an off-chance we missed the tide. We’re going up on top of it all
right.”
Was that Essex? No land in the East ever had a brighter sparkle. This
place was not only alive, but boisterous. It was as young as a star.
Their liner was slipping past a collier with a noise of brisk waters
which was startling to one who had just left the quiet seclusion of a
cabin. The river and its men were about their business. Great ships
were moving quickly on a river that was spacious and resplendent. The
very sunlight seemed dangerous, with its swift gleaming in a lively
breeze. That challenging shouting from a sailing barge was the voice
of a young and vigorous land. To that land morning was native; and
full tide, pouring with bustling winds and floods of sudden light,
made merely the pulse of it. He got the impression that the globe was
spinning almost too buoyantly. Gravesend was soon ahead of them, a
touch of smoking rose. He dived below, at something like a speed proper
to this newly discovered land, to see whether or not his baggage had
gone out for the Customs inspection. It had gone. No time had been
lost, and even while he looked round his cabin he saw from his port
light that the liner was slowing ... she had anchored.
No hurry. Nobody would be waiting for him; not at that hour of the
morning. He idled outside. The long vista of the lower deck was vacant.
Eh? As he looked aft a tall figure turned into it, leisurely and
confident, glancing in curiosity about the ship, a figure that was
familiar, yet changed by time. Was that his own boy?
The stranger strolled along and saw him. “Hullo, dad!” And then
flushed, and was shy. “She’s a topping ship, isn’t she? I watched her
coming up the river. She looked fine. Where’s your cabin?”
They went into it. “The luggage is all set out on the other end of the
ship. I came over in the tug with the Customs Officers. They tried to
turn me out. What a jolly cabin. I like this. And what’s that funny
smell, like spice? I wish I’d been with you.”
They stood looking at each other intently, asking questions, forgetful
of time. The boy, smiling and confident, like an assurance of good,
regarded him cheerfully from a superior height.
“Here, my lad. Time we were off. There’s a special train for the
passengers. Come along, and talk afterwards.”
The boy gave a quiet look round. “Here, is this yours?” He grinned, and
picked up the image of Putai Ho-Shang. “What a comic little chap! Is he
yours? Righto!” He put Buddha in his pocket.