Among the passengers on the boat was a tall dark man with a black
moustache and well-cut clothes who spent most of his time walking the
deck or reading alone in his chair. Every ship has such recluses, who
often, however, are on the fringe of several sets, although members
of none. But this man remained apart and, being so determined and
solitary, he was naturally the subject of comment and inquiry, even
more of conjecture. His name was easy to discover from the plan of the
table, but we knew no more until little Mrs. King, who is the best
scout in the world, brought the tidings.
"I can't tell you much," she began breathlessly; "but there's
something frightfully interesting. Colonel Swift knows all about him.
He met him once in Poona and they have mutual friends. And how do you
think he described him? He says he's the worst liver in India."
There is no need to describe the sensation created by this piece of
information. If the man had set us guessing before, he now excited
a frenzy of curiosity. The glad news traversed the ship like wind,
brightening every eye; at any rate every female eye. For, though the
good may have their reward elsewhere, it is beyond doubt that, if
public interest is any guerdon, the bad get it on earth.
Show me a really bad man--dark-complexioned, with well-cut clothes
and a black moustache--and I will show you a hero; a hero a little
distorted, it is true, but not much the less heroic for that. Show me
a notorious breaker of male hearts and laws and--so long as she
is still in business--I will show you a heroine; again a little
distorted, but with more than the magnetism of the virtuous variety.
For the rest of the voyage the lonely passenger was lonely only
because he preferred to be, or was unaware of the agitation which
he caused. People walked for hours longer than they liked or even
intended in order to have a chance of passing him in his chair and
scrutinising again the features that masked such depravity. For that
they masked it cannot be denied. A physiognomist looking at him would
have conceded a certain gloom, a trend towards introspection, possibly
a hypertrophied love of self, but no more. Physiognomists, however,
can retire from the case, for they are as often wrong as hand-writing
experts. And if any Lavater had been on board and had advanced such
a theory he would have been as unpopular as JONAH, for the man's
wickedness was not only a joy to us but a support. Without it the
voyage would have been interminable.
What, we all wondered, had he done? Had he murdered as well as
destroyed so many happy homes? Was he crooked at cards? Our minds
became acutely active, but we could discover no more because the old
Colonel, the source of knowledge, had fallen ill and was invisible.
Meanwhile the screw revolved, sweepstakes were lost and won, deck
sports flourished, fancy-dress dances were held, concerts were
endured, a Colonial Bishop addressed us on Sunday mornings and the
tall dark man with the black moustache and different suits of well-cut
clothes sat in his chair and passed serenely from one OPPENHEIM to
another as though no living person were within leagues.
It was not until we were actually in port that the Colonel recovered
and I came into touch with him. Standing by the rail we took advantage
of the liberty to speak together, which on a ship such propinquity
sanctions. After we had exchanged a few remarks about the clumsiness
of the disembarking arrangements I referred to the man of mystery and
turpitude, and asked for particulars of some of his milder offences.
"Why do you suppose him such a blackguard?" he asked.
"But surely----" I began, a little disconcerted.
"He's a man," the Colonel continued, "that everyone should be sorry
for. He's a wreck, and he's going home now probably to receive his
death sentence."
This was a promising phrase and I cheered up a little, but only for a
moment.
"That poor devil," said the Colonel, "as I told Mrs. King earlier in
the voyage, has the worst liver in India."