Secretary Dimsdale may be bashful enough in the presence of ladies.
"They frighten me, and I lose my head at once," is his explanation of
the fact--which perhaps accounts for the corresponding fact that up
to the present he has never lost his heart. But away from their
alarming presence he is a very different man, a shrewd, clear-headed
thinker who can put his finger on the essential point of a case in a
brace of shakes, the sort of man who might have made a brilliant
success as a barrister had he chosen to make a career for himself in
civil life.
If he were not a man of this sort, he would never have been picked
out for a secretary; for an admiral's secretary, whether on board or
in an appointment ashore, has to be a compendium of all the most
lustrous qualities of all the most learned professions; he has to be
able to talk like a parson, to diagnose like a doctor, to argue and
persuade like a lawyer, and to do any or all of these things at a
moment's notice; and he must be a cultured man of the world into the
bargain. Even all these qualifications would be of little use to
him, they would never indeed be sufficient of themselves to secure
him his secretaryship, unless he is a rattling good fellow who can
win and keep the confidence of everybody from the admiral himself
right down to the latest joined midshipman.
Dimsdale is just such a man; his one handicap, his timidity with the
fair sex, is a defect which the admiral, who has known him for the
past twenty years, optimistically hopes he will some day grow out of.
Indeed, Dimsdale hopes so himself; but up to the present he has shown
very little sign to encourage such hopefulness.
When, therefore, he escapes from the clutches of Norah and Netta on
the fatal afternoon of his accompanying the admiral ashore for a walk
on the island, he accepts with alacrity the task of conveying a
message to Patrick Sheridan; this is a matter he can deal
with--anything, in fact, so long as no more women are mixed up in it.
With that scrupulous conscientiousness which characterises all his
official dealings and has contributed so much to his success as a
secretary, he determines to undertake the errand in person and not to
leave it to a subordinate. The more so, since he looks upon his
behest not as an official duty but as an affair of honour; for with
all his bashfulness Dimsdale has a very high regard for women, a
knightly regard, and looks upon an errand entrusted to him by one of
their number as a charge which he is in honour and duty bound to
fulfil to the very letter.
On leaving the island, therefore, he proceeds straight to the depôt
ship where Sheridan is lodged, and makes enquiries as to where he may
be found.
O'Brien, the fleet-surgeon of the depôt ship, who has been taking a
stroll on the quarter-deck by way of getting a little exercise in
spite of being tied to the ship by the Medical Guard, meets the
secretary as he comes on board and answers his enquiries.
"Is it that fellow Sheridan ye're wanting to see, then? Begad, ye'll
be lucky if ye can succeed in setting eyes on him, for it's a thing
none else of us can do, an' thass a fact! Or may be ourselves that's
the lucky ones, for of all the cross-grained murdherin' divils I ever
came across in me life, sorra a one did I ever see to bate this
ugly-looking shcoundrel! I'm an Irishman meself--though I regret to
say I've lost the thrick o' the tongue of my own mother-speech, and
many's the one takes me for an Englishman, notin' the entoire absence
of brogue in me--but though I tried my best to act friendly towards
him when he came on board, he would have no daylin's with me. It's
his sort that brings the ould counthry into disrepute, bad luck to
them!"
"Well, where can I find him?" asks the secretary.
"In his own cabin, where he sits and refuses to come out or speak to
a living soul. He insists on having his meals there--and judging by
the number of trips the wine-steward makes to an' fro I should say he
is a deal more thirsty than hungry--and there he shtays and refuses
all attempts to persuade him to act like a sociable being and come
into the mess with the rest of us."
It is not very encouraging; but Dimsdale is not the man to take much
account of a little discouragement.
He finds his way to the cabin where Sheridan has, metaphorically
speaking, barricaded himself in, and knocking at the tightly-closed
door is greeted with a surly "Who's there?"
Taking this for sufficient invitation to enter, without waiting for
any further preliminaries, Dimsdale smartly pulls back the sliding
door and then with another quick sweeping motion flings aside the
thick brown curtain which further impedes his entrance, and sets foot
inside the cabin.
"Heavens, man, what an atmosphere! How can you live in a place shut
up like this?"--is his first greeting; and no wonder--for to a man
coming from the open air and the sunshine this cabin, hermetically
sealed, is like a foul dungeon!
Like a dungeon indeed--like a condemned cell, almost; for the man who
occupies it conveys the exact impression of a criminal sunk in the
lethargy of despair.
He is seated on the narrow bunk, with his legs hanging over the edge,
and facing the doorway; he is huddled up with his elbows on his knees
and his face in his hands, the very picture of a trapped enemy of
society.
Yet he is a free man, if he would use his freedom; he can mix with
the other men on board, and he hopes in a day or two to be more free
still--to get clear away from this disquieting place where the spirit
of law and discipline irks his mind and troubles his conscience, if
he has any conscience remaining to him. Yes, he has made his plans
for escaping to the south and losing himself amongst the
multitudes--though there is one bothering matter which causes him a
little anxiety; that court of enquiry, which he has heard is to take
place on the morrow.
In one respect the dark cabin is extremely unlike a prison cell; it
reeks with the odour of tobacco, and with the nauseating fumes of
whisky; and judging by the strength of both these perfumes, the
occupant of the cabin has been indulging himself pretty freely. The
effect upon him is to make him even more surly and morose than he is
by nature.
"What have ye come in here for? What d'ye want?" are the first words
he speaks.
"I have a message for you from your cousin, Miss Norah Sheridan,"
answers the secretary.
"Where is it? Give it to me"--stretching out his hand and half
uncovering his dark and unprepossessing face.
"It is not a written message, only a verbal one," explains Dimsdale.
"Miss Sheridan asked me to tell you that she particularly desires to
see you to-morrow morning. I shall be happy to arrange for a boat to
be at your disposal at any time convenient to you."
Sheridan makes no reply to this polite communication, unless it can
be said to be in the nature of a reply that he lowers his hands from
his face and glares fixedly and malignantly at the other man.
For about the space of a minute he remains in this ill-humoured
silence, and it is doubtful whether he has even listened to the
message. But presently he suddenly gives tongue, and rasps out:
"Tell her I'll be with her at ten o'clock sharp."
"Oh, but I'm afraid that will be a little too early, will it not?"
"And for why? Did ye not tell me I could suit my own convenience as
to the time?"
"Yes, that is true; but I was forgetting, or at least I took it for
granted that you understood, there is to be a court of enquiry on the
loss of the _Marathon_ at nine, at which your presence is requested."
"And why should I be present? Do they think I sank the blasted ship?
I will not come, then!"
"I myself shall be there, Mr. Sheridan, and yet it is quite certain
that I did not sink the ship," answers Dimsdale quietly. "You are
under a misapprehension--A court of enquiry is not a court-martial;
it is not held to try a prisoner, only to sift matters and endeavour
to throw a little light on cases which need clearing up. As you
happened to be on board the _Marathon_ shortly before she was lost,
it is only natural that the court should wish to question you amongst
all the other witnessess."
"What reason have they to suspect me?" Sheridan cries angrily
springing down from the bunk to the deck and standing to face
Dimsdale in a menacing attitude. "Is this the way you think right to
treat a shipwrecked man. I'll not come!"
"It is not a case of suspecting you, or anyone else," the calm voice
answers reassuringly; "they will merely question you on any points
that may happen to occur to them, with the object of leaving no stone
unturned that may chance to throw some light on what is at present a
mystery. Probably your share in the examination will only last a few
minutes, as you obviously can know very little about it. But I am
afraid you will have to make up your mind to be present at the
enquiry, though I regret very much that you should be put to such an
inconvenience."
"It _is_ an inconvenience--a cursed inconvenience," moodily growls
the other. "I--I would rather not come at all. I'm busy!"
Dimsdale can hardly suppress a smile; it is very plainly evident what
it is that keeps the solitary man so busy; the spirit bottles, one
empty and the other half empty, on the writing-table are evidence
enough to this!
But the tendency to smile vanishes when Dimsdale reflects that the
excuse is not only rather ludicrous but also exceedingly clumsy.
_Why_ should the man invent such a lame excuse? What is there to
keep him from attending the court of enquiry, and for what reason is
he so obviously unwilling to be present?
Dimsdale is a good fellow, and hates above all things to conceive a
dislike for a man without any good reason--he rightly considers it
the mark of an ill-balanced mind to do such a thing. But he is
uncomfortably conscious of the fact that he has taken a prejudice
against this man. Ever since he entered the cabin the feeling has
been growing in him--"There's something mighty queer about this chap;
he's a wrong 'un, if ever there was one."
And he is ashamed of himself for allowing such a feeling to take hold
of him--yet it will not be suppressed. It is a shame to entertain
suspicions of a man in such unfortunate circumstances as this!
Dimsdale upbraids himself for giving way to such unworthy
sentiments--and finds the sentiments growing stronger every moment!
"I'll thank ye to take a letter to me cousin," says Sheridan, after
he has swallowed the unpleasant dose of his enforced presence at the
court on the morrow; he also swallows something else to wash it down,
and finding that one draught is not sufficient to take away the taste
follows it up with another.
"Certainly," replies Dimsdale, pleased to see his man becoming
slightly more reasonable, "if you will write it now I will take it
with me, and it shall be given to her either to-night or the first
thing to-morrow morning."
"To-night would be better," is Sheridan's ungracious remark, as he
takes a sheet of note-paper from the writing-table. Then, in a
bemused fashion, he fumbles in his pockets for a pencil, and after a
little search finds one.
As he takes it from his pocket something comes with it and falls with
a little metallic tinkle to the deck.
Sheridan's foot covers it instantly; the incident, slight as it is,
appears to have sobered him on the moment. He looks furtively at the
other man, to see if he has observed anything.
Dimsdale's eyes, however, are fixed upon a picture on the furthest
bulkhead of the cabin, proof positive that his attention has not been
attracted by the sound of the falling object, whatever it was.
But he has seen it, though he pretends otherwise. He has seen also
the quick, stealthy movement of Sheridan's foot. He never gives a
single glance in that direction while Sheridan writes and seals up
the letter, nor indeed does he look downwards for the rest of the
time that he is in the cabin.
But his quick eyes have observed a little round disc of metal
enamelled with a device of certain signs.
Dimsdale knows very well what this little badge means, and the
significance of those signs.
It is part of his business to know such things. And he is also well
aware that upon the fact that Sheridan believing him unobservant
hangs his chance of getting out of the cabin alive.
But he waits for the letter to be finished and placed in his hands
without betraying the slightest sign of this.