It was the evening of the second day of the _Spindrift's_ cruise. The
wind, which had come fresh from the east in the morning, followed the
sun round in its course, blowing gently from the south at mid-day, and
breathing very faintly from the west in the evening. After sunset it
died away completely. The whole surface of the bay lay calm, save here
and there where some chance movement of the air ruffled a tiny patch of
water; or where, at the corners of the islands and in very narrow
channels, the inward drawing of the tide marked long, curved lines and
illusive circles on the oily sea. The _Spindrift_ was poised
motionless on the surface of the water, borne slowly, almost
imperceptibly, forward by the sweep of the tide. Her mainsail, boomed
out, hung in loose folds. The sheet, freed from all strain, was borne
down by its own weight, until the slack of it dipped in the water.
Terns and gulls, at lazy rest, floated close to the yacht's side. Long
rows of dark cormorants, perched on rocky points, strained their necks
and peered at her. Innumerable jelly-fish spread and sucked together
again their transparent bodies, reaching down and round about them with
purple feelers. Now and then some almost imperceptible breath of wind
swayed the yacht's boom slowly forward against the loose runner and the
stay, lifted the dripping sheet from the water, and half bellied the
sail. Then the _Spindrift_ would press forward, her spars creaking
slightly, tiny ripples playing round her bows, a double line of oily
bubbles in her wake. Again the impulse would fail her, and she would
lie still among the palpitating jellyfish, perfectly reflected in the
water beneath her; but carried steadily on by the silent shoreward
swelling of the tide.
Major Kent sat at the tiller smoking. He was in that mood of vacant
obliviousness of the ordinary affairs of life which long drifting on
calm seas induces. The helplessness of man in a sailing-ship, when the
wind fails him, begets a kind of fatalistic acceptance of the
inevitable, which is the nearest thing to peace that any of us ever
attain. Indeed to drift along the tide is peace, and no conviction of
the inevitableness of the worries which lurk in ambush for us on the
land has any power to break the spell.
Meldon lay stretched on the deck outside the combing of the cockpit.
Nirvana had no attraction for him. He resented forced inactivity as an
unendurable wrong. Instead of smoking with half-closed eyes, he peered
eagerly forward under the sail. He noted everything--the floating
gulls and puffins, the stiff, wild-eyed cormorants, the jelly-fish, the
whirling eddies of the tide. As the yacht drifted on, or was driven
forward by the occasional faint puffs of air, he hissed through his
teeth in the way known to sailors as whistling for a breeze. He gazed
long and steadily at the beach beyond the _Spindrift's_ moorings.
"I think," he said at last, "that there is a man on the shore, and he
looks to me very much as if he was waiting for us."
Major Kent made no answer. His feeling was that the man who waited
might be left to wait without speculation about his purpose. Guessing
at the possible business of an unknown and distant man is a form of
mental exertion very distasteful to any one who has entered into the
calm joy of drifting home after sunset. But Meldon was a man of
incurably active mind. He was deeply interested in the solitary figure
on the beach. The yacht was borne very slowly on, and it became
possible at last to distinguish the figure of the waiter more clearly.
"He looks to me," said Meldon a few minutes later, "very like that
fellow Callaghan, the Ballymoy House gardener."
There was another pause. A puff of wind, the last vital rally of the
expiring breeze, carried the _Spindrift_ forward till the punt at her
moorings lay almost under her bow.
"It is Callaghan," said Meldon, "and there's only one thing which can
possibly bring him here at this hour. Something of real importance
must have happened between Simpkins and Miss King. I wonder what it
is."
"Catch the punt, J. J., and haul her aft till you get a hold of the
buoy. If we drift past we'll never get back again. There's barely
steerage way on the boat this minute."
Meldon stepped forward. There was a noise of straining ropes and
splashing. Then he stood upright and pulled the buoy on board.
"Unless something exceptionally interesting has occurred," said Meldon,
"I can't understand Callaghan waiting for us like this. Perhaps
they've got engaged."
"Nonsense," said the Major; "how could they in two days? Let go the
peak halyards, and take a pull on the topping lift."
The sail came slowly down. Major Kent and Meldon leaned across the
gaff and dragged at the folds of it. Callaghan hailed the yacht from
the shore.
"Hold on," said Meldon. "Keep what you've got to say till I come to
you. I can't have the details of an interesting love affair shouted
across a stretch of water."
The sails were made up and the yacht safely moored. Meldon hustled
Major Kent into the punt, and pulled rapidly for the beach. The punt's
keel grated on the gravel. Meldon seized the painter in his hand and
leaped ashore.
"Now," he said to Callaghan, "trot out your news. Have they got
engaged?"
"They have not," said Callaghan.
"Then I suppose there must have been what you call impropriety of
conduct. If so--"
"There has not," said Callaghan.
"That's just as well; for if there had been, I should have had to ask
you to wait before giving me details until the Major had gone a good
bit of the way home. He's an unmarried man, and I don't think it would
be good for him to--"
"There was no impropriety of conduct that I seen," said Callaghan.
"Well, it can't be helped. I should have been glad, of course, to hear
that Simpkins had been pushing his way on a bit, holding her hand or
something of that kind. I suppose, now, if anything of the sort
occurred you'd be sure to have seen it."
"Don't I tell you there wasn't," said Callaghan; "nor there couldn't
have been, for Simpkins wasn't near the place since the afternoon you
was in it yourself."
"What! Do you mean to say--?"
"He was in it the once," said Callaghan, "not long after you leaving,
and barring that she gave him a cup of tea there was nothing passed
between them, and I wouldn't say he was there half an hour."
"Do you hear that, Major? That silly ass Simpkins has actually flung
away a priceless opportunity. He hasn't been near her."
"I'm glad to hear it," said Major Kent. "Perhaps now you'll stop your
foolish games."
"Could she have gone out to meet him anywhere?" said Meldon to
Callaghan.
"She could not. It wouldn't be possible for her to do the like
unbeknown to me, for I had my eye on her."
"All day?"
"After what your reverence was saying to me I'd have been afraid to let
her out of my sight."
"Very well, Callaghan, you can go home. I shall have to think the
matter over. I don't deny that I'm disappointed. I thought when I saw
you standing there on the shore that you'd have had some definite news
for me."
"I was up at the Major's house searching for you," said Callaghan, "and
when you weren't within I took a look round and I seen the yacht coming
in on the tide, so I thought it would save me a journey to-morrow if I
waited for you."
"Quite right," said Meldon. "It's not your fault nothing has happened,
and I don't blame you in the least. Good-night."
Callaghan shambled off along the beach. The Major and Meldon, who
carried the punt's oars, struck across the fields towards Portsmouth
Lodge.
"I can't understand it at all," said Meldon. "After what I said to
Simpkins I simply can't understand his neglecting his opportunities
like this. You'd think from the way he's behaving that he doesn't want
to be married at all."
"Perhaps he doesn't," said the Major. "Any way, you can do no more
than you've done. You may as well drop it now, and have the rest of
your holiday in peace."
"The fact is," said Meldon, "I ought not to have gone away and left
them. I had no business to take that cruise in the _Spindrift_. If
I'd been here--"
"I don't see what you could have done. If the fellow doesn't want the
girl, how could you force him to go and marry her? Any way, it's a
good job for Miss King that he hasn't."
"If I'd been here--" said Meldon, and then paused.
"What would you have done?"
"I'd have done what I'm going to do now that I'm back."
"And what's that?"
"Throw them together," said Meldon. "Insist on his being constantly
with her until he begins to appreciate her charm. I defy any one, any
one who's not already married, to resist Miss King if she looks at him
out of the corners of her eyes as she did at me the other day."
"She won't do that," said the Major. "No woman would, once she had
seen Simpkins."
"Oh, she'll do it all right. Don't you fret about that. All I have
to do is to give her a proper opportunity by throwing them together a
bit."
"I don't quite see how you're going to do that if Simpkins won't go
near her."
"You wouldn't see, of course. Indeed you couldn't, because I don't
quite know myself yet how it is to be managed. I shall have to think
it all over very carefully. I may have to spend the greater part of
the night considering the matter; but one thing you may be quite
confident about, Major, and that is that when I say they are to be
thrown together, they will be thrown together. I shall make such
arrangements that Simpkins simply won't be able to escape, however hard
he tries."
Meldon was not obliged to spend a sleepless night devising meetings
between Simpkins and Miss King. He put the oars into the coach-house
as soon as he reached Portsmouth Lodge, and then settled down with a
pipe on a hammock-chair outside the door. He was ready with a
practical suggestion by the time Major Kent had finished dressing for
dinner. Being too wise to propose a difficult matter to a hungry man,
he waited until the meal was nearly over before he said anything to his
friend.
"Major," he said, "to-morrow is Sunday, and I think it would be a
capital thing if you introduced yourself to Miss King after church.
You could waylay her just outside the porch, and tell her who you are.
I've talked to her a good deal about you, so she'll know you directly
she hears your name."
"I don't think I'll do that, J. J.," said the Major. "From what you've
told me about her I don't think she's the kind of woman I'd care about.
I think I'll keep clear of her as much as I can."
"I told you," said Meldon, "that she was good-looking and had pleasant
manners when not irritated. I don't see what objection you can have to
her."
"I wasn't thinking about her appearance or her manners. They may be
all right, but if what you said is true and she really--"
"Don't be narrow-minded, Major. I hate that kind of pharisaical
bigotry. The fact that Mrs. Lorimer behaved as she did is no reason in
the world why you should cut the poor woman. It's a well-known fact
that people who are really much worse than she is are freely received
into the best society; and, in any case, the latest systems of morality
are quite changing the view that we used to take about murder. Take
Nietzsche, for instance--"
"Who's Nietzsche?"
"He's a philosopher," said Meldon, "or rather he was, for he's dead
now. He divided all morality into two kinds--slave morality, which he
regards as despicable, and master morality, which is of the most
superior possible kind."
"Still--I don't know anything about the man you mention, but I suppose
even he would have drawn the line at murder."
"Not at all. Master morality, which, according to his system, is the
best kind, consists entirely of being the sort of man who is able to
get into a position to bully other people. Slave morality, on the
other hand, consists in having the kind of temperament which submits to
being bullied, and pretends to think it a fine thing to suffer. Now
murder, as any one can see, is simply an extreme form of bullying; and
therefore a successful murderer, according to Nietzsche's philosophy,
is the finest kind of man there is. Whereas his victims, the late
Lorimer, for instance, are mere slaves, and therefore thoroughly
despicable. You follow me so far, I suppose?"
"No, I don't. If any man says what you say that fellow says--"
"Nietzsche doesn't actually say all that," said Meldon. "He hadn't a
sufficiently logical mind to work out his philosophy to its ultimate
practical conclusions, but you may take my word for it that I've given
you the gist of his system."
"Then he ought to have been hanged."
"I daresay he ought," said Meldon. "I need scarcely say I don't agree
with him. But that's not the point. As a matter of fact, so far from
being hanged or incurring any kind of odium, his system is quite the
most popular there is at present. London is full of young men in
large, round spectacles, and scraggy women who haven't succeeded in
getting married--the leaders of modern thought, you'll observe,
Major--every one of whom is deeply attached to Nietzsche. You can't,
without labelling yourself a hopeless reactionary, fly right in the
face of cultured society by refusing to associate with Miss King."
"I won't mix myself up with--"
"Come now, Major, that sort of attitude would have been all very well
fifty years ago, but it won't do now. You simply can't shut yourself
up and say that you won't speak to any one who doesn't agree with you
in every opinion you have. As a matter of fact, you associate freely
with lots of people who differ from you in religion and politics far
more fundamentally than poor Miss King does. You can't refuse to know
her simply because she accepts a system of philosophy which you never
heard of till this minute, and even now don't thoroughly understand in
spite of all I've told you about it."
"In any case," said the Major, "I don't like women who flirt. And you
told me yourself that she tried to flirt with you."
"Ah," said Meldon, "now we're getting at your real reasons. I thought
you couldn't be in earnest about the Nietzschean philosophy. That was
merely an excuse. What you're really afraid of is that Miss King might
marry you. I don't blame you for being a little cautious about that,
knowing what you do about the fate of her former husbands. At the same
time I may point out--"
"I'm not the least afraid of her marrying me. She won't get the
chance."
"Then why do you say you object to her flirting?"
"Because I do object to it. I don't like that kind of woman."
"Do you mean to say, Major, that a girl isn't to be allowed to make
eyes at the man she's going to marry?"
"I don't say anything of the sort. Of course, if she's going to marry
a man--but really, J. J., I don't know anything about these things."
"Then don't talk about them. You may take my word for it, Major, that
Miss King is perfectly justified in being as nice as ever she can to
Simpkins."
"I never said anything about Simpkins. As far as I can make out she
isn't particularly nice to Simpkins."
"No, she isn't, so far; but that's only because she hasn't had a fair
chance. When we get them out together in the _Spindrift_--"
"What?"
"When we get the two of them out together in the _Spindrift_," said
Meldon, speaking slowly and distinctly, "you'll see that she'll make
herself perfectly fascinating--not to you or me, but to Simpkins."
"Leaving Miss King out of the question," said the Major, "I'd like you
to be perfectly clear about this. I won't--"
"Before we go on to Simpkins," said Meldon, "we must settle definitely
about Miss King. Is it understood that you catch her after church
tomorrow and invite her out for a sail with us in the _Spindrift_?"
"No; I won't. I wouldn't in any case; but if Simpkins--"
"I'm not going on to Simpkins yet. I must finish Miss King first.
You've given your reasons for not making her acquaintance, and I've
shown you that they are utterly feeble and won't hold water for a
minute. If you've no other objection, then I think, as a
straightforward man, you are bound to admit you are in the wrong and do
what you ought to have been ready to do without all this arguing."
"To oblige you," said the Major, "and because I want you to have a
pleasant holiday now you're here, I will ask Miss King out with us
once. But I won't ask Simpkins. The man is a horrid bounder, who
makes himself objectionable to everybody, and I won't ask him."
"Nobody wants you to ask him. I'll ask him."
"That will be just the same thing. Once for all, J. J., I won't have
that man on board my boat."
"I don't think," said Meldon, "that you are behaving with quite your
usual fairness, Major. You don't like Simpkins. I am not going into
the reasons for your dislike. They may be sound, or they may be the
reverse. I simply state the fact that you don't get on with the man.
Very well. I don't get on with Miss King. I told you the other day
that I offended her, and she was what I should call extremely rude to
me afterwards. But do I bring that up as a reason why you should not
take her for a sail in the _Spindrift_? Certainly not. It won't, as a
matter of fact, be particularly pleasant for me having to sit in the
same boat all day with a young woman who won't speak to me; but I'm
prepared to sacrifice myself and do it. And you ought to be ready to
do the same thing in the case of Simpkins."
"I'm not," said the Major. "I can't and won't have Simpkins."
"My dear Major, don't you see that your quarrel with Simpkins is one of
the strongest points in the whole plan? He won't speak to you when he
sees that you dislike him. Miss King won't speak to me. What will the
consequence be? Why, of course, they'll be thrown together. They must
talk to each other, and that's exactly what we want them to do. If
Simpkins was a friend of yours, and if Miss King was particularly fond
of me, there'd be no use our taking them out at all. They wouldn't be
obliged to talk to each other."
"If you've finished your dinner, J. J., we may as well go into the next
room and smoke. I don't see that there's any use going on with this
conversation."
"There isn't; not the least. But you'll do me the justice, Major, to
admit that it wasn't I who insisted on it. I could perfectly well have
arranged the matter in two sentences, but you would argue with me about
every single thing I said."
Major Kent rose and opened the door for his friend. They went together
into the study and sat down. The Major, after a few preliminary
excuses, took the two copies of _The Times_, which had arrived by post
whilst he was out in the _Spindrift_. He settled down to the leading
articles with a comfortable sense that he was doing his duty. Meldon
wandered round the room looking for something to read. He found a new
book on boat-building which promised to be interesting. Unfortunately
it turned out to be highly technical, and therefore dull. It dropped
from his knees. He nodded, took the pipe from his mouth, lay back
comfortably, and went to sleep. Major Kent satisfied himself that the
English navy, though in some ways the best in the world, was in other
respects inefficient and utterly useless as a national defence. Then,
at about ten o'clock, he too went asleep. A few minutes later he began
to snore, and the noise he made woke Meldon. He felt for his pipe,
filled and lit it. He sat gazing at Major Kent for a quarter of an
hour, then he coughed loudly. The Major woke with a start.
"It's a remarkable thing," said Meldon, "how sleepy two days on the sea
make one. I had a nap myself. You were sound and snoring."
"It's early yet," said the Major, glancing at the clock. "I seldom
turn in before eleven."
"I'm going to turn in now," said Meldon. "I'd be better in bed, for I
can't sleep here with the way you're snoring. I just woke you up to
say that I'll get a hold of Simpkins some time to-morrow and settle
things with him. I daresay, after the way he has behaved to the poor
old rector, that he'll be ashamed to come to church, but I'll look him
up afterwards. You'll be responsible for Miss King."
"I can't argue any more to-night," said the Major, yawning; "but don't
you go to bed under the impression that I'm going to have Simpkins in
the yacht, for I'm not."
"I don't want to argue either, but I'll just say one word to you before
I go: one word that I'd like to have imprinted on your mind during the
night. You won't mind listening to one word, will you?"
"Not if it's only one."
"It is literally and simply one. Duty."
"Duty!" said the Major, sitting up.
"Yes, duty. You're an Englishman, Major, at least by descent, and you
know that there's one appeal which is never made in vain to Englishmen,
and that is the appeal to duty. Wasn't that the meaning of the signal
Nelson hoisted just before he asked Hardy to kiss him! And what did
Hardy do? Kissed him at once, though he can't possibly have liked it."
"I think you've got the story wrong somewhere, J. J. As well as I
recollect--"
"I may be inaccurate in some of the details," said Meldon, "but the
broad principle is as I state it; and I put it to you now, Major,
before I say good-night, will you or will you not respond to the
appeal? Remember Trafalgar and the old _Victory_. You're a military
man, of course, but you must have some respect for Nelson."
"I have. But I don't see how duty comes in in this case. Oh, J. J.!
I wish you'd go to bed and stop talking."
"I will. I want to. I'm absolutely dropping off to sleep, but I can't
go till I've explained to you where your duty lies. Here is the town
of Ballymoy groaning under an intolerable tyranny. Doyle's life is a
burden to him. O'Donoghue can't sleep at night for fear of a Local
Government Board enquiry. The police are harried in the discharge of
their duties. The rector's bronchitis is intensified to a dangerous
extent. Sabina Gallagher's red-haired cousin, whose name I've not yet
been able to discover, is perfectly miserable. Poor old Callaghan, who
means well, though he has a most puritanical dread of impropriety, is
worn to a shadow. It rests with you whether this state of things is to
continue or not. You and, so far as I can see at present, you alone,
are in a position to arrange for the downfall of Simpkins. Is it or is
it not your duty, your simple duty, to do what you can, even at the
cost of some little temporary inconvenience to yourself?"
"If I thought all that--" said the Major. "But I'm much too sleepy to
think."
"You're not asked to think," said Meldon. "Whatever thinking has to be
done I'll do myself. You have to act, or rather in this case to permit
me to act."
"I expect you'll act, as you call it, whether I permit you or not."
"Of course I will," said Meldon. "But I'd rather have your permission.
I'd rather you didn't shatter the ideal I've always had of you as a
duty-loving Englishman."
"All right," said the Major wearily. "Do what you like, but for
goodness' sake go to bed and stop talking."
"Good-night," said Meldon. "If you find yourself inclined to change
your mind before morning, just murmur over to yourself, 'England
expects every man to do his duty.' That will stiffen your back."