It was about half-past nine o’clock on a bright crisp morning
in early Spring; the sun shone gaily into Miss Verinder’s
drawing-room, eclipsing the genial red glow of the fire; the
leafless branches of the plane tree tapped against the window
panes; and, although one could not see it, one had a feeling of
there being a blue wind-swept sky with little white clouds racing
giddily above the highest chimney pots. Miss Verinder herself,
seeming if not quite as sunny and bright as the weather, at least
strangely gay and alert, had been in and out of the room two or
three times; while Louisa bustled hither and thither, giving last
touches to the breakfast table that she had set forth between the
sofa and the fire.
Louisa was indeed laying out a lovely breakfast, and her mistress
glanced with pleasure at the honey, the various jams, and the
hot-plate and the kettle, under both of which a lamp burned
cheerfully. Over the back of the sofa were about half-a-dozen
different newspapers. With a smile upon her unusually carmine lips,
Miss Verinder unfolded one of these and read the account of how
Mr. Anthony Dyke had arrived in London yesterday afternoon. This
particular journal stated that the famous explorer appeared to be
in the most robust health and the highest spirits. He would say
little about the ill-fated expedition or the series of mishaps that
had led to the return of the ship and the postponement of her
voyage to another season; but he explained that he would give the
fullest details of results so far achieved in the lecture that he
proposed to deliver shortly. “He left at once for Devonshire, to
pass a few days in complete quiet with his relatives.”
Louisa brought in three silver dishes, a glass jar of marmalade,
a china basket full of apples; but Miss Verinder was thrown into
slight agitation by the discovery that there was still something
wanting to perfect the breakfast. The hot rolls had not arrived.
Louisa, even more distressed and worried by this failure, said the
baker had faithfully promised. “It’s that wretched boy of his who
has played us false”; and Louisa used an odd expression, and using
it laughed in spite of her annoyance. “I’d like to break his bones
for him, I would.”
She had left the hall door ajar at the top of the flight of stairs,
and for about the fifth time she pushed it open and looked down.
There was not a sign either of the boy or the rolls. She went into
her neat little pantry, fuming. Then after a minute she heard a
footstep on the stairs, and, rejoiced that the rolls had come at
last, she called gaily, “Put them down, you imp. And shut the door.”
“What is that?” said a totally unexpected voice.
Next moment Mrs. Bell of Queen’s Gate had passed through the hall
and entered the drawing-room. Miss Verinder, turning, was really
much agitated by the sight of the visitor with Louisa behind her
in the doorway showing a scared face. She made desperate signs to
Louisa, who precipitately sprang away; and kind Mrs. Bell in her
astonishment nearly let fall the large parcel of hot-house grapes
that she was carrying.
Yesterday Mrs. Bell had been refused admittance because of an
indisposition that had overtaken Miss Verinder. This morning, being
out earlier than was customary, she had come to bring the grapes
and to inquire after the state of her cherished invalid. Naturally
she was now amazed to find Miss Verinder up and about, and, as she
said at once, “looking better than I’ve seen you for years.”
Miss Verinder said that she was indeed quite well again. Her slight
illness had entirely passed off.
Then Mrs. Bell noticed the breakfast table, so nicely prepared,
here, in the drawing-room, with silver dishes and cups and plates
for at least two people--yes, with two chairs, one on each side of
it.
Miss Verinder explained that she had a friend staying with her.
“Now that’s very wrong of you,” said Mrs. Bell in good-natured
reproof. “You have struggled up to entertain your friend when you
ought to have remained in bed. I can see now that you are not at
all well, really. You are feverish, I believe--yes, feverish and
shaky. Why did you allow her to come at such a time? Why didn’t you
put her off? You should not have studied her convenience. Who is
she? Do I know her?”
Miss Verinder said “No.”
“Take care of yourself,” said Mrs. Bell, going. Then she paused,
one of her usual kindly ideas having come into her mind. “Listen,
dear. If your friend is on your nerves--you didn’t mention her
name--send her round to me. I’ll take her off your hands for the
day.”
“You are too good, dear Mrs. Bell. But really I wouldn’t think of
it.”
Miss Verinder saw her safely out of the hall, and bolted the door
behind her--that door at the top of the stairs that had been left
open in such a reckless, dangerous, unheard-of fashion by Louisa,
merely because it was early in the morning with nobody about.
“You old goose,” said Miss Verinder to the culprit, as she returned
to the drawing-room. “It’s all right. Mrs. Bell has gone. But that
was a narrow squeak.”
“All right,” said Louisa, loudly repeating the words of her
mistress. “She’s gone.”
And next moment a great big laughing man came into the drawing-room.
“Anthony,” said Miss Verinder, “you’re a very naughty boy to be so
late. Your breakfast is getting cold.”
“Oh, this room,” he cried ecstatically. “This room! Let me look at
it.”
“You saw it last night.”
“But by lamp-light. It’s by daylight that I always see it in my
dreams. I want to feel that I am really in it--awake and not
dreaming. Let me touch things.” And he moved about, putting his
hands softly on pieces of furniture, cautiously picking up delicate
fragile bits of china, admiring them, and putting them down again.
“Tony, your breakfast.”
“Oh, damn the breakfast. Don’t you understand what these moments
are to me?” And he told her for the hundredth time how he carried
with him always the whole of this room in his thoughts--a
picture of it and its minutest details so indelible that thought
instantaneously recreated it. He was verifying the picture now. If
there was anything changed, anything missing, he would certainly
know. “And now let me look at _you_.” He said this with infinite
pride and love. “My girl--my own little girl.” He was holding
her hands apart, as he always did, while these first transports
lasted, so that her arms were opened and she could not push him
from her. “Emmie--my darling.” Emmie, under this attack, was
vainly struggling to maintain her dignified primness of manner;
she uttered bashful remonstrances, hanging her head, laughing and
blushing, but was in rapturous joy all the while. “Angel of my
life”; and suddenly he took possession of her, hugged her, and
smothered her warm face with kisses.
Louisa brought in the tardy rolls while he was doing it, and as if
blind and preoccupied went out again.
“You’re too silly--really too silly,” said Miss Verinder. She had
withdrawn to the bevelled looking-glass in the front of the Queen
Anne bureau and was arranging her hair.
They sat down to breakfast, and she made the tea for him exactly as
she would have made it for Mrs. Bell or the vicar of the parish,
had either been visiting her; but her eyes were bright, and the
colour still glowed in her cheeks. Dyke watched each precise little
movement with a sort of swooning ecstasy. First she warmed the
tea-pot, then she began to load her tiny shovel from the silver
tea-caddy, and as she transferred each shovelfull she demurely
recited the habitual incantation. “One for me; one for you, Tony;
one for the pot--and one for luck. Shall we have one more? Yes, I
think one more for luck. Now the kettle, please.”
“Go on,” cried Dyke, with a roar of delighted laughter. “Say it.”
He wanted the rhymed couplet to finish the unchanging rite, that
foolish rhyme that he himself had taught her. “Say it, Emmie.”
And she said it, quietly and gravely, as if there was nothing
ridiculous about it. “‘For if the water not boiling be, filling
the tea-pot spoils the tea.’ Push back that little bolt under the
kettle. Thank you, dear.”
They spent four or five heavenly days together in the flat, never
issuing from it till after dark, and not then without a preliminary
reconnaissance by Louisa and her report that the coast was clear.
All day long they were perfectly blissful, making up to each other
in endless talk for the vast tracts of time during which neither
could hear the other’s voice. It was during one of these secret
visits that Dyke taught the parrot to say “Look sharp, Louisa.”
Emmie could never have done it without aid.
Under the friendly cloak of darkness they used to take long walks
about the huge town. They had jolly little treats too. Dyke loved
the “moving pictures” from their very first introduction, and Emmie
was devoted to this form of entertainment for the reason that it
afforded her an opportunity of holding Dyke’s hand and squeezing it
while the lights were down. They also attended representations of
the legitimate drama, going to the cheaper seats of unfashionable
theatres on or beyond the four-mile circle; and they found and
cherished the strangest sort of restaurants or cafés far from the
more frequented haunts of well-to-do mankind, where they dined
and supped with the utmost enjoyment. Some of these eating-places
were almost too humble and doubtful, scarcely better than cabmen’s
shelters; for Dyke, fresh from New Guinea or an uninhabited island,
was almost incapable of differentiation. To him, at any rate for
a while, the Ritz Hotel and a refreshment room at an Underground
railway station seemed equally magnificent and luxurious.
Emmie’s favourite restaurant was at least clean and respectable,
a little place kept by Italians in a side street near Hammersmith
Broadway; and thither she guided her illustrious traveller when
he wished to invite a guest to join them at dinner. These guests
were always of the same class, rough simple fellows, generally
colonials, with whom Dyke had sailed the seas or plodded the
earth at some time or other in the past. He had promised to have
an evening with them when the chance came and was anxious not to
break his word. So, Emmie consenting, he sent off a slap-dash line
inviting them to meet him at Spinetti’s.
One night dear old Captain Cairns of the _Mercedaria_ dined with
them there.
“Well, upon my life, Tony, it’s a sight for sore eyes to see you
again,” said Cairns. “And you too, miss.”
He was just as he had been when she first saw him at that
Johnsonian chop-house in the City; wearing a pea-jacket with a
blue shirt collar, and, although so short, seeming excessively
broad and powerful. His stubby beard was perhaps a little greyer,
his big round head balder, and the network of wrinkles on his
sun-burnt cheeks had become more intricate. His weight and solidity
inspired confidence in her just as they had done at their very
first meeting; but Emmie had a premonition that he would certainly
break the fragile cane chair on which he had seated himself, and
gracefully vacating her own place, she manœuvered him to the more
substantial foundations of the velvet-covered bench against the
wall. He sat there, beside Dyke, and beamed at her across the
table.
“Oh, how he did make me laugh about them Papuans. Yes, I can see
the old chap’s going as strong as ever. Meanin’ to have another
bang at the South Pole, isn’t he, miss?” And Captain Cairns’s sense
of humour induced a fit of chuckling. “Him and that Pole! I wrote
and told him he’s like the baby with the cake of soap. He won’t be
happy till he gets it.”
They had a jolly evening.
“Ah well.” Captain Cairns sighed when taking leave. “Here’s my
address, Miss Verinder, if you should have news you’d like to send
me at any time--for he doesn’t answer _my_ letters. Good-night, and
thank you. Those were happy days on the poor old _Mercedaria_.”
“What is she doing now?” asked Emmie.
“She’s broke up”; and Captain Cairns sighed again. “She was a good
ship, she was--in her time. But her time was mostly over, when you
honoured us, miss.”
Then Dyke, laughing, said he had a little tale to tell; and he
insisted that Cairns should sit down again and have another whisky
and soda.
“If so, it must be a small one,” said Cairns. “Really only a spot.”
They sat down and Dyke gleefully narrated how, after saying
good-bye to the _Mercedaria_, they got into a tight place--and Miss
Verinder saved his life by killing a man.
In vain Emmie protested; he would go on.
“It’s too bad of you, Tony. I asked you never to remind me of all
that--never to speak of it to anybody.”
“Only to Cairns. Such a real true pal as old Cairns!”
“Well, I’m blessed,” said Cairns, when he had heard the story; and
he looked at her with the deepest admiration. “That was grit, and
no mistake. Whips out a revolver, and--”
“Mr. Cairns,” said Miss Verinder, pulling on her black suède gloves
and speaking rather primly, “please forget this nonsense. You know
Tony’s way. In order to make out that I did something remarkable,
he is led into exaggerations. Good-night. It has been so pleasant
to see you, and I hope we shall meet again before very long.”
After five or six days spent in this manner Dyke would disappear
from the flat and give himself to the public. There were interviews
in the newspapers; he delivered his lecture, asked for financial
support, visited his publisher, was seen at his club, attended one
or two public dinners. Some time was spent with his father at that
old house called Endells. Then perhaps he was secreted at the flat
again. Then once more he was gone from England; and Miss Verinder,
shopping with Mrs. Bell at Knightsbridge, or taking a walk by
herself in Kensington Gardens, felt that she herself, all that was
real and solid in her, had gone too.
* * * * *
It was she who had decided on the necessity of this long-sustained
concealment of their love, and not he. Truly she was not a woman
to shirk consequences--she had proved that handsomely; but not
for nothing had she been born at Prince’s Gate and reared in the
Verinder tradition. She knew her England, which never really
changes, however much people talk of change. She knew that to this
day, just as in the time of Parnell, no public man is allowed to
have an unauthorized intimacy with a person of different sex--in
other words, if he cannot show his wife, he must not show anybody
else. And more especially would this be so in the case of a man
appealing to the public for money to carry on his public work. Had
the fact been discovered, it would have meant an extinguishing cap
(of the requisite size--very big) over the head of Anthony Dyke.
It had been necessary to hide him, and she had hidden him. With
regard to this achievement one may perhaps for a moment consider
how excessively difficult it is for a woman to hide a man in a
life that to all appearances is being conducted on a conventional
pattern, a life that seems open to observation by every curious
person; and one may further remark that of all men Anthony Dyke
was obviously the most difficult to hide, because of his large
proportions, his loud voice, his terrific explosiveness--not to
mention the fact that he was, if not yet as famous as he desired,
at any rate sufficiently so to be a well-known, closely-marked
public character; some one worth following by newspaper reporters,
always remunerative for a chatty interview, and of market value as
a snap-shot, take him how or where you would.
Nevertheless she had done it. If the truth must be owned, since
there was but a single aim to her existence, she had welcomed as
likely to aid her, the very hardships under which she was supposed
to be suffering acutely; such as, the loss of reputation, ostracism
by near relatives, coldness at the hands of friends.
Louisa, the tried and faithful servant, had also been a heaven-sent
gift. But perhaps the real key to the triumphant deception had
been her own unflinching audacity--the bold idea carried out with
a boldness that never faltered. For at the beginning, when people
were naturally most suspicious and keeping a sharp watch for the
man Dyke, not the most suspicious of them all could suspect that
the place to look for him was so outrageously near home as Oratory
Gardens.
She was successful, then, and as time went on the thing grew
easier. At those queer haunts of theirs they scarcely ever met
anybody who knew him, and never anybody who knew her. They had
no accidents; that narrow shave with her solicitous kind-hearted
Mrs. Bell was the closest approach to catastrophe. But on the last
evening of this same visit of Dyke to his native land they had a
really unfortunate encounter.
They were coming along the Brompton Road, past the top of Thurloe
Square, when a small elderly woman caught sight of Dyke in the full
light beneath a lamp-post, and accosted him. He told Miss Verinder
to go on, and stopped to talk to the woman. Miss Verinder, obeying
him, went by herself slowly to the corner of Oratory Gardens and
round it. Then, turning, she strolled back again to meet him. He
was hurrying towards her, waving his arm as if as some kind of
signal, and the woman was following him and calling after him
angrily.
“Straight on, Emmie,” he whispered, taking Miss Verinder’s arm,
“and step out.”
He led her rapidly past the two corners that would have taken them
home, round into Ovington Square, Pont Street, Sloane Street, and
thence by devious twists back to Oratory Gardens; explaining while
they took their sharp bit of exercise that he wished “to shake off
that old devil,” who was by no means to learn where Miss Verinder
resided. When they were safe in the flat he further explained that
the old devil was an aunt of his wife, a dangerous objectionable
person with whom Emmie must never come into contact. He was sorry
that Emmie had made that rather significant turn towards the flat,
but he hoped that it had not been noticed.
But next day, after Dyke had gone, the woman called at the flat,
and, as reported by Louisa, asked who lived there. Louisa refused
to say, and shut the street door in the woman’s face. Then, after
a little while, opening it, she saw the woman come out of the
auctioneer’s office. Either from the auctioneer or somebody else
the woman obtained the information she desired. She was in fact
that connection by marriage whom the elder Mr. Dyke had described
as a pertinacious writer of abusive or blackmailing letters to him
and his son. Soon now she wrote a letter to Miss Verinder.
The last post brought it one night when Emmie was sitting by the
fire and thinking of the man who had gone. Louisa, looking stately
in her black silk dress and apron, laid it on the small table
beside her mistress; and there for a little while it remained
unopened.
The evening had begun with desperate sadness as Emmie lived
again in memory those perfect days, and thought that once more
the joy had fled and life for another merciless stretch of time
could be summed up by the two words, waiting and hoping. She must
get through it somehow, as she had hitherto got through these
dreadful empty intervals, and fortunately he had left her work
to do. Work was always a comfort. Then she thought of his recent
disappointment--the first failure of the scientific expedition--and
of his anxiety that the second attempt should be a complete
success. She felt, although he had not said so, that he was
dissatisfied with the reception given to him in England. Some of
the newspapers had annoyed him by taking the wrong side of the
quarrel with that French explorer Saint-Bertin, had condemned him
for hastiness and overbearingness. She remembered with burning
indignation something really rude that had been said about him
by one newspaper. None of them, as it now seemed to her, had
been as eulogistic as they used to be; they did not recapitulate
sufficiently the magnificent achievements of the past; they dwelt
too much on a temporary set-back.
As much as he himself, she was eager that he should ultimately
attain undying fame. She knew too that he would never settle down
and be quiet until he had reached the goal. And, alas, he was
growing older; the years, however lightly they dealt with him, left
some marks. The time available was not infinite. He himself asked
for luck; and the luck was always against him.
Sitting by the fire, and feeling the natural depression of spirits
caused by the sense of loneliness after companionship, she was
attacked again by a horrible doubt with which more than once she
had been compelled to fight. Was bad luck the only explanation? It
was most horrible to her when, as now for a few moments, she seemed
to hear mocking questions which she disdained to answer, but which
she could not silence. Why always the bad luck? That little trip
of his to the Andes was typical; representing on a small scale the
big adventures of his life. Again and again, if not always, the
tale had been the same. He fitted himself out for an expedition,
plunged into the wilderness, and was heard of no more, until he
emerged starving, with nothing but the shirt on his back. Should
not this make one doubt his powers, and admit that, splendid as he
is, there may be some flaw in his mental equipment--some clumsiness
of thought that, in spite of his brilliant qualities, makes him
less than the truly great; so that he will never really achieve
what he desires? As on previous occasions, she fought with all her
strength against this disloyal and treacherous doubt, and drove it
away to-night perhaps for ever.
It is love that kills doubt of every kind. She thought of the love,
and of that only. These seemingly interminable absences must be
supported with joy and pride as a part of the love itself; far from
spoiling it, they made it what it was, unique and glorious; they
lifted it high above the common bond of any ordinary marriage. She
need not envy any woman who ever lived or think any more fortunate
than she.
There was a smile on her lips now; she folded her hands and half
closed her eyes, as she thought with an immense pride that no woman
ever made a man more completely hers or gave herself to a man so
utterly. He was her lover, whom she loved with a flaming passionate
strength; he was her faithful mate, her partner, so that, as much
as in any business partnership, any _firm_, all that struck at
him struck her also; he was her child too, over whom she yearned
with more than a mother’s tenderness--her wayward noble boy, who
sometimes acted with rashness from sheer nobility of spirit; who
must be thought for, cherished as well as encouraged; who must be
subtly guarded and secretly aided by the poor weak half of him that
watched, waited, hoped at this fireside while his other splendid
half battled magnificently in the frozen darkness twelve thousand
miles away. Still preserving that characteristic attitude, with
meekly folded hands, she thought thus rhapsodically of her love,
and the glory of it--yes, the wonder and the glory of it.
Then she opened the letter, which tried to put everything in a
different light. Cruelly abusive, it produced the effect upon her
of something vile and incongruous and stupid, seen suddenly in a
beautiful or sacred place--as, shall one say? mud-stained feet upon
a marble floor or a bundle of filthy rags dropped by a passer-by
on the steps of a cathedral altar. The writer signed herself “Mrs.
Janet Kent”; she headed the letter with the name of a midland town;
and she began by saying that she had just paid a visit to “the
Assylam” and seen her niece, Mrs. Dyke.
“...the lawful wife of the man who keaps you. And I say it is a
shame for a wicked kept woman to keap my niece in prison as she is.
Miss Verinder, she is no more mad than I am, and would not be if
proparly treated with a house of her own, and those who love her to
take the care as I have told him I am ready to do. But no he says.
Notwithstanding I say for a miss like you he can spend all the
money required to make his own wife comfatable with me. You ought
to be exposed for what you are.”
And lapsing from the abusive to the blackmailing habit, the writer
threw out a not ambiguous hint that it would be wise to avoid
exposure by prompt generosity.
“Miss Verinder, waiting your answer, I am, Yours truely, Mrs.
Janet Kent.”
This letter remaining unanswered, Emmie soon received another
of the same sort; and after that more letters until at last
one came with very direct threats in it. Writing to Dyke, Miss
Verinder refrained from speaking of the annoyance to which she
was subjected. Why worry him? It would be time enough to tell him
when she had him safe home again. But she went now for advice to a
solicitor--not to Messrs. Williams, the family solicitors, but to
some one whose name she had chanced to read of in a newspaper as
connected with criminal proceedings.
This gentleman appeared to be as clever as he was sympathetic;
surprisingly few words enabled him to grasp the whole matter, but
he told Emmie that hers was one of those cases in which the law
unfortunately could be of little assistance to the injured party.
He pointed out that the only way of bringing the horrid old woman
to book would be by police court proceedings, and it did not seem
to him they could very well face the publicity that such action
would entail. Indeed there could be little doubt that the old
woman understood this quite well. It was probably her perfect
understanding of it that made her so bold and impudent. He thought
that perhaps the best chance would be for him to write her a
“frightening” letter.
He wrote his letter, but Mrs. Janet Kent was not frightened; and
his final regretful advice was that in his opinion it would be
worth while giving her a little money “to shut her mouth.” He
said he would do it for his client, adding that of course if the
abominable old wretch were paid once she would probably have to be
paid again. The pride of Miss Verinder revolted from the advice;
but she saw no escape from following it.
In this manner the last living relative of Dyke’s wife became a
humble pensioner on the bounty of the lady whom he was precluded
from marrying.
He knew nothing about it, and perhaps would never know. He was
busy. The good ship _Commonwealth_ with all the scientific
gentlemen on board was skirting the northernmost fringe of the
pack-ice. The last letter that Emmie received from him for many
many months contained a photograph taken on deck just before they
left New Zealand--Anthony, looking enormous, in the middle, Mr.
Wedgwood, the physicist, on his right; Mr. Cleeve, the biologist,
and Mr. Hamilton, the geologist, on his left; Lieutenant Barry and
the rest of the officers with their names written underneath them,
and the crew unnamed. She put it away carefully with her collection
of similar pictures.
And she went on with her work. He had left her all the materials
for the short volume that was to appear later on under the title
of _The Third Cruise_. All those studies of hers, the classes in
logic and rhetoric and composition, at which Mrs. Bell and others
smiled indulgently or contemptuously, had been undertaken in order
to render herself capable of helping him with his books. Dyke,
as often happens with authors of his character, had no notion of
style or of construction. When he first honoured her with the task
of knocking his stuff into shape for publication and she found
herself confronted with the mass of manuscript, the muddle and
tangle of it threw her into such despair that she, the assistant,
called for assistance, and the publisher sent her a real literary
person to put the opening chapters into literary form. It was
the book called _Sand and Sunshine_, and the expert strongly
objected to Dyke’s initial sentences, condemning them as naïve
and childish. “Sand and sunshine,” Dyke had begun, “are very nice
things in their way, but you can’t eat them.” She herself did not
much care for this turn of phrase, and she connived at very large
modifications. But when the proofs of those early chapters were
sent out to Dyke, then eleven thousand miles away, he almost went
mad with indignation; so that the explosion of his wrath, even
at that great distance, made the flat in Oratory Gardens tremble
and shake. He said he would break the bones of the literary man.
He cursed his impertinence, for tampering with “a document.” She
finished the book herself; and then, and afterwards, Dyke allowed
her to take any liberties she pleased. He would accept anything
from that hand--in fact he never appeared to observe that she
had changed things; and she always, with great tact, minimised
what she had done. “A word here and there, Anthony, and of course
the punctuation; but my effort is simply to make your meaning
clear--never to alter it in the slightest degree.”
Each year becoming more skilled, she altered just as she chose,
anything or everything--except the titles of the books. Those she
dared not touch. They were idiosyncratic. A certain arrogance or
assumption in the sound of them had meaning for her, although the
rest of the world might not understand. They linked themselves
in her mind with that other mannerism, the habit of speaking of
himself in the third person--“Dyke will be heard of again; Anthony
Dyke is not conscious of failure,” and so on; speaking as he
wished the universe to speak of him. Thus the bare simplicity
of these titles--The First Cruise, The Second Cruise, The Third
Cruise--meant that they were chosen for posterity rather than for
the passing hour. In future generations when people saw these
words, The First Cruise, they would be in no doubt as to whose
cruise it was. They would all know that the cruises made by Dyke
were the only ones that had really counted in the century-long
siege of the South Pole.
So skilled was she now that she saw _The Third Cruise_ through
the press without submitting the proofs to anybody, but not
without those fears and agonies from which all very conscientious
people suffer when they feel that they are engaged upon a task of
supreme importance. She had nightmare dreams about the maps and
the illustrations, dreaming once that three photographs of herself
and Dyke, taken years ago at Buenos Ayres, had crept into the
binding; and she woke early in the morning after she passed the
last revise with a cold certainty that she herself had made some
such abominable slip as saying seven hundred degrees South Latitude
instead of seventy degrees. But everything was correct. She had
done her work well, and the book was so favourably received that
she soon had a fine batch of press-cuttings laid by for Dyke’s
gratification on his return.
That fourth cruise was a long business. Throughout one year she
thought he was coming home, and waited full of hope. In that year
she did not see him; he never came. Then during the next year she
saw him once--for half an hour.
In a letter despatched from New Zealand he told her what she had
already learnt by reading the telegraphic news. The fourth cruise
had not been very successful. Those scientific gentlemen had
squabbled among themselves and Dyke had squabbled with all of
them; at a certain point he wanted to let science go hang and push
boldly south, while each of the others wanted special facilities
for his own line of research--ocean-sounding, magnetic observation,
dredging, scraping, altitude-measuring, or whatever it might be.
Dyke, making his southern dash, soon got the ship tight-locked;
provisions ran scarce, scurvy appeared, one of the scientists
died; then when the ice set them free and he reluctantly turned
northward, they encountered terrible weather. Moss scraped off
rocks, stuff dredged up from the bottom of the sea, and other
treasures, were lost; the dead man’s diary was destroyed by salt
water; the homeward voyage of the battered ship became a chapter of
accidents.
Dyke wrote with the best attempt at cheerfulness that can be made
by a sick man who is heavily bruised in spirit. He was ill--he had
to confess it--and as soon as the ship reached Brisbane they would
put him into a hospital. He said he knew he would get well again
directly, but, oh, how he wished that he had his little Emmie there
to console him.
Of course he had not meant that she was to go to him; but she
sent off a cable message and started next day. At Marseilles she
overtook and caught a steamer of the Orient Line. Many people on
the vessel noticed her and several talked with her--that old maid
who used to sit out on deck knitting, always knitting, looking up
with a pensive smile sometimes while her fingers continued to move
the needles busily.
At Brisbane she found him strong and well, entirely recovered,
but in the very act of departing for New Guinea, whither he was
being sent again on government work. Delay was impossible. They had
thirty minutes together in an hotel drawing-room.
Half-an-hour. It was enough--if there could be no more. It was
worth all the trouble. She came back to England at once, by a
steamer of the P. & O. Line--sitting on deck, knitting, the old
maid to whom people spoke because of her loneliness and her gentle
smile.