“WE SHALL SEE”
GERALDINE went directly to her mother. She found her in her usual
place, forward under the bridge. Evidently Mrs. Wells had had a little
nap; she looked refreshed and immeasurably better. An empty tea-cup and
a plate of toast was beside her, a sign that she had had her dinner
served on deck. It occurred to Geraldine as she came forward that
dinner would be out of the question that evening. Indeed, it took all
her resolution not to go to bed from sheer weakness. But the sight of
her mother’s cheerfulness and obvious return to health gave her will to
go on.
“Hel-lo,” the mother sang softly, the two musical notes that had been
a family call for a generation. It was the first chirp she had uttered
since the scene with Walter on deck. It encouraged Geraldine in her
determination to be frank.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Wells, “where have you been? Writing letters? I
do hope you have jotted a few postcards for me. I have been shamefully
lazy. Where is Richard? I owe him an apology. He was talking away
beautifully, giving me all sorts of little thrills with his absurd
poetical views, and I only closed my eyes so that I could hear
better--I did take a teeny nap, but don’t ever tell the dear boy--when,
pop! he was off without my hearing a sound.”
Geraldine stacked the remains of the dinner in a pile near the rail,
convenient for the approaching deck steward.
“It was so comfortable up here this evening,” the mother explained, for
fear she might be accused of weakness, “that I just had the steward
bring me a bite. The dining-room is abominably stuffy.”
“You are much better, mother, aren’t you?”
“Better?” She looked up sharply. “You talk as if I had been ill.
Nothing is the matter with me. I get tired--the same as others, sitting
around on this boat with nothing to do but stumble over steamer-chairs.
What made you think anything was the matter?”
Geraldine was expert enough in signs to know that this topic had better
be dropped, so she began on a new line.
“Have you seen Walter this afternoon?” Geraldine asked casually.
Mrs. Wells knew she was under cross-examination. Perhaps it was
clairvoyance; undoubtedly she had a kind of ability in reading the
intentions of others that amounted almost to mind-reading; but more
likely it was the consciousness of guilt that led her to avoid this
topic too. But she was unusually clumsy. She fussed with her pillows,
asked why the steward did not remove the tea-cup and plate, and,
finally, when Geraldine, with calm persistence, came back to Walter,
Mrs. Wells pretended at first she had not heard, and then asked
petulantly, “Yes, I have talked with him. Why shouldn’t his mother talk
with him?”
“Do you think he is any better?”
“Oh, he’s coming along as well as I expected.... Aren’t those sunset
clouds wonderful?”
“Mother, aren’t you afraid of him?”
“Afraid of whom?”
“Walter.”
“Still on my Walter,” she parodied, and took great amusement out of her
deft sally.
“I’m afraid of him, mother. I’m dreadfully afraid he’ll go out of his
mind and----”
“Tut! Tut!” Mrs. Wells interrupted. “Put that out of your head, girl.
I know Walter. And I know how to bring him around. Afraid of him?
Nonsense. The fact is, I have been indisposed ever since we came on
board; therefore I have had to give way to Richard. When we reach ‘Red
Jacket’ I shall be myself again and will take Walter in hand myself.”
“I wish you wouldn’t, mother.”
A group of men came out of the companion-way beside them. They were
smoking their after-dinner cigars and talking about the narrow escape
of a passenger from falling overboard.
“What’s that?” Mrs. Wells asked the man nearest her. “A man overboard?”
“They got him as he was falling,” the man replied. He had a big voice
and he seemed to relish the horror of the incident. “They say a
passenger was back at the stern, a man it was, and he fell afoul of a
coil of rope or something and pitched over the railing.”
“I heard something,” Mrs. Wells remembered. “It sounded like someone
screaming for help, but I was taking a little nap at the time and
thought I had dreamt it. Dear me! Isn’t it dreadful?”
Geraldine watched the mother, whose placid face showed no hint of her
intimate and personal connection with the recital now going on about
her in several keys.
A shrill-voiced man scoffed at the theory of a “man overboard.” It
was the usual false alarm on board a ship. Passengers have nothing to
do, and therefore they’re always glad to get themselves all fussed up;
they’d scream “Man overboard” if they saw a flying fish.
Another person felt differently about the matter. And he knew what he
was talking about. He had his information on the best authority. There
was a man really overboard--the second-officer was the authority--a man
overboard while the steamer was stoking ahead at twenty knots an hour.
And did they stop to hunt for him? No. What would be the use? He’d be a
mile astern before we could turn about.
While Mrs. Wells from her throne among the pillows cross-examined the
men--a favourite rôle of hers and a sign that she was coming back to
her control of things--Geraldine had dropped back into her chair,
seized by a horrid suggestion of nausea. Every vivid detail of the
struggle was made more vivid by the heartless narrators. There had been
much interruption as the men rehearsed various versions and, worse, a
lot of the senseless witticisms that men employ to show that they are a
devil-may-care lot.
Mrs. Wells scoffed at the notion that a man, a passenger possibly, had
really fallen overboard and that the vessel had gone on its way without
any concern in the matter. Had the second-officer himself told the
gentleman? Well, no; not the second-officer himself; but he had told
the thing in confidence to the quartermaster, who had passed it along
to the crew. It was the bathroom steward, in fact, who had given out
the details.
“Ah!” Mrs. Wells was highly pleased with her quiz. “On the authority of
the bathroom steward!” she chuckled. “You men know what the day’s run
is going to be, on the authority of the bathroom steward; you tell us
exactly when we shall dock, on the authority of the bathroom steward.
The male bathroom steward, my dear sir, is the exact equivalent of the
female hairdresser.”
A quiet Englishman came into the group while Mrs. Wells was expressing
her suspicion of the theory of “man overboard.” As others emerged from
the companion-way, which led up directly from the dining-room, they
stopped to listen. About six or eight passengers lounged in chairs or
stood about. From her enthroned position under the bridge Mrs. Wells
was naturally the centre of the group.
“But, really, there was no man overboard, you know,” the Englishman
told Mrs. Wells. “I saw the whole thing and helped to get the poor chap
on his feet. He wasn’t overboard, but he was jolly well close to it.”
Questions overflowed on the reticent Englishman.
Oh, no; he had done nothing--merely helped one of the crew pull the
two men up over the rail and upon the deck. It was a tall, blue-eyed
chap, the big fellow with the hearty laugh, you know, the one who is
everlastingly tramping the deck--he’s the boy who gets the medal. Why,
he sprang right over the rail, depended solely on the grip of his hand
to hold himself from sliding overboard!
“Back aft, you know,” he explained, “the vessel bulges out like a
flattened cylinder. There’s a little foot-walk on the top of the
cylinder with a bit of rope on each side. The foot-walk’s quite safe,
you know; but one step over and you’re on a smooth, round slide. A
man might hold on if he’d lie flat and if the boat didn’t jolly well
wobble. But it does wobble, you know; up and down with the rollers and
then a side shake or two; and, besides, it’s wet back there from the
spray and all that. Not much of a lark to try to hold your own on that
bit of tin.
“I was standing against the rail,” he went on, “just off there, where
our deck stops. A man and a woman were quarrelling around the corner of
the house. I couldn’t see them, of course, and I couldn’t hear all they
said, but they were having high words, the man was, rather, I should
say. Well, the man’s voice stopped. I heard the woman call after him.
She seemed to be begging him not to do something or other. I couldn’t
get it. Then she screamed. She screamed twice. Quite startling, you
know. Not loud, but--penetrating. Went quite through one. Of course
I----”
Mrs. Wells interrupted. The man’s leisurely style irritated her. She
suggested, good-humouredly, of course, that he might shorten the
melodrama and get to the tragedy.
“Quite so,” he agreed; “but this is the first act, you know. Quite
necessary, I assure you. For if the lady hadn’t screamed I--well, I
might have seen the chap drive out aft and topple half over. Of course,
I did see him, you know. What I mean to say----”
“Prompter badly needed,” remarked Mrs. Wells grimly. She had not
relished the Englishman’s quiet turn of her theatric figure of speech.
“Prompter?” he inquired blandly. “The lady called and, being a
gentleman, I ran to her assistance. Nothing could have been prompter.”
The Americans, who love a pun, applauded, but the Englishman went on
as if he had not scored. “She was calling to someone and pointing aft.
Then I saw the man. He had got down among the life-rafts and had
stumbled over something or other. He lay sprawled out on the deck. I
started after, of course, although I saw no reason to hasten. Between
the life-rafts it is perfectly safe. It’s just beyond where the trouble
begins. Then I saw the big chap. He was lugging it up the ladder and
calling, ‘Hi! Come back!’ The first chap, the chap who had stumbled,
he got himself up and ran farther aft, and for a second it seemed like
a race. But the vessel lurched badly, or something, and the first
chap--I hope I am clear--the first chap smashed up against the ropes.
The impact carried his leg over. You could count five while he slowly
turned up and on top and then began to fall over that rope rail to the
deck, you know.
“Of course all this happened while one might say Jack Robinson; but
it seemed to me he was devilish leisurely--the first chap, I mean--in
getting over that hand-rail. Good thing, too. The second chap, the big
chap, was coming full steam ahead, charging like mad. He needed every
second and he knew it, so he put one hand on the rail, gripped it,
swung over, came smash against the sliding body of the first chap, and
pinned him against the deck. And there he swung, with an arm and a leg
around the other chap, hanging by one hand to that blooming, sagging
rope. He’s the medaller. I? Like a silly ass, I stood there watching it
all and let the woman pass me. She was on them like a shot. Strong ’un
she is; she had them both fairly well up before the sailor chap and I
could lend her a lift. I hope I’ve made it all clear, but I fear I have
mussed it up. Rather beastly thing, you know, two men dangling over the
side and the old ship tossing like a mad bull!”
The Englishman was an effective narrator after all. His quietness; his
hesitations--he puffed on a pipe during the recital--and his child-like
candour gave a horrid suggestion of reality to his picture.
By this time Geraldine had recovered sufficiently to watch her mother.
Mrs. Wells’ swift mind had visualized the scene; she saw the deck rise
and fall and the two men hanging over the depths. The horror of the
thing was on her face, Geraldine noted, but there was no suspicion of
Walter.
“I saw the two of them coming back,” a lady announced. “They passed
right by my chair. The smaller man was fearfully wobbly at the knees
and he seemed dazed. He talked thick, like a drunken man, and he
smelled horridly of whisky. Of course that’s what the doctor had given
him to revive him. He mumbled and talked foolishly. If I hadn’t been
told I’d have taken him for an intoxicated person.”
This clear description of Walter came to Mrs. Wells with the cruelty of
a shock; but she did not utter a sound, or move a muscle. Rigidly she
watched the speaker, but Geraldine saw the colour fade from her face,
and her heart beat in pity.
Summoning her energies, Mrs. Wells rose slowly and moved towards the
companion-way. At the top of the swaying stairs she pulled herself
together, and went straight to Richard’s room and knocked.
Richard opened the door softly, peered out and let his face lighten up
at the sight of Mrs. Wells.
“Come in!” he whispered, but in the tone of gay mystery. “Walter’s
taking a nap. Come in!”
She looked into the room. Walter was sleeping soundly, thanks to the
doctor’s morphine.
“No,” she said.
“Can I do anything?” he inquired; “pull out steamer-trunks, open a
port-hole or--mix you a glass of orange juice?”
His cheerfulness assured her. It was not Walter, after all.
“Nothing, thank you,” she said. “Just passing by and thought I’d tap
and see if you were at home. I’ve missed you. Why did you run away from
me this afternoon?”
“My speech put you to sleep,” he laughed; “so I just tucked you in and
slipped off.”
“I wasn’t asleep at all,” she said. “Just dozing.”
“And I didn’t run away at all,” he mimicked; “I just slipped off. But,
isn’t there something you want?”
“No.” She moved on. “Good-night. I’m off to bed. It’ll be a hard day
to-morrow with customs and trunks. Good-night.”
She was assured, but she would have given much to have been able to
ask him questions. She could not; her pride forbade, that pride which
Richard had accused her of more than once and which she had confessed
to no one but herself and Richard. Obstinacy was a good name for it; so
was independence and strong will and masterfulness. It was the quality
that made her dominant wherever she moved and, at the same time, often
mastered her and kept her from what she desired most. Having gone so
far as the man’s room in her fear, and having found, as she thought,
that fear to have been groundless, she was too proud to admit her
praiseworthy weakness.
Richard followed her down the corridor to a door that opened on the
lower deck. “Good-night,” he called after her softly. “Call again!”
She waved a hand lightly in recognition of his playfulness. But she
did not go to her room. With confident step she ascended the tipping
stairs and took her accustomed seat among the pillows.
The group had dispersed. Only Geraldine remained, crouched in her chair
in the same position.
The mother hummed an air as she adjusted the pillows and rugs.
Everything was all right. The unfortunate stoker or passenger, or
whoever it was, was not Walter. So spoke the external Mrs. Wells,
backed by a pride that never admits defeat. After all her interest in
the two selves, the self of consciousness and the subliminal self of
our deepest instincts and beliefs, Mrs. Wells did not know that all her
assumption of serenity was a bit of acting. She really did not know.
When the cry from within told her that no one but Richard could be the
“big chap,” the “blue-eyed chap,” the “chap with the hearty laugh,
who is always tramping the deck”; and that no one but Walter could
correspond to that thick-voiced small man with the suggestion of an
inebriate--when her strong instinct for the truth cried out to her she
shut the door, would not listen, summoned her wishes and willed them to
be the truth.
So she hummed, and appeared serene. Evidently, thought Geraldine,
Richard has fibbed to her. Richard meant well, but it was man’s
mistaken chivalry to woman and to age. He did not know her mother.
He did not know that her life had been a series of notable successes
against hard conditions and that every success won by her will had made
her invincible against opposition. And he did not know that with the
successes had gone unspeakable blunders. After the event Mrs. Wells
had often admitted frankly that she had been wrong, but always after
the event. It took one year’s failure of the grape crop to convince
her, against every authority, that her spray mixture was faulty. It
took the breaking of old Israel’s leg to convince her that a certain
nervous mare was dangerous. And so on and so on. Her answer always was,
“We shall see”; and if anyone had had the courage to flaunt her with a
list of the failures of judgment, she might have invited such a one to
strike a balance of her successes. Six hundred acres of land, mostly
under cultivation, besides interests in mortgages and shares in local
wine companies--these had engaged her judgment also, and to show for it
was what seemed on the surface to be a sound financial success.
“We shall see,” the mother would say. Well, she must be shown. The only
question was how to go about it.
“Mother,” Geraldine began resolutely, “what are you going to do about
Walter?”
“Aren’t you well, my dear?”
“Yes, mother.”
“You really look quite knocked out, Geraldine. Why don’t you go to
bed early to-night? You know we’ll have a bad day to-morrow landing.
You know what the New York customs is. I’ve had such a good nap this
afternoon that I think I’ll just sit here and moon. You go down, that’s
a good girl. I’ll be dropping along soon.”
“You haven’t answered my question, mother.”
“Eh? What question? I beg your pardon, dear.”
“I asked you what you were going to do about Walter.”
“My dear, you are obsessed about Walter. He’s a care, I’ll admit; and
it’s bad enough that I have to have him on my soul, but I do wish you
would be happy and not concern yourself about him. Even I don’t wish
to have him in my mind all the time. When we get back to ‘Red Jacket’
I shall bring all the force of my will to bear upon him. I shall force
him into good habits as I’ve done many a-time with a hunting dog. He’ll
‘charge’ or ‘heel’ at my command.”
“But he hates it, and he has threatened to do away with himself,” the
girl implored.
“Naturally he hates it. So does the dog; but he gets the right habits
eventually and doesn’t spoil the shooting by a lot of barking and
prancing around. There’s not a flaw in my theory, my dear. Of course,
I am sorry we must do this. I don’t like to treat my boy like a dog.
But we must face the fact. He is a dog. He has got himself into the
ditch; and we mustn’t mind the mire--we must get him out. You wait in
patience, my dear; we shall see.”
That “we shall see” made Geraldine determined. To the great relief of
the mother she seemed to drop the subject altogether.
“That man overboard,” she suggested.
“Yes; horrible, wasn’t it?”
“They say he deliberately threw himself over the side and struggled and
fought against a rescue.”
“Why should he do that?”
“He was trying to kill himself.”
“Who says so!”
“Richard.”
“What does Richard know about it?”
“Richard was the man who leaped over the side and held him until help
came.”
“Richard!”
“Yes.”
“And the man who----”
“That was Walter.”
It was cruel, but was there any other way? Cruel and pitiful. In the
July twilight Geraldine could see her mother age perceptibly. In a
moment she seemed to shrink and fade and grow a shade greyer. The firm
lines about her mouth loosened, giving her the look of genial senility.
It happens often to those who have led rigid, muscle-tense lives;
when they finally go, the result is not a gradual growth but a horrid
transformation. Geraldine was frightened. She summoned help from the
passengers about her and sent someone off for the doctor.
There was enough fighting spirit left in the aged mother to object
to all this attempt to help her, but weakness finally conquered
determination; she was forced to give in and let herself be put to bed.