Part 19 (1/2)

”But when the fourteenth night was come, as we were driven up and down in Adria, about midnight the s.h.i.+pmen deemed that they drew near to some country--”

The intuition of seamans.h.i.+p. The flash. How modern! Oh, Paul lived in that sea. His ghost and memory were forever there, as were the ghosts of the Lion-heart; and of Sappho, singer of songs; and of the stout Phenician sailing men; and of the doges of Venice, lovers and husbands of the sea. On the tideless Mediterranean beauty still abided, as nowhere else; would abide, when nowhere else--

Would it, though? Would it abide anywhere? A pang came into Campbell's heart. Off Finisterre he had been pa.s.sed by Robert Steel of Greenock's _Falcon_, every sail drawing, skysails and moonrakers set, a pillar of white cloud she seemed, like some majestic womanhood. And while boats like the _Fiery Cross_ and the _Falcon_ tore along like greyhounds, there were building tubby iron boats to go by steam. The train was beating the post-chaise with its satiny horses, the train that went by coal one dug from the ground. And even now de Lesseps and his men were digging night and day that the steamboat might push the proud clipper from the seas. Queer! Would there come a day when no topgallants drew?

And the square-rigged s.h.i.+ps would be like old crones gathering f.a.gots on an October day. And what would become of the men who built and mastered great racing s.h.i.+ps? And would the sea itself permit vile iron and smudgy coal to speck its immaculate bosom? Must the sea, too, be tamed like a dancing bear for the men who are buying and selling? It seemed impossible.

But the shrewd men who trafficked said it must be so. They were spending their money on de Lesseps's fabulous scheme. And the shrewd men never spent money without a return. They would conquer.

Poor sea of the Vikings! Poor sea of the Lion-heart and of the Sappho of the songs! Poor sea of Admiral Columbus! Poor sea to whom Paul made obeisance! Sea of Drake and sea of Nelson, and sea of Philip of Spain.

Poor sea whom the great doges of Venice wed with a ring of gold! Christ!

If they could only bottle you, they would sell you like Holland gin!

-- 6

He had figured his work. He had figured his field. It seemed to him that this being done life should flow on evenly as a stream. But there were gaps of unhappiness that all the subtle sailing of a s.h.i.+p, all the commerce of the East, all the fighting of the gales could not fill.

Within him somewhere was a s.p.a.ce, in his heart, in his head, somewhere, a ring, a pit of emotion--how, where, why he could not express. It just existed. And this was filled at times with concentration on his work, at times with plans of the future and material memories of the past or thoughts of ancient s.h.i.+pmates, of his Uncle Robin. It was like a house, that s.p.a.ce was, with a strange division of time, that corresponded not with time of day, but with recurrent actions, memories, moods. There would be the bustle of his work, and that seemed to be morning. There would be the planning of future days, and that seemed like an afternoon, of suns.h.i.+ne; and there would be memories, as of old s.h.i.+pmates, as of Uncle Robin--G.o.d rest his dear soul; as of Alan Donn with his hearty cursing, his hearty laugh. And that was like an evening with golden candle-light and red fire burning. And then would come the quietness of night, all the bustle, all the plans, all the memories gone. The fire out, the rooms empty. And in the strange place somewhere within would come a strange lucidity, blue and cold and absolute as the stars, and into that place would walk, as players stalk upon the stage, each of three ghosts.

The first was his mother, who was dead, an apparition of chilling terror. From afar she beheld him with eyes that were queerly inimical.

She had done nothing to him, nor he anything to her. She had done nothing for him, nor he for her. Between them was nothing. When she had died he had felt nothing, and that was the tragedy. No tears, no relief, nothing. She had carried him in her womb, born him, suckled him; and he had always felt he had been unwelcome. There had been no hospitality in her body; just constraint. She had had no welcome for the little guest of G.o.d; her heart had been hard to him and he at her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Nothing common to them in life, and now joined through the horrible significant gulf of death. She could be with him always now, being dead. But where a man's mother should come to him smilingly, with soft hands, with wisdom and comfort pa.s.sing that of life, she came with terrible empty eyes. He could see her gaunt profile, her black brows. She was like an engraving he had once seen of the witch Saul had used at En-dor, to call up Samuel, who was dead. She had the same awful majesty, the same utter loneliness.

”You gave me nothing in life. In death give me peace,” he would cry. But she stayed until it suited her to go, as she would have done in life.

Her haunted, haunting eyes ...!

And there would come another ghost, the ghost of the girl he had married and he a boy--fourteen years ago. It was strange how he could remember her--her red hair, her sullen mouth, her suspicious eyes. Her shoulders drooped a little; there was no grace to her stance. She complained against something, but she did not accuse him. He had married her, and she had married him, and she had died. That was all there was to it. And though she had sorrowed his younger days, yet he felt very kindly to her. There she was, with her sullen mouth, her drooping shoulders, complaining. ”Life is so short, and there was so little to it, and others have so much,” she seemed to say. ”I had a right to have my man and a place in the country, the like of other girls, but all I got was you. And death at the end of a short year. Wasn't it hard, och, wasn't it so!” And he had to comfort her. ”It was n.o.body's fault, Moyra. It just happened. We were awfully young.” But her lips were still sullen, her eyes suspicious as she went away. ”A short life and a bitter one. A hard thing surely!” When she left him there was a sigh of relief. Poor girl!

And the third ghost was hardly a presence, but an absence, or a presence so intangible that it was worse than an absence. Claire-Anne, who was dead, whom he had--made dead, whom he had taken it upon himself to set free. For a year after he had left Ma.r.s.eilles she had seemed to be always with him, closer in spirit, now she was dead, than she had ever been in flesh and spirit when alive. A part of him she seemed always to be. Always there, in the quiet cabin, on the heeling decks, on the solid sh.o.r.e. And the long thoughts of him seemed to be conversation with her, on strange beautiful things, on strange terrible things, on the common commodity of life.... And then one day she left him....

He was coming into Southampton Water and waiting for the pilot's cutter from the Solent, one bright July morning. And all the Solent was dotted with sails, the snowy sails of great yachts and the cinnamon sails of small ones. Little fis.h.i.+ng-craft prowled near the sh.o.r.e. And afar off, in fancy, he could see the troops of swans, and the stalking herons. The pilot's cutter plowed toward him, her deep forefoot dividing the water like a knife. Immense, vibrant beauty. And he felt, as always, that Claire-Anne was by him, her dark understanding presence, her clear Greek face, her little smile.

”In a minute now we will come into the wind and lower a boat, Claire-Anne.” And a shock of surprise came over him. She was not there.

It was as though he had been talking with his back turned to some one, and turning around found they weren't there. For an instant he felt as if he had lost somebody overboard. And then it came to him that water, earth, material hazards were nothing to her any more. She had gone somewhere for a moment. And he turned to greet the pilot as he swung aboard.

”She will come back,” he thought.... But she never came back. Once or twice or maybe three times, a month, six months, and ten months later, he felt her warm lover-like presence near him. ”Claire-Anne! Is it you, Claire-Anne?” And she was gone again. Something that had hovered, fluttered, kissed, and flown away. Never again!

She had become to him in death much more real than she had ever been in life. In life she had been dynamic, a warm, multicolored, perfumed cloud. In death she was static. All the tumult of material things gone, he had a vision of her clear as a line drawing. And he had come to depend on her so much. In difficulty of thought he would say: ”Is this right, Claire-Anne?” And her answer would come: ”Yes, Shane!” Or possibly when some matter of trade or conduct seemed dubious, not quite--whatever it was, her voice would come clear as a bell. ”You mustn't, Shane. It isn't right. It isn't like you to be small.” It might have been conscience, but it sounded like Claire-Anne. And oftentimes in problems, she would say: ”I don't know, Shane. I don't quite know.” And he would say, ”We must do our best, Claire-Anne.”

Well, she was gone. And he thought to himself: What do we know of the destiny of the dead? They, too, must have work, missions to perform. The G.o.d he believed in--the wise, firm, and kindly G.o.d--might have said: ”Claire-Anne, he'll be all right now. At any rate he'll have to work out the rest for himself. Leave that. I want you to--” And she had gone.

That was one majestic explanation, but at times it seemed to him that no matter what happened in the world, or superworld, yet she must be in touch with him. ”Set me, as a seal upon thy heart, as a seal upon thine arm,” cried the prince's daughter, ”for love is strong as death.” If she loved him she must love him still.

It suddenly occurred to him that the fault was not occult, but a matter of spiritual deterioration in himself. To be in harmony with the lonely dead there must be no dross about the mind. The preoccupations of routine, the occasional dislikes of some stupid s.h.i.+p's officer, or boatswain, the troubles about cargo--this, that, the other pettinesses might cloud his eye as a mist clouds a lens. There came to him the memory of a translation from some Chinese poet he had heard somewhere, in some connection:

How am I fallen from myself! For a long time now I have not seen the prince of Chang in my dreams.

He decided he would clear and make ready the quiet sweet place in his heart, the room of ghosts, so that she might come and dwell there. But induce the spiritual mood of the quiet October evening much as he could, yet she never came again.

From his mind now there faded the memory of her face, the memory of her hands, the memory of her voice even. With every week, with every month, with the year, she was gone. Like a lost thought, or a lost bar of music, she was gone. She had been there, but she was gone. The loss was a terrible one. To lose one who was alive was much. But to lose one who was dead was unbelievable, horrible ... to lose the sun ... forever....

He decided he could go back to the Prado of Ma.r.s.eilles, where first he had met her, where she would of all places have kept a tryst with him.