“As far as I’m concerned I’ve only got this to say: I’ve got the man who was looking after our engines with me. He’s a rattling good fellow, and he’s just as fit to come to your party as I am. But he won’t come because I’m going to make him so drunk on Christmas Day that by six o’clock he’ll be fit for nothing but to be put to bed.”
Mr Jephson, the consul, gave a distorted smile. On account of his official position, he had been chosen to preside at the meeting and he wished the matter to be taken seriously. He was a man who often said that if a thing was worth doing it was worth doing well.
“I gather from your observations,” he said, not without acidity, “that the question before the meeting does not seem to you of great importance.”
“I don’t think it matters a tinker’s curse,” said Gallagher, with twinkling eyes.
Mrs Hamlyn laughed. The scheme was at last devised to invite the second-class passengers, but to go to the captain privily and point out to him the advisability of withholding his consent to their coming into the first-class saloon. It was on the evening of the day on which this happened that Mrs Hamlyn, having dressed for dinner, came on deck at the same time as Mr Gallagher.
“Just in time for a cocktail, Mrs Hamlyn,” he said jovially. “I’d like one. To tell you the truth I need cheering up.”
“Why?” he smiled.
Mrs Hamlyn thought his smile attractive, but she did not want to answer his question.
“I told you the other morning,” she answered cheerfully. “I’m forty.”
“I never met a woman who insisted on the fact so much.”
They went into the lounge and the Irishman ordered a dry Martini for her and a gin pahit for himself. He had lived too long in the East to drink anything else.
“You’ve got hiccups,” said Mrs Hamlyn.
“Yes, I’ve had them all the afternoon,” he answered carelessly. “It’s rather funny, they came on just as we got out of sight of land.”
“I daresay they’ll pass off after dinner.”
They drank, the second bell rang, and they went into the dining-saloon.
“You don’t play bridge?” he said, as they parted.
“No.”
Mrs Hamlyn did not notice that she saw nothing of Gallagher for two or three days. She was occupied with her own thoughts. They crowded upon her when she was sewing; they came between her and the novel with which she sought to cheat their insistence. She had hoped that as the ship took her further away from the scene of her unhappiness, the torment of her mind would be eased; but contrariwise, each day that brought her nearer England increased her distress. She looked forward with dismay to the bleak emptiness of the life that awaited her; and then, turning her exhausted wits from a prospect that made her flinch, she considered, as she had done she knew not how many times before, the situation from which she had fled.
She had been married for twenty years. It was a long time and of course she could not expect her husband to be still madly in love with her; she was not madly in love with him; but they were good friends and they understood one another. Their marriage, as marriages go, might very well have been looked upon as a success. Suddenly she discovered that he had fallen in love. She would not have objected to a flirtation, he had had those before, and she had chaffed him about them; he had not minded that, it somewhat flattered him, and they had laughed together at an inclination which was neither deep nor serious. But this was different. He was in love as passionately as a boy of eighteen. He was fifty-two. It was ridiculous. It was indecent. And he loved without sense or prudence; by the time the hideous fact was forced upon her all the foreigners in Yokohama knew it. After the first shock of astonished anger, for he was the last man from whom such a folly might have been expected, she tried to persuade herself that she could have understood, and so have forgiven, if he had fallen in love with a girl. Middle-aged men often make fools of themselves with flappers, and after twenty years in the Far East she knew that the fifties were the dangerous age for men. But he had no excuse. He was in love with a woman eight years older than herself. It was grotesque, and it made her, his wife, perfectly absurd. Dorothy Lacom was hard on fifty. He had known her for eighteen years, for Lacom, like her own husband, was a silk merchant in Yokohama. Year in, year out, they had seen one another three or four times a week, and once, when they happened to be in England together, had shared a house at the seaside. But nothing! Not till a year ago had there been anything between them but a chaffing friendship. It was incredible. Of course Dorothy was a handsome woman; she had a good figure, over-developed, perhaps, but still comely; with bold black eyes and a red mouth and lovely hair; but all that she had had years before. She was forty-eight. Forty-eight!
Mrs Hamlyn tackled her husband at once. At first he swore that there was not a word of truth in what she accused him of, but she had her proofs; he grew sulky; and at last he admitted what he could no longer deny. Then he said an astonishing thing.
“Why should you care?” he asked.
It maddened her. She answered him with angry scorn. She was voluble, finding in the bitterness of her heart wounding things to say. He listened to her quietly.
“I’ve not been such a bad husband to you for the twenty years we’ve been married. For a long time now we’ve only been friends. I have a great affection for you, and this hasn’t altered it in the very smallest degree. I’m giving Dorothy nothing that I take away from you.”
“But what have you to complain of in me?”
“Nothing. No man could want a better wife.”
“How can you say that when you have the heart to treat me so cruelly?”
“I don’t want to be cruel to you. I can’t help myself.”
“But what on earth made you fall in love with her?”
“How can I tell? You don’t think I wanted to, do you?”
“Couldn’t you have resisted?”
“I tried. I think we both tried.”
“You talk as though you were twenty. Why, you’re both middle-aged people. She’s eight years older than I am. It makes me look such a perfect fool.”
He did not answer. She did not know what emotions seethed in her heart.
Was it jealousy that seemed to clutch at her throat, anger, or was it merely wounded pride?
“I’m not going to let it go on. If only you and she were concerned I would divorce you, but there’s her husband, and then there are the children. Good heavens, does it occur to you that if they were girls instead of boys she might be a grandmother by now?”
“Easily.”
“What a mercy that we have no children!”
He put out an affectionate hand as though to caress her, but she drew back with horror.
“You’ve made me the laughing stock of all my friends. For all our sakes I’m willing to hold my tongue, but only on the condition that everything stops now, at once, and for ever.”
He looked down and played reflectively with a Japanese knick-knack that was on the table.
“I’ll tell Dorothy what you say,” he replied at last.
She gave him a little bow, silently, and walked past him out of the room. She was too angry to observe that she was somewhat melodramatic.
She waited for him to tell the result of his interview with Dorothy Lacom, but he made no further reference to the scene. He was quiet, polite, and silent; and at last she was obliged to ask him.
“Have you forgotten what I said to you the other day?” she inquired, frigidly.
“No. I talked to Dorothy. She wished me to tell you that she is desperately sorry that she has caused you so much pain. She would like to come and see you, but she is afraid you wouldn’t like it.”
“What decision have you come to?”
He hesitated. He was very grave, but his voice trembled a little.
“I’m afraid there’s no use in our making a promise we shouldn’t be able to keep.”
“That settles it then,” she answered.
“I think
I should tell you that if you brought an action for divorce we should have to contest it. You would find it impossible to get the necessary evidence and you would lose your case.”
“I wasn’t thinking of doing that. I shall go back to England and consult a lawyer. Nowadays these things can be managed fairly easily, and I shall throw myself on your generosity. I dare say you will enable me to get my freedom without bringing Dorothy Lacom into the matter.”
He sighed.
“It’s an awful muddle, isn’t it? I don’t want you to divorce me, but of course I’ll do anything I can to meet your wishes.”
“What on earth do you expect me to do?” she cried, her anger rising again. “Do you expect me to sit still and be made a damned fool of?”
“I’m awfully sorry to put you in a humiliating position.” He looked at her with harassed eyes. “I’m quite sure we didn’t want to fall in love with one another. We’re both of us very conscious of our age. Dorothy, as you say, is old enough to be a grandmother and I’m a baldish, stoutish gentleman of fifty-two. When you fall in love at twenty you think your love will last for ever, but at fifty you know so much, about life and about love, and you know that it will last so short a time.” His voice was low and rueful. It was as though before his mind’s eye he saw the sadness of autumn and the leaves falling from the trees. He looked at her gravely. “And at that age you feel that you can’t afford to throw away the chance of happiness which a freakish destiny has given you. In five years it will certainly be over, and perhaps in six months. Life is rather drab and grey, and happiness is so rare. We shall be dead so long.”
It gave Mrs Hamlyn a bitter sensation of pain to hear her husband, a matter-of-fact and practical man, speak in a strain which was quite new to her. He had gained on a sudden a wistful and tragic personality of which she knew nothing. The twenty years during which they had lived together had no power over him and she was helpless in face of his determination. She could do nothing but go, and now, resentfully determined to get the divorce with which she had threatened him, she was on her way to England.
The smooth sea, upon which the sun beat down so that it shone like a sheet of glass, was as empty and hostile as life in which there was no place for her. For three days no other craft had broken in upon the solitariness of that expanse. Now and again its even surface was scattered for the twinkling of an eye by the scurry of flying fish. The heat was so great that even the most energetic of passengers had given up deck games, and now (it was after luncheon) such as were not resting in their cabins lay about on chairs. Linsell strolled towards her and sat down.
“Where’s Mrs Linsell?” asked Mrs Hamlyn.
“Oh, I don’t know. She’s about somewhere.”
His indifference exasperated her. Was it possible that he did not see that his wife and the surgeon were falling in love with one another? Yet, not so very long ago, he must have cared. Their marriage had been romantic. They had become engaged when Mrs Linsell was still at school and he little more than a boy. They must have been a charming, handsome pair, and their youth and their mutual love must have been touching. And now, after so short a time, they were tired of one another. It was heartbreaking. What had her husband said?
“I suppose you’re going to live in London when you get home?” asked Linsell lazily, for something to say.
“I suppose so,” said Mrs Hamlyn.
It was hard to reconcile herself to the fact that she had nowhere to go, and where she lived mattered not in the least to anyone alive. Some association of ideas made her think of Gallagher. She envied the eagerness with which he was returning to his native land, and she was touched, and at the same time amused, when she remembered the exuberant imagination he showed in describing the house he meant to live in and the wife he meant to marry. Her friends in Yokohama, apprised in confidence of her determination to divorce her husband, had assured her that she would marry again. She did not much want to enter a second time upon a state which had once so disappointed her, and besides, most men would think twice before they suggested marriage to a woman of forty. Mr Gallagher wanted a buxom young person,
“Where is Mr Gallagher?” she asked the submissive Linsell. “I haven’t seen him for the last day or two.”
“Didn’t you know? He’s ill.”
“Poor thing. What’s the matter with him?”
“He’s got hiccups.”
Mrs Hamlyn laughed.
“Hiccups don’t make one ill, do they?”
“The surgeon is rather worried. He’s tried all sorts of things, but he can’t stop them.”
“How very odd.”
She thought no more about it, but next morning, chancing upon the surgeon, she asked him how Mr Gallagher was. She was surprised to see his boyish, cheerful face darken and grow perplexed.
“I’m afraid he’s very bad, poor chap.”
“With hiccups?” she cried in amazement.
It was a disorder that really it was impossible to take seriously.
“You see, he can’t keep any food down. He can’t sleep. He’s fearfully exhausted. I’ve tried everything I can think of.” He hesitated. “Unless I can stop them soon-I don’t quite know what’ll happen.”
Mrs Hamlyn was startled.
“But he’s so strong. He seemed so full of vitality.”
“I wish you could see him now.”
“Would he like me to go and see him?”
“Come along.”
Gallagher had been moved from his cabin into the ship’s hospital, and as they approached it they heard a loud hiccup. The sound, perhaps owing to its connexion with insobriety, had in it something ludicrous. But Gallagher’s appearance gave Mrs Hamlyn a shock. He had lost flesh and the skin hung about his neck in loose folds; under the sunburn his face was pale. His eyes, before full of fun and laughter, were haggard and tormented. His great body was shaken incessantly by the hiccups and now there was nothing ludicrous in the sound; to Mrs Hamlyn, for no reason that she knew, it seemed strangely terrifying. He smiled when she came in.
“I’m sorry to see you like this,” she said.
“I shan’t die of it, you know,” he gasped. “I shall reach the green shores of Erin all right.”
There was a man sitting beside him and he rose as they entered.
“This is Mr Pryce,” said the surgeon. “He was in charge of the machinery on Mr Gallagher’s estate.”
Mrs Hamlyn nodded. This was the second-class passenger to whom Gallagher had referred when they had discussed the party which was to be given on Christmas Day. He was a very small man, but sturdy, with a pleasantly impudent countenance and an air of self-assurance.
“Are you glad to be going home?” asked Mrs Hamlyn.
“You bet I am, lady,” he answered.
The intonation of the few words told Mrs Hamlyn that he was a cockney and, recognizing the cheerful, sensible, good-humoured, and careless type, her heart warmed to him.
“You’re not Irish?” she smiled.
“Not me, miss. London’s my “ome and I shan’t be sorry to see it again, I can tell you.”
Mrs Hamlyn never thought it offensive to be called miss.
“Well, sir, I’ll be getting along,” he said to Gallagher, with the beginning of a gesture as though he were going to touch a cap which he hadn’t got on.
Mrs Hamlyn asked the sick man whether she could do anything for him and in a minute or two left him with the doctor. The little cockney was waiting outside the door.
“Can I speak to you a minute or two, miss?” he asked.
“Of course.”
The hospital cabin was aft and they stood, leaning against the rail, and looked down on the well-deck where lascars and stewards off duty were lounging about on the covered hatches.
“I don’t know exactly “ow to begin,” said Pryce, uncertainly, a serious look strangely changing his lively, puckered face. “I’ve been with Mr Gallagher for four years now and a better gentleman you wouldn’t find in a week of Sundays.”
He hesitated again.
“I don’t like it and that’s the truth.”
“What don’t you like?”
“Well, if you ask me “e’s for it, and the doctor don’t know it. I told “im, but “e won’t listen to a word I say.”
“You mustn’t be too depressed, Mr Pryce. Of course the doctor’s young, but I think he’s quite clever, and people don’t die of hiccups, you know. I’m sure Mr Gallagher will be all right in a day or two.”
“You know when it came on? Just as we was out of sight of land. She said “e’d never see “is “ome.”
Mrs Hamlyn turned and faced him. She stood a good three inches taller than he.
“What do you mean?”
“My belief is, it’s a spell been put on “im, if you understand what I mean. Medicine’s going to do “im no good. You don’t know them Malay women like what I do.”
For a moment Mrs Hamlyn was startled, and because she was startled she shrugged her shoulders and laughed. “Oh, Mr Pryce, that’s nonsense.”
“That’s what the doctor said when I told “im. But you mark my words, “e’ll die before we see land again.”
The man was so serious that Mrs Hamlyn, vaguely uneasy, was against her will impressed.
“Why should anyone cast a spell on Mr Gallagher?” she asked. “Well, it’s a bit awkward speakin’ of it to a lady.”
“Please tell me.”
Pryce was so embarrassed that at another time Mrs Hamlyn would have had difficulty in concealing her amusement.