He thought of his wife"s back, flat, powerful, uncompromising. This was very different, more--how should he put it to himself?--more Algerian, perhaps. He could vaguely conceive it a back such as one might meet with while engaged in adding to one"s stock of knowledge of--well--African frailty.
At this moment the steward appeared to show him to his cabin, and his further reflections were mainly connected with the Gulf of Lyons.
Twilight was beginning to fall when, so far as he was capable of thinking, he thought he would like a breath of air. For some moments he lay quite still, dwelling on this idea which had so mysteriously come to him. Then he got up, and thought again, seated upon the cabin floor.
He knew there was a deck. He remembered having seen one when he came aboard. He put on his fur coat, still sitting on the cabin floor. The process took some time--he fancied about a couple of years. At last, however, it was completed, and he rose to his feet with the a.s.sistance of the washstand and the berth.
The ship seemed very busy, full of almost American activity. He thought a greater calm would have been more decent, and waited in the hope that the floor would presently cease to forget itself. As it showed no symptoms of complying with his desire he endeavoured to spurn it, and, in the fulness of time, gained the companion.
It was very strange, as he remembered afterwards, that only when he had gained the companion did the sense of his utter loneliness rush upon him with overwhelming force: one of the ironies of life, he supposed.
Eventually he shook the companion off with a good deal of difficulty, and found himself installed upon planks under a grey sky, and holding fast to a railing, which was all that interposed between him and eternity.
At first he was only conscious of greyness and the noise of winds and waters, but presently a black daub seemed to hover for a second somewhere on the verge of his world, to hover and disappear. He wondered what it was. A s.m.u.t, perhaps. He rubbed his face. The daub returned.
It was very large for a s.m.u.t. He strove to locate it, and found that it must be somewhere on his left cheek. With a great effort he took out his pocket-handkerchief. Suddenly the daub a.s.sumed monstrous proportions.
He turned his head, and perceived the lady in black whom he had seen tripping over the gangway on his arrival.
She was a few steps from him, leaning upon the rail in an att.i.tude of the deepest dejection, with her face averted; yet it struck him that her right shoulder was oddly familiar, as her back had surely been. The turn of her head, too--he coughed despairingly. The lady took no notice. He coughed again. Interest was quickening in him. He was determined to see the lady"s face.
This time she looked around, showing a pale countenance bedewed with tears, and totally devoid of any expression which he could connect with a consciousness of his presence. For a moment she stared vacantly at him, while he, with almost equal vacancy, regarded her. Then a thrill of surprise shook him. A sudden light of knowledge leaped up in him, and he exclaimed:
"Mademoiselle Verbena!" "Monsieur?" murmured the lady, with an accent of surprise.
"Mademoiselle Verbena! Surely it is--it must be!"
He had staggered sideways, nearing her.
"Mademoiselle Verbena, do you not know me? It is I, Eustace Greyne, the father of your pupils, the husband of Mrs. Eustace Greyne?"
An expression of stark amazement came into the lady"s face at these words. She leaned forward till her eyes were close to Mr. Greyne"s then gave a little cry.
"_Mon Dieu!_ It is true! You are so altered that I could not recognise.
And then--what are you doing here, on the wide sea, far from madame?"
"I was just about to ask you the very same question!" cried Mr. Greyne.
IV
"Alas, monsieur!" said Mademoiselle Verbena in her silvery voice, "I go to see my poor mother."
"But I understood that she was dying in Paris."
"Even so. But, when I reached the Rue St. Honore, I found that they had removed to Algiers. It was the only chance, the doctor said--a warm climate, the sun of Africa. There was no time to let me know. They took her away at once. And now I follow--perhaps to find her dead."
Large tears rolled down her cheeks. Mr. Greyne was deeply affected.
"Let us hope for the best," he exclaimed, seized by a happy inspiration.
The Levantine strove to smile.
"But you, monsieur, why are you here? Ah! perhaps madame is with you!
Let me go to her! Let me kiss her dear hands once more----"
Mr. Greyne mournfully checked her fond excitement.
"I am quite alone," he said.
A tragic expression came into the Levantine"s face.
"But, then----" she began.
It was impossible for him to tell her about "Catherine." He was, therefore, constrained to subterfuge.
"I--I was suddenly overtaken by--by influenza," he said, in some confusion. "The doctor recommended change of air, of scene."
"He suggested Algiers----"
"_Mon Dieu!_ It is like poor mamma!"
"Precisely. Our const.i.tutions are--are doubtless similar. I shall take this opportunity also of improving my knowledge of African manners and--and customs."
A strange smile seemed to dawn for a second on Mademoiselle Verbena"s face, but it died instantaneously in a grimace of pain.
"My teeth make me bad," she said. "Ah, monsieur, I must go below, to pray for poor mamma--" she paused, then softly added, "and for monsieur."
She made a movement as if to depart, but Mr. Greyne begged her to remain. In his loneliness the sight even of a Levantine whom he knew solaced his yearning heart. He felt quite friendly towards this poor, unhappy girl, for whom, perhaps, such a shock was preparing upon the distant sh.o.r.e.
"Better stay!" he said. "The air will do you good."
"Ah, if I die, what matter? Unless mamma lives there is no one in the world who cares for me, for whom I care."
"There--there is Mrs. Greyne," said her husband. "And then St.
Paul"s--remember St. Paul"s."
"Ah _ce charmant_ St. Paul"s! Shall I ever see him more?"
She looked at Mr. Greyne, and suddenly--he knew not why--Mr. Greyne remembered the incident of the diary, and blushed.
"Monsieur has fever!"
Mr. Greyne shook his head. The Levantine eyed him curiously.
"Monsieur wishes to say something to me, and does not like to speak."
Mr. Greyne made an effort. Now that he was with this gentle lady, with her white face, her weeping eyes, her plain black dress, the mere suspicion that she could have opened a locked drawer with a secret key, and filched therefrom a private record, seemed to him unpardonable.
Yet, for a brief instant, it had occurred to him, and Mrs. Greyne had seriously held it. He looked at Mademoiselle Verbena, and a sudden impulse to tell her the truth overcame him.
"Yes," he said.