Part 18 (1/2)

On sitting down Mr. Travers alluded in a vexed tone to the necessity of living on preserves, all the stock of fresh provisions for the pa.s.sage to Batavia having been already consumed. It was distinctly unpleasant.

”I don't travel for my pleasure, however,” he added; ”and the belief that the sacrifice of my time and comfort will be productive of some good to the world at large would make up for any amount of privations.”

Mrs. Travers and d'Alcacer seemed unable to shake off a strong aversion to talk, and the conversation, like an expiring breeze, kept on dying out repeatedly after each languid gust. The large silence of the horizon, the profound repose of all things visible, enveloping the bodies and penetrating the souls with their quieting influence, stilled thought as well as voice. For a long time no one spoke. Behind the taciturnity of the masters the servants hovered without noise.

Suddenly, Mr. Travers, as if concluding a train of thought, muttered aloud:

”I own with regret I did in a measure lose my temper; but then you will admit that the existence of such a man is a disgrace to civilization.”

This remark was not taken up and he returned for a time to the nursing of his indignation, at the bottom of which, like a monster in a fog, crept a bizarre feeling of rancour. He waved away an offered dish.

”This coast,” he began again, ”has been placed under the sole protection of Holland by the Treaty of 1820. The Treaty of 1820 creates special rights and obligations. . . .”

Both his hearers felt vividly the urgent necessity to hear no more.

D'Alcacer, uncomfortable on a campstool, sat stiff and stared at the gla.s.s stopper of a carafe. Mrs. Travers turned a little sideways and leaning on her elbow rested her head on the palm of her hand like one thinking about matters of profound import. Mr. Travers talked; he talked inflexibly, in a harsh blank voice, as if reading a proclamation.

The other two, as if in a state of incomplete trance, had their ears a.s.sailed by fragments of official verbiage.

”An international understanding--the duty to civilize--failed to carry out--compact--Canning--” D'Alcacer became attentive for a moment.

”--not that this attempt, almost amusing in its impudence, influences my opinion. I won't admit the possibility of any violence being offered to people of our position. It is the social aspect of such an incident I am desirous of criticising.”

Here d'Alcacer lost himself again in the recollection of Mrs. Travers and Immada looking at each other--the beginning and the end, the flower and the leaf, the phrase and the cry. Mr. Travers' voice went on dogmatic and obstinate for a long time. The end came with a certain vehemence.

”And if the inferior race must perish, it is a gain, a step toward the perfecting of society which is the aim of progress.”

He ceased. The sparks of sunset in crystal and silver had gone out, and around the yacht the expanse of coast and Shallows seemed to await, unmoved, the coming of utter darkness. The dinner was over a long time ago and the patient stewards had been waiting, stoical in the downpour of words like sentries under a shower.

Mrs. Travers rose nervously and going aft began to gaze at the coast.

Behind her the sun, sunk already, seemed to force through the ma.s.s of waters the glow of an unextinguishable fire, and below her feet, on each side of the yacht, the l.u.s.trous sea, as if reflecting the colour of her eyes, was tinged a sombre violet hue.

D'Alcacer came up to her with quiet footsteps and for some time they leaned side by side over the rail in silence. Then he said--”How quiet it is!” and she seemed to perceive that the quietness of that evening was more profound and more significant than ever before. Almost without knowing it she murmured--”It's like a dream.” Another long silence ensued; the tranquillity of the universe had such an August ampleness that the sounds remained on the lips as if checked by the fear of profanation. The sky was limpid like a diamond, and under the last gleams of sunset the night was spreading its veil over the earth. There was something precious and soothing in the beautifully serene end of that expiring day, of the day vibrating, glittering and ardent, and dying now in infinite peace, without a stir, without a tremor, without a sigh--in the cert.i.tude of resurrection.

Then all at once the shadow deepened swiftly, the stars came out in a crowd, scattering a rain of pale sparks upon the blackness of the water, while the coast stretched low down, a dark belt without a gleam. Above it the top-hamper of the brig loomed indistinct and high.

Mrs. Travers spoke first.

”How unnaturally quiet! It is like a desert of land and water without a living soul.”

”One man at least dwells in it,” said d'Alcacer, lightly, ”and if he is to be believed there are other men, full of evil intentions.”

”Do you think it is true?” Mrs. Travers asked.

Before answering d'Alcacer tried to see the expression of her face but the obscurity was too profound already.

”How can one see a dark truth on such a dark night?” he said, evasively.

”But it is easy to believe in evil, here or anywhere else.”

She seemed to be lost in thought for a while.

”And that man himself?” she asked.