PART FOUR THE OPEN BOAT (continued 2)

... The woman’s head was lying back. Something that Bellair had noted a hundred times, without bringing it actually into his mind’s front, now appeared with all the energy of a realisation. Her throat was almost too beautiful. The diverging lines under the ear, one stretching down to the shoulder, the other curving forward around the chin, were shadowed a little deeper from her body’s wasting, but the beauty was deeper than flesh, the structure itself classic. It was the same as when he had noted her finger-nails. Beauty had brought him a kind of excitement, and something of hostility—as if he had been hurt terribly by it long ago. But this was different; these details had come one by one, as he was ready. Her integrity had entered his heart before each outer symbol. He had not seen her at all at first; recalled the queer sense of hesitation in raising his eyes across the table in the cabin of the Jade. He had studied her face in the open boat, but something seemed to blur his eyes when she turned to him to speak. Two are required for a real understanding. As yet they had not really met, not yet turned to each other in that searching silence which fathoms. But the details were dawning upon him. Perhaps that was the way of the Faraway Woman—to dawn upon one.

The day was ending—their shadows long upon the water. Fleury raised his hand as he said:

“It is surer to me than anything in the world——”

“What, Fleury?” Bellair asked, though there was but one theme of the day.

“That this is our last day in the open boat.”

Bellair did not answer. His own voice had a hideous sound to him and betrayed his misery.

“It was the too-great light—that I saw,” the preacher added huskily. “It began last night as I prayed. I saw that this was the last day for us—but more——”

“I saw something about you as you prayed,” the woman said.

Fleury surprised them now, taking a sup of water. They saw that he had something to say about God and the soul of man—that was the romance he worshipped. They listened with awe. In Bellair’s heart, at least, there was a conviction that tightened continually—that they were not long to hear the words of the preacher.

“... For two years I have been in the dark and could not pray. Before that I prayed with the thought of self, which is not prayer. I could not stay as a church leader without praying. I said I would pray when I could pray purely for them. I told them, too, that I could not look back in service and adoration to the Saviour of another people who lived two thousand years ago. They called me a devil and a blasphemer. For two years, I have tried to serve instead of to pray, but no one would listen, no one would have me. They said I was insane, and at times I believed it. At last, it came to me that I must go away—to the farthest part of the world——”

He turned yearningly to the woman.

“And then you came with your strength and faith.”

Now to Bellair:

“And you came with the world in your thoughts, and I made the third. We went down into the wilderness together—with that other of the underworld. It was a cosmos. It has shown me all I can bear. Last night, it came to me that I could pray for you. It came simply, because I loved you enough——”

His face moved from one to the other, his hand fumbling the dress of the child beside him.

“It was very clear. As soon as I loved you enough, I could pray for you, without thought of self. It was the loss of the self that made it all so wonderful. And as I prayed, the light came, and the Saviour I had lost, was in the light. And the light was Ahead; and this message from Him, came to my soul:

“I am here for those who look ahead; and for those who turn back two thousand years, I am there. Those who love one another find me swiftly.”

Bellair scarcely heard him. Fleury’s eyes were light itself. The man’s inner flame had broken through. Something incandescent was within him; something within touched by the “glittering plane.” But it did not mean future years together. Bellair had wanted that.... Fleury smiled now, his eyes lost in the East. He lifted his hand.

“It always comes from the East,” he said strangely.

Bellair had searched that horizon a few moments ago. He knew exactly how the East had looked—a thin luminous grey line on the green, brightening to Prussian blue, then to vivid azure. He dared not look now, but watched the woman.

Straining and terror were in her eyes—then sudden light, a miracle of light and hope, then her cry.

Bellair seemed to see it in her mind—the smudge upon the horizon—before he turned. It was there—a blur on the thin grey line.

To lift the oars was like raising logs of oak, but he shipped the pair at last, listening for the words of the others and watching their faces. It seemed simpler than straining his eyes to the East. Fleury tried to raise the overcoat from the bottom of the boat, but it fell from his hands, and he sank back smiling:

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “They’re coming. They’ll see us soon.”

To Bellair it was like seeing a ghost, that smile of Fleury’s. It meant something that in the future would be quite as important to him as the ship’s bearing down to lift them up. He pulled toward the east—felt the old fainting come, pulled against that,—to the east, until a low, thundering vibration was all about him, like the tramp of death. Perhaps it was that—the thought flickered up into form out of the deep blur.... He was drinking water again. This time he did not fight.

“You may as well have yours, Bellair, man,” Fleury was saying, “and you need not row. They’re coming. It’s a ship coming fast. There is light for them to see us well—if they do not already——”

“But you haven’t drunk!”

“Bless you, I’ll drink now.”

The woman handed him the water. The cup was in his hand. He covered merely the bottom of the cup, and made much of it as if it were a full quart.

“The fact is—I’m not thirsty,” he said pitifully, when he saw their faces.

“You’re all in,” Bellair said in an awed tone.

Through the prolonged ending of that day Bellair watched the steamer near, but his thoughts were not held to the beauty of her form, nor the pricking out at last of her lights. He stood against the bare pole in the dusk, and waved and called—his voice little and whimsical. It seemed to falter and cling within their little radius, then run back to his ears—a fledgeling effort. But the deep baying of the steamer answered at last. Even that could not hold Bellair’s thoughts.... She was coming straight toward them now. If it were death and illusion, so be it; at least that is what he saw.

“It would be all right—except for him,” Bellair said to the woman.

“I tell you all is well,” said Fleury. “Only I ask——”

“Yes,” they said, when he paused.

“Don’t let them separate us—when we are on board the ship to-night. I want to be with you both to-night—we three who have seen so much together—and the little man.”

... They heard her bells and the slackening of the engines. She was coming in softly like an angel, bringing the different life, a return to earth it was. The woman was weeping. Bellair could not have spoken without tears....

Just now through the evening purple, he saw that star in the east, off the point of the steamer’s prow.

“Fleury,” he said, “tell me—what is that one—that pure one—I have forgotten?”

The preacher’s eyes followed his finger.

“That is Spika—Spika of the Virgin,” he said.

12

The engine had stopped. She neared in the deep dusk, a harp of lights, and with the steady sound of a waterfall.... She was just moving. There was a hail from the heights.

“Hai!” answered Bellair. It was a poor, broken sound.

Now they felt the strange, different heat of the steamer—earth-heat—and a thousand odours registered on their clean senses—milk and meat, coal-smoke, and the steam of hot ashes, perfumes, metal and paint.... A hoarse voice called down:

“Are any of you sick—infectious?”

“No—just hunger and thirst—clean as a new berth.”

It was Bellair again.

“Stay off well. We’re putting down a ladder. Watch the green light.”

They saw it come down to them—to the very water. Then they were uplifted. This was the world coming back—but a changed world. A great kindness had come over all men. Bellair saw the tears in the eyes of the people gathered on the deck. He almost expected to see Bessie Brealt there.... Perhaps the change had come from her singing.... There was a choke in the voices of the people gathered around them.

“Please,” he managed to say, “don’t keep us apart to-night—we three. Please let us be together.”

And down the deck-passage he heard the voices of women, and among them, the Faraway Woman’s voice, in answer:

“Yes, I will go with you thankfully—but not for long. My companions and I must be together very soon. We three—to-night—it is promised between us.”

There was no voice from Fleury.

The kindness of every one, that was like a poignant distress to Bellair. He dared not speak; in fact, there was danger of him breaking down even without words. The eyes about him were searching, in their eagerness to help. An Englishman came forward at intervals and gripped his hand; a German spoke to others of the remarkable condition of the boat and its three, after ten days; another German moved in and out helping, without any words, though his eyes lifted Bellair over several pinches of emotion. The American ship-doctor was the best of all; young, gruff, humorous, quick-handed, doing and saying the right thing.... They brought him stimulants and sups of water by the teaspoon. The merest aroma of thin broth in the bottom of a tea-cup was lifted to his lips. He was helped to a hot bath; a splendid quiet friendliness about it all. Now it occurred to Bellair that they were tremendously eager to hear his story. He wanted to satisfy them....

“It was the fifth day—that Stackhouse died,” he was saying, though he was mistaken. “Perhaps you’ve heard of him ... owns a lot of ships and islands down here.... That was the climax for us. He died hard and he was a big man—but we did not murder him.... His body did not sink....”

There was a boom of running water in the bathroom; the steam rising. Bellair’s voice was ineffectual. The face of the ship-surgeon bent to him in the steam, saying:

“Cut it—there’s plenty of time.... Leave it all to us.... I say, lean back. You’ve got a bath coming. Guess you’ve never been on a sick-list before. We can wait for the story.”

Bellair did try to lean back. One by one, the sheathes of will power that he had integrated in the past ten days relaxed. It was strange to feel them go. They had come hard, and they were correspondingly slow to ease in their grip. He had to be told again and again—to be helped to rest. It was good to think that a man does not lose such hard-won strength more easily than it comes—that one, in fact, has to use the same force to relax with. It was all delightful, this friendliness, the ease of his body, and the giving—the giving into human arms of great kindliness, and the sense of the others being cared for similarly. They had fixed a berth for him, when he said:

“You know we are to be together to-night. It was a compact between us——”

The surgeon was out and in. It occurred to Bellair that he was attending the other two.... He repeated his wish to the surgeon about joining the others as soon as possible.

“They’re all alike,” the latter said. “They’re all thinking about getting together again.... Good God, man, you’ve had ten days of steady company. You ought to sleep——”

“It is a compact between us.... Is he—is he?”

It came to Bellair that this man might be able to tell him the truth, but the surgeon was now at the door speaking to one of the Germans. He vanished without turning....

They were together later in one of the empty cabins of the German liner, Fomalhaut, bound for Auckland; and only the American doctor came and went. The child was asleep in the berth beside Fleury. The two others sat near.

The extraordinary moonlight of the night before, when Bellair had awakened to find the preacher at prayer, had left the spirit of its radiance upon Fleury’s face. It was there now—and such a different face from which his eyes, falsified by New York, had seen at first. This was the real Fleury—this lean, dark, white-toothed gamester, features touched by some immortal glow from that orient moon; whose smile and the quality of every word and gesture, had for him a gleam of inspiration and the nobility of tenderness. The man had risen in Fleury—that was the secret. And this that had risen in Fleury could not die.

But the flesh was dying. Bellair had known it in the dusk while the steamer neared. He knew that the woman understood—from her face which leaned toward the berth continually, from the suffering in her eyes and the dilation of sensitive nostrils.... For ten days, as much as he could, Fleury had betrayed himself. Custodian of the food and water, he had served them well. And that day of the Stackhouse passing—if it were not all a hideous dream, as Bellair fancied at times—he had not given a balance of strength that had not returned, to fight off the will of the Intruder.

The flesh was dying, but this that had risen in Fleury could not die. Their other companion had gone down, clothed in hair and filth and the desire of a beast, taking the remnant of the man with it.

Thus it had come to Bellair—the vivid contrast of cavern and high noon. It was all in the two deaths, the enactment of the second, as yet unfinished.... New York and all life moved with countless tricks and lures to make a man lose his way, lose his chance to rise and die with grace like this. New York was like one vast Lot & Company.

Fleury’s head was upon the knees of the woman. Bellair had not seen her take him. For this last hour, the three were as one. There was a cry from Bellair that the woman heard all her days:

“Oh, Fleury, do you have to go?”

So far as time measures, the silence was long before Fleury answered, and then only to say:

“Take my hand, Bellair.”

He came up from a deep dream to obey. It had been as if he were out under the stars again,—Fleury talking from the shadows near the woman—the rest, vastness and starlight.

“It’s the too-great light, Bellair. It came when I could stand it. As soon as I could love you enough I could pray. It is the loss of the sense of self that made it wonderful. The Light and His voice came from ahead.

“‘I am here for those who look ahead, and for those who turn back two thousand years, I am there. Those who love one another find me swiftly.’... This is dying of happiness.”

In the silence, the low lights of the cabin came back for their eyes. They heard him say at the last:

“... I love you both and respect and thank you both. We found our happiness in the open boat.... And Bellair, when you go back to New York, do not stay too long. It is right for you to go, but do not stay too long.... And dear Bellair—always follow the Gleam.”

The Doctor came. It was his step in the passage that roused them. He bent to the face, then searched the eyes of the woman. She could not find his.... Bellair was puzzled. The head was in her lap, yet the preacher seemed behind them, and still with something to say. They were not sure at first that it was the Doctor who asked:

“Why did you not call me?”

He repeated the question.

“He told us—you would come afterward,” Bellair said in a dazed way.

“Yes, he wanted it so,” said the woman.

The Doctor stared at them. “Are you two going to pull off anything further to-night, or are you going to get the rest you need, and attend to the nourishment you need?”

“We’re under orders now, Doctor,” said Bellair....

“If I should want him in the night—if I should be frightened, you would let him come?”

It was the Faraway Woman who asked this of the Doctor, her hand touching Bellair’s sleeve.

“Why, of course,” the Doctor answered quickly.

“We’ve been together in strange things,” Bellair explained. “And now you see, our friend is gone.”

The door was open between their cabins, but Bellair was not called. Once he heard the child cry, but it was quickly hushed.... He thought it must be near morning at last, and went on deck. He was not suffering, except from lassitude, deep languor and numbing strangeness that Fleury was not near him—that the woman was not sitting in her place forward.... It was just after midnight, the moon still high, the weather the same. ... He was not seen. Three men were seated smoking in the lee of one of the engine-room funnels, the light from the dining-saloon on their knees. The Doctor joined them, and said presently:

“... It’s a bit deep for me. They’ve been in an open boat ten days. Old Stackhouse, well-known down here, died of thirst the fourth or fifth day, but these two and the infant have lived through it. The preacher looked all right, but seems to have suffered a fatal case of happiness since we lifted him aboard. The two knew it was coming apparently, and arranged for me to be absent.... It appears that they made a sort of pilgrimage to Mecca out of thirst and starvation, and got away with it——”

Bellair withdrew softly.

In the long next forenoon when he could not rise, he wished he had gone into that open door, when he was on his feet last night. Sometimes half-dreamily he wished he were back in the open boat, because she was always there. Something had taken establishment in his character from that ten days. She had never failed—in light or dark, in the twilights of dawn and evening, in moon and star and sunlight—always there; disclosing leisurely some new aspect of beauty for him. He understood now that one does not begin to see clearly any object until one is attracted to it—that all the cursory looking at things around the world will not bring them home to the full comprehension.

... He could call to her, but it was like telephoning. He had never liked that, and beside he was not the master of his voice. It would not go straight, but lingered in corners, broke pitifully—so that he knew it frightened her—and the meanings in his mind which he could not speak, pressed the tears out of his eyes.... Then there was pain. His body astonished him. He had merely been weak and undone last night, but to-day.... And he knew that she was suffering, not from any sound from her cabin, but because she did not come. Then they had to feed the child. This filled him with a rebellion so sharp that it recalled him to full faculties for a second. He had to smile at his absurdity.

The second day it was the same, but the third Bellair arose; and when she heard his step, her call came. It was still early morning. He found the child before he looked into her face.

“I am ashamed to be so weak,” she said. “But to-day—a little later—he said I could rise. We are to be on deck for a half-hour after dinner, he told me.”

“The little Gleam——” said Bellair....

She was whiter, more emaciated than when they sighted the Fomalhaut. There had been a crisis that they had not expected in the relinquishment of their will-powers.... Yet he saw how perfectly her face was fashioned.... Her hand came up to him, warm from the child, the sleeve falling back to her shoulder—held toward him, palm upward. As he took it, all strangeness and embarrassment left him, and he was something that he had not been for five years, something from the Unknowable. But that was not all. He looked into her eyes and met something untellably familiar there.

A most memorable moment to Bellair.

They were on deck together in the afternoon, the American doctor helping them. They heard sacred music—as he walked between them aft. They reached the rail of the promenade overlooking the main-deck.... A service was being intoned in German. Passengers and crew were below, and in the midst—leaded and sewn in canvas, in the cover of a flag——

The sound that came from the woman was not to be interpreted. She turned and left them. Bellair would have followed but he felt a courtesy due the Doctor, who had arranged for them not to miss the ceremony. Perhaps he had held the ceremony until they could leave the cabin. Yet Bellair had already turned away.

“Good God——” said the American. “You people have got me stopped. I thought this was a trinity outfit—that we picked up.”

Bellair took his hand. “It was—but our friend left us.”

The Doctor glanced at him curiously, and pointed down to the body already upon the rail. “I suppose that has nothing to do with him?” he remarked.

“Not now—not to watch,” said Bellair.

“I’ll understand you sometime,” the other added. “Go to her. You’ll probably find her waiting for you forward.”

Bellair lay in his berth that night, the open door between, and he thought of that first real look that had passed between them. “I’m not just right yet from the open boat,” he reflected. “I’m all let down from starvation, a bit wild with dreams and visions, but I saw old joys there and old tragedies, and mountains and deserts and—most of all, partings. I wonder what I’ve got to do with them all? It seemed to me that I belonged to some of those partings—as if I had hungered with her before and belonged to her now—and yet——”

Fleury came into his thoughts. “They were certainly great together. It seemed to me that I did not belong when they were together; and yet, this morning as I looked down at her—well, something of expectancy was there——”

Bellair found himself lying almost rigid in the intensity of his hope. Then his thoughts whirled back to New York—all unfinished. There was something in his heart for Bessie—and something in the wallet for Bessie. That was in the original conception, and he must not fail in that; and then he must clean that name, Bellair, from the black mark Lot & Company had traced across it. For a moment he fell to wondering just how he would go about that. Lot & Company was tight and hard to move.... A moment later he was somewhere in an evil and crowded part of New York, in the dark, Davy Acton holding him fast by the hand.

“... something of expectancy.”... Was it in her eyes, or in her lips? Her whole face came to him now, a picture as clear as life. He had dwelt upon her eyes before—and that billowy softness of her breast, as she lay—he had not thought of that. It was like something one says to another of such moment, that only the meaning goes home—the words not remembered until afterward. And her mouth—it was like a girl’s, like a mother’s too, so tender and expectant. ... That word thrilled him. It was the key to it all.

He was farther and farther from sleep—listening at last with such intensity that it seemed she must call.