“To live within yourself, to be sufficient unto yourself.
There is so much unhappiness in the world…” she sighed again with astonishment. “To go through life, keeping yourself from becoming involved in it, to gather inspiration for your Work — ah, Mr. Gordon, how lucky you who create are. As for we others, the best we can hope is that sometime, somewhere, somehow we may be fortunate enough to furnish that inspiration, or the setting for it, at least.
But, after all, that would be an end in itself, I think. To know that one had given her mite to Art, no matter how humble the mite or the giver… The humble laborer, Mr. Gordon: she, too, has her place in the scheme of things; she, too, has given something to the world, has walked where gods have trod. And I do so hope that you will find on this voyage something to compensate you for having been taken away from your Work.”
“Yes,” said Gordon again, staring at her with his arrogant uncomfortable stare. The man looks positively uncanny, she thought with a queer cold feeling within her. Like an animal, a beast of some sort.
Her own gaze fluttered away and despite herself she glanced quickly over her shoulder to the reassuring group at the card table. Dorothy’s and Jenny’s young man’s legs swung innocent and rhythmic from the top of the wheelhouse, and as she looked Pete snapped his cigarette outward and into the dark water, twinkling.
“But to be a world in oneself, to regard the antics of man as one would a puppet show — ah, Mr. Gordon, how happy you must be.”
“Yes,” he repeated. Sufficient unto himself in the city of his arrogance, in the marble tower of his loneliness and pride, and… She coming into the dark sky of his life like a star, like a flame…
O bitter and new.., Somewhere within him was a far dreadful laughter, unheard; his whole life was become toothed with jeering laughter, and he faced the old woman again, putting his hand on her and turning her face upward into the moonlinght. Mrs. Manner knew utter fear. Not fright, fear: a passive and tragic condition like a dream. She whispered Mr. Gordon, but made no sound.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said harshly, staring at her face as a surgeon might. “Tell me about her,” he commanded. “Why aren’t you her mother, so you could tell me how conceiving her must have been, how carrying her in your loins must have been?”
Mr. Gordon! she implored through her dry lips, without making a sound. His hand moved over her face, learning the bones of her forehead and eyesockets and nose through her flesh.
“There’s something in your face, something behind all this silliness,” he went on in his cold level voice while an interval of frozen time refused to pass. His hand pinched the loose sag of flesh around her mouth, slid along the fading line of her cheek and jaw. “I suppose you’ve had what you call your sorrows, too, haven’t you?”
“Mr. Gordon!” she said at last, finding her voice. He released her as abruptly and stood over her, gaunt and ill nourished and arrogant in the moonlight while she believed she was going to faint, hoping vaguely that he would make some effort to catch her when she did, knowing that he would not do so. But she didn’t faint, and the moon spread her silver and boneless hand on the water, and the water lapped and lapped at the pure dreaming hull of the Nausikaa with a faint whispering sound.
ELEVEN O’CLOCK
“Do you know,” said Mrs. Wiseman rising and speaking across her chair, “what I’m going to do if this lasts another night? I’m going to ask Julius to exchange with me and let me get drunk with Dawson and Major Ayers in his place. And so, to one and all: Good night.”
“Aren’t you going to wait for Dorothy?” Mark Frost asked. She glanced toward the wheelhouse.
“No. I guess Pete can look out for himself,” she replied, and left them. The moon cast a deep shadow on the western side of the deck, and near the companionway some one lay in a chair. She slowed, passing. “Mrs. Maurier?” she said. “We wondered what had become of you. Been asleep?”
Mrs. Maurier sat up slowly, as a very old person moves. The younger woman bent down to her, quickly solicitous. “You don’t feel well, do you?”
“Is it time to go below?” Mrs. Maurier asked, raising herself more briskly. “Our bridge game…”
“You all had beat us too badly. But can’t I—”
“No, no,” Mrs. Maurier objected quickly, a trifle testily. “It’s nothing: I was just sitting here enjoying the moonlight.”
“We thought Mr. Gordon was with you.” Mrs. Maurier shuddered.
“These terrible men,” she said with an attempt at lightness. “These artists!”
“Gordon, too? I thought he had escaped Dawson and Julius.”
“Gordon, too,” Mrs. Maurier replied. She rose. “Come, I think we’d better go to bed.” She shuddered again, as with cold: her flesh seemed to shake despite her, and she took the younger woman’s arm, clinging to it. “I do feel a little tired,” she confessed. “The first few days are always trying, don’t you think?
But we have a very nice party, don’t you think so?”
“An awfully nice party,” the other agreed without irony. “But we are all tired: we’ll all feel better to-morrow, I know.”
Mrs. Maurier descended the stairs slowly, heavily. The other steadied her with her strong hand, and opening Mrs. Manner’s door she reached in and found the light button. “There. Would you like anything before you go to bed?”
“No, no,” Mrs. Maurier answered, entering and averting her face quickly. She crossed the room and busied herself at the dressing table, keeping her back to the other. “Thank you, nothing. I shall go to sleep at once, I think. I always sleep well on the water. Good night.”
Mrs. Wiseman closed the door. I wonder what it is, she thought, I wonder what happened to her? She went on along the passage to her own door. Something did, something happened to her, she repeated, putting her hand on the door and turning the knob.
TWELVE O’CLOCK
The moon had got higher, that worn and bloodless one, old and a little weary and shedding her tired silver on yacht and water and shore; and the yacht, the deck and its fixtures, was passionless as a dream upon the shifting silvered wings of water when she appeared in her bathing suit. She stood for a moment in the doorway until she saw movement and his white shirt where he half turned on the coil of rope where he sat.
Her lifted hand blanched slimly in the hushed treachery of the moon: a gesture, and her bare feet made no sound on the deck.
“Hello, David. I’m on time, like I said. Where’s your bathing suit?”
“I didn’t think you would come,” he said, looking up at her, “I didn’t think you meant it.”
“Why not?” she asked. “Good Lord, what’d I want to tell you I was for, if I wasn’t?”
“I don’t know. I just thought… You sure are brown, seeing it in the moonlight.”
“Yes, I’ve got a good one,” she agreed. “Where’s your bathing suit? Why haven’t you got it on?”
“You were going to get one for me, you said.”
She stared at his face in consternation. “That’s right: I sure was. I forgot it. Wait, maybe I can wake Josh up and get it. It won’t take long. You wait here.”
He stopped her. “It’ll be all right. Don’t bother about it to-night. I’ll get it some other time.”
“No, I’ll get it. I want somebody to go in with me. You wait.”
“No, never mind: I’ll row the boat for you.”
“Say, you still don’t believe I meant it, do you?” She examined him curiously. “All right, then. I guess I’ll have to go in by myself. You can row the boat, anyway. Come on.”
He fetched the oars and they got in the tender and cast off. “Only I wish you had a bathing suit,” she repeated from the stem. “I’d rather have somebody to go in with me. Couldn’t you go in in your clothes or something? Say, I’ll turn my back, and you take off your clothes and jump in: how about that?”
“I guess not,” he answered in alarm. “I guess I better not do that.”
“Shucks, I wanted somebody to go swimming with me. It’s not any fun, by myself…. Take off your shirt and pants, then, and go in in your underclothes. That’s almost like a bathing suit. I went in yesterday in Josh’s.”
“I’ll row the boat for you while you go in,” he repeated. The niece said Shucks again, David pulled steadily on upon the mooned and shifting water. Little waves slapped the bottom of the boat lightly as it rose and fell, and behind them the yacht was pure and passionless as a dream against the dark trees.
“I just love to-night,” the niece said. “It’s like we owned everything.” She lay flat on her back on the stern seat, propping her heels against the gunwale. David pulled rhythmically, the motion of the boat was a rhythm that lent to the moon and stars swinging up and down beyond the tapering simplicity of her
