Young Powell thought that this was the dreariest evening aspect of the
sea he had ever seen. He was glad when the other occupants of the poop
left it at the sound of the bell. The captain first, with a sudden
swerve in his walk towards the companion, and not even looking once
towards his wife and his wife's father. Those two got up and moved
towards the companion, the old gent very erect, his thin locks stirring
gently about the nape of his neck, and carrying the rugs over his arm.
The girl who was Mrs. Anthony went down first. The murky twilight had
settled in deep shadow on her face. She looked at Mr. Powell in passing.
He thought that she was very pale. Cold perhaps. The old gent stopped a
moment, thin and stiff, before the young man, and in a voice which was
low but distinct enough, and without any particular accent--not even of
inquiry--he said: "You are the new second officer, I believe."
Mr. Powell answered in the affirmative, wondering if this were a friendly
overture. He had noticed that Mr. Smith's eyes had a sort of inward look
as though he had disliked or disdained his surroundings. The captain's
wife had disappeared then down the companion stairs. Mr. Smith said
'Ah!' and waited a little longer to put another question in his incurious
voice.
"And did you know the man who was here before you?"
"No," said young Powell, "I didn't know anybody belonging to this ship
before I joined."
"He was much older than you. Twice your age. Perhaps more. His hair
was iron grey. Yes. Certainly more."
The low, repressed voice paused, but the old man did not move away. He
added: "Isn't it unusual?"
Mr. Powell was surprised not only by being engaged in conversation, but
also by its character. It might have been the suggestion of the word
uttered by this old man, but it was distinctly at that moment that he
became aware of something unusual not only in this encounter but
generally around him, about everybody, in the atmosphere. The very sea,
with short flashes of foam bursting out here and there in the gloomy
distances, the unchangeable, safe sea sheltering a man from all passions,
except its own anger, seemed queer to the quick glance he threw to
windward where the already effaced horizon traced no reassuring limit to
the eye. In the expiring, diffused twilight, and before the clouded
night dropped its mysterious veil, it was the immensity of space made
visible--almost palpable. Young Powell felt it. He felt it in the
sudden sense of his isolation; the trustworthy, powerful ship of his
first acquaintance reduced to a speck, to something almost
undistinguishable, the mere support for the soles of his two feet before
that unexpected old man becoming so suddenly articulate in a darkening
universe.