Almost immediately he called his young second officer over to him. This
was not done in displeasure. The glance he fastened on Mr. Powell
conveyed a sort of approving wonder. He engaged him in desultory
conversation as if for the only purpose of keeping a man who could
provoke such a sound, near his person. Mr. Powell felt himself liked. He
felt it. Liked by that haggard, restless man who threw at him
disconnected phrases to which his answers were, "Yes, sir," "No, sir,"
"Oh, certainly," "I suppose so, sir,"--and might have been clearly
anything else for all the other cared.
It was then, Mr. Powell told me, that he discovered in himself an already
old-established liking for Captain Anthony. He also felt sorry for him
without being able to discover the origins of that sympathy of which he
had become so suddenly aware.
Meantime Mr. Smith, bending forward stiffly as though he had a hinged
back, was speaking to his daughter.
She was a child no longer. He wanted to know if she believed in--in
hell. In eternal punishment?
His peculiar voice, as if filtered through cotton-wool was inaudible on
the other side of the deck. Poor Flora, taken very much unawares, made
an inarticulate murmur, shook her head vaguely, and glanced in the
direction of the pacing Anthony who was not looking her way. It was no
use glancing in that direction. Of young Powell, leaning against the
mizzen-mast and facing his captain she could only see the shoulder and
part of a blue serge back.
And the unworried, unaccented voice of her father went on tormenting her.
"You see, you must understand. When I came out of jail it was with joy.
That is, my soul was fairly torn in two--but anyway to see you happy--I
had made up my mind to that. Once I could be sure that you were happy
then of course I would have had no reason to care for life--strictly
speaking--which is all right for an old man; though naturally . . . no
reason to wish for death either. But this sort of life! What sense,
what meaning, what value has it either for you or for me? It's just
sitting down to look at the death, that's coming, coming. What else is
it? I don't know how you can put up with that. I don't think you can
stand it for long. Some day you will jump overboard."
Captain Anthony had stopped for a moment staring ahead from the break of
the poop, and poor Flora sent at his back a look of despairing appeal
which would have moved a heart of stone. But as though she had done
nothing he did not stir in the least. She got out of the long chair and
went towards the companion. Her father followed carrying a few small
objects, a handbag, her handkerchief, a book. They went down together.