Grand Canary (13 page)

At six o'clock that evening, as the sun slipped rosy fingers over the pinnacles of Santa Ana, Susan and Robert Tranter returned to the ship – the last to do so, for Corcoran had long been back. Dust lay upon their boots – in the interests of economy they had dismissed their carriage at the Plaza – Susan's shoulders sagged slightly, Robert's air was curt, as though that day a duty rather than a pleasure had been achieved.

They came up the gangway slowly and in silence, immersed apparently in their secret thoughts. Then, as Susan's foot met the deck, she suddenly observed the figure of Harvey Leith pacing up and down beside the after-hatch. Immediately her eyes lit up, her shoulders lifted as though fatigue and fear had momentarily been dispelled. Something sang in her heart: ‘He's all right. He's all right.' Her stolid form took on a strange lightness, a bar of light touched her dull hair to gold. So poised, she stood for a moment at the end of the gang-plank, then she followed her brother along the alley-way.

‘It's kind of good to be back, Robbie,' she remarked valiantly. ‘I guess it's been tiring today when all's said and done.'

To this he made no reply.

Her eyes turned overcast again but with no alteration of manner she said:

‘I'll lie down a little now, I guess. My head aches some. You'll be all right till supper, dear.'

His back was rigid but his voice held the sulky note of rectitude unjustly used as, half over his shoulder, he replied:

‘I reckon I've always
been
all right.' And with his head in the air he stepped into his cabin and sharply closed the door.

But was he all right? Standing for a moment before the mirror he stared absently at his face, which seemed pale, unfamiliar; then confusedly he sat down upon the edge of the settee and let his brow fall forward on his palm. The visit to Arucas on which depended something of the success of his mission had been actually a weariness and a tribulation: he had been detached, inattentive to the important discussion on the printing of the Spanish tracts, almost neglecting to take away the letter of introduction to Mr Rodgers at Laguna. All day long he had been engaged by another thought. Elissa! The name, even though it were unspoken, had now the power to make him flush. But why? He had no cause to flush. That exactly was the point. Of course! No one could understand but he; Susan, all upon this ship, the whole calumniating universe might harshly misjudge him and with pointing finger condemn his sentiment. He knew that they were all wrong, that his emotion was noble and beautiful and good. Beautiful – he knew it to be so, a generous emotion which glowed within him and made him feel that he was near to God.

Elissa! – she was beautiful! But where was the shame in that? Beauty was God's gift, bestowed with that same breath which infused the quickening clay with its immortal soul. And if she had been a sinner, was that a reason why he should, like the Pharisee of old, condemn, and pass her by? No, no! Before God, a million times no! He had said from the first that he would help her, a lovely woman stooped to folly. Today even to have been away from her, to have lost the opportunity of three long hours, had pained him grievously. Ah, yes, grievously was indeed the fitting word. Again the hot desire took him to be with her – to save her. A vision of Elissa, saved, sanctified and beside him, rushed before him, a lovely vision intermingled by a quivering confusion of sound and colour: of angels' wings beating lightly, of blaring trumpets soaring in harmonious notes, of white garments undefiled and soft pure pinkish lips, of golden gates opening wide and bosoms on which a head might rest. Oh, it was too much, too much for human heart to bear.

Alone there in the solitude of the cabin his nostrils quivered, the colour deepened upon his cheeks, he looked up suddenly and in a vibrant voice exclaimed aloud: ‘ I kin doo all things in Christ who strengtheneth me.'

With eyes uplifted he sat for some moments as if in prayer, then he rose, washed his hands and face, put on a clean collar and went out of the cabin. He ascended at once to the upper deck.

So much had he hoped and so little expected to find Elissa there that the sight of her sitting idly in a sheltered corner drove the blood violently back to his heart. A few yards off, abaft the deck house, stowed in her chair like a coil of rope or something of the ship's fixed gear, was Mother Hemmingway, alert, malicious and observant. She had not stirred from the ship all day. Tranter did not see her, as he advanced directly to Elissa with glowing eyes.

She looked up.

‘You are quite a stranger,' she said languidly. Flattery gratified her, and the servile devotion in his face made her almost civil.

‘I had to make a call – honest – just simply
had
to make it,' he explained with eagerness. ‘But – well – my thoughts have gone out to you all day.'

She yawned, exhibiting unabashed the firm white teeth set in her big red mouth.

‘You're tired,' he said quickly. ‘You've done too much.' His solicitude was fraternal; yet he might surely have bestowed a moiety of his compassion on Susan and her weary, racking head.

‘I've had an utterly boring day. Too completely unattractive.'

‘I suppose you would call my day boring, too,' he answered, leaning his elbow on the rail close to her and smiling into her eyes. ‘Though it's hardly a word I'd be liable to use. Still, one has the satisfaction of a duty done. Our visit to Arucas may bear fruit. I mean as regards the success of our mission. The folks there have promised to be financially behind us in our venture. We have an introduction to a most influential planter in Laguna. Now we can go full steam ahead.' He paused reflectively. ‘Gosh, it's downright queer. The whole day I've felt quite cold about the prospects of my work and now that I'm here talking to you I just can't hold myself back. Full of pep! And it means so much to me.'

‘Why?'

‘All my life I've been bound up in the work. I found grace early. Yes, I was saved when I was quite a boy. And I was a poor boy. I had to battle upwards, put myself through theological school, fight hard to fit myself for my work in the Lord's vineyard.'

She looked at him with unbelieving eyes: he's not real, she thought, not real. Aloud she said:

‘Are you telling me the story of your life?'

‘No, no,' he exclaimed, and made a little manly gesture. ‘It's just that I feel I want to tell you everything – everything about myself, everything that is me. Can't just hold it in.'

A pause came, filled by her curiosity; then she asked with a quaint uplifting of her brows:

‘You have never had anything to do with women?'

‘Nothing!'

‘Not ever?'

He shook his head, looking at her with his luminous, big eyes as a dog might gaze upon his mistress.

‘Well, well,' she murmured to herself. ‘ So it's true. And all the way from Connecticut.'

‘Beg pardon, ma'am.'

‘I was saying,' she replied, ‘that I must call you Joseph.'

He flushed vividly; he did not understand.

‘Joseph?' he stammered. ‘But my name is Robert.'

‘I shall always think of you as Joseph. For me you are born again under that name. And yet I don't know. I haven't decided.'

Her manner was grave but he had the dreadful suspicion that she was making fun of him, and with a pathetic earnestness in his voice he exclaimed:

‘It has been a great experience meeting you. So great I cannot think of you going out of my life like' – with a fervid movement of his arm he unloosed the booming platitude – ‘like a ship that passes in the night. It seems so purposeless. Something must come of it. Yes, it must. All our talks together cannot lead us nowhere. Oh, I'd give my right hand to be the instrument of your salvation.' His voice faltered and broke off. Quite overwhelmed, he laid his hand entreatingly upon her arm, said with treacly sentiment: ‘I'd like to give you something. That's the feeling I have for you. Oh, sure it is. And if you'll have it I'd like you to have something that is very precious to me. I've got a little book that was my mother's. 'Tisn't much – a little book of good words. But I've carried it about with me these last twenty years. Will you – would you take it?'

She looked up, then quickly looked away.

‘That odious woman in the corner is staring her eyes out at you,' she remarked casually. ‘ I don't in the least mind, but probably you do.'

He turned his head, met Mother Hemmingway's unwinking beady stare.

‘No, no,' he declared, ‘I don't mind.' But, chilled, he withdrew his hand.

‘Give me that after dinner,' said Elissa suddenly, ‘when we're slipping out of the harbour after dark. Rather mysterious and nice then. It'll round off the day.'

Entranced he looked at her. In the background Mother Hemmingway disencumbered herself from her chair and shuffled towards the companion. She had seen all that she desired; and now a rare malicious delight engaged her. Little ripples of inward merriment agitated her fat stomach as she guided her small tight-laced feet carefully down the steps.

‘Crickey me, if it ain't the richest lark,' she kept muttering to herself. ‘Sancta Maria, scrag me if it ain't. Pray to Gawd ' as got it proper. Bloomin' ' umbug. Oh, my eye – it's too good – too good to keep.' Squirming with mirth she handed herself along the alley-way, like a little black toad, and entered her cabin sideways. As she had expected, Susan was there – resting upon her bunk with a wet handkerchief around her head.

‘'Ello, 'Ello,' she cried, with the richest geniality. 'Avin' a little shut-eye. And quite right too. You got to watch your 'ealth out 'ere or the goblins'll get yer. Stryte. Tyke it easy, dearie – like your little brother's doin' on the upper deck.'

Susan uncovered one eye. There was a pause.

‘My brother?'

‘The syme,' cried Mother Hemmingway leaning against the bunk with supreme good-heartedness. ‘ The syme 'andsome little 'armonium-pl'yin' gen'lman. And Sancta Maria ain't 'e pl'yin' now. Not ' alf 'e ain't. Not that I blyme 'im. “All work and no pl'y mykes Jack a dull boy.” Stryte. That's been the 'Emmingway motta for over a 'undred years.'

Susan opened the other eye.

‘What do you mean?'

Mother Hemmingway burst into a roar of laughter.

‘Don't upset yourself, ducky. 'E's all right is little Robbie. And it's only 'uman nyture after all. Or w'y did Gawd myke petticoats?'

There was a silence, then Susan lay back and closed her eyes with a restrained expression of repugnance.

‘Perhaps we might be quiet for a little,' she said. ‘I have a headache.'

But Mother Hemmingway was undaunted.

‘Lord, I've 'ad 'eadaches on me in my time. Specially after I been swipey. I wouldn't 'arm you, ducky. I only thought you might like to know that brother Bob is 'avin' the time of 'is ' andsome life with Mistress B'ynam. 'Oldin' 'ands. Kiss in the Ring, and Jinny's at the Cottage Door.' Cocking her head in the air she sang in an affected tone:

‘Oh, waltz me around again Willie,
Around, around, around.
The music is dreamy, it's peaches and creamy
Oh! don't let my feet touch the ground!'

And in her natural voice: ‘'Streuth, Love's young dream ain't in it. Gave me quite a thirst it 'as.' And turning away nonchalantly she took a swig at the water-bottle and began to gargle her throat noisily at the wash-basin. Susan sat up abruptly, her gaze startled – quivering upon that squat and shiny form. Into her face flowed a harassed look; she rose slowly, opened the cabin door, and went out. Mother Hemmingway, who seemed to have been watching every movement with sly eyes set in the back of her head, suddenly called after her:

‘Tyke my shawl, dearie. The sun's goin' down and it's a cowld gyme pl'yin' gooseberry.'

Then, collapsing upon the settee with her hands clasping her pudgy bosom, she went into peal after peal of shrieking laughter.

Susan mounted stiffly to the upper deck, a whirling uncertainty in her head. One swift, anxious glance showed her that Robert was not there: he had gone below. But Mrs Baynham was still on deck, sitting in a queer reflective langour, the blinding western light behind stamping her large voluptuous figure with luminous intensity. Something in that figure, subtly magnified it seemed, swelled out to Susan like a fantastic horror. Her lips constricted, her expression grew faintly scared. But an unconquerable force was in her. She advanced to the other woman.

‘Why cannot you leave my brother alone?' she said directly in a low concentrated tone.

Elissa looked up, then looked away.

‘Tittle-tattle in the cabin?' she murmured. ‘Little Christian conversations with the Spanish-Cockney friend?'

‘You won't put me off like that,' said Susan rigidly. ‘I've known for long enough that my brother is infatuated with you.'

‘Then why not speak to him?'

‘I have spoken to him. But he doesn't understand. He's never been like this before and he's quite hopelessly bewildered.'

Elissa began to powder her nose.

‘You mean that you are quite hopelessly scared that you will lose him. It's staring out of your face. For years you've yearned over him, and the first time he looks at another woman you faint with horror.'

Susan's fingers clenched; her cheeks were very pale.

‘You're wrong,' she cried in a trembling voice. ‘I only want Robert to be happy. My devotion to him is quite unselfish. No one would have been better pleased than me if he had fallen in love with – with a good woman.'

‘Oh, Lord,' sighed Elissa, closing her powder box listlessly. ‘I thought all that sort of thing had gone out years ago. I really can't cope with it.'

‘I'm sorry,' Susan said through set lips. ‘But you'll have to cope with it.'