Our young friend listened to the mate with a queer sense of discomfort
growing on him. For it was as though Mr. Franklin were thinking aloud,
and putting him into the delicate position of an unwilling eavesdropper.
But there was in the mess-room another listener. It was the steward, who
had come in carrying a tin coffee-pot with a long handle, and stood
quietly by: a man with a middle-aged, sallow face, long features, heavy
eyelids, a soldierly grey moustache. His body encased in a short black
jacket with narrow sleeves, his long legs in very tight trousers, made up
an agile, youthful, slender figure. He moved forward suddenly, and
interrupted the mate's monologue.
"More coffee, Mr. Franklin? Nice fresh lot. Piping hot. I am going to
give breakfast to the saloon directly, and the cook is raking his fire
out. Now's your chance."
The mate who, on account of his peculiar build, could not turn his head
freely, twisted his thick trunk slightly, and ran his black eyes in the
corners towards the steward.
"And is the precious pair of them out?" he growled.
The steward, pouring out the coffee into the mate's cup, muttered moodily
but distinctly: "The lady wasn't when I was laying the table."
Powell's ears were fine enough to detect something hostile in this
reference to the captain's wife. For of what other person could they be
speaking? The steward added with a gloomy sort of fairness: "But she
will be before I bring the dishes in. She never gives that sort of
trouble. That she doesn't."
"No. Not in that way," Mr. Franklin agreed, and then both he and the
steward, after glancing at Powell--the stranger to the ship--said nothing
more.
But this had been enough to rouse his curiosity. Curiosity is natural to
man. Of course it was not a malevolent curiosity which, if not exactly
natural, is to be met fairly frequently in men and perhaps more
frequently in women--especially if a woman be in question; and that woman
under a cloud, in a manner of speaking. For under a cloud Flora de
Barral was fated to be even at sea. Yes. Even that sort of darkness
which attends a woman for whom there is no clear place in the world hung
over her. Yes. Even at sea!
* * * * *
And this is the pathos of being a woman. A man can struggle to get a
place for himself or perish. But a woman's part is passive, say what you
like, and shuffle the facts of the world as you may, hinting at lack of
energy, of wisdom, of courage. As a matter of fact, almost all women
have all that--of their own kind. But they are not made for attack. Wait
they must. I am speaking here of women who are really women. And it's
no use talking of opportunities, either. I know that some of them do
talk of it. But not the genuine women. Those know better. Nothing can
beat a true woman for a clear vision of reality; I would say a cynical
vision if I were not afraid of wounding your chivalrous feelings--for
which, by the by, women are not so grateful as you may think, to fellows
of your kind . . .