“Even the cabhorse gets accustomed to his cab—perhaps gets to like it in the end.”
John answered: “I begin to see the wisdom of breaking snotties while they are young. I suppose it’s kinder in the long run.”
II
As autumn drew on to winter, the cold of Northern China closed down on Wei-hai-wei, and, after a short cruise to Ching-Wang-Tao, the Pathshire lay in harbour until Christmas-time. John saw little of Margaret, and never saw her alone. To meet her now was an exquisite agony, for her beauty, of which he seemed never before to have been fully aware, had that amazing power to baffle and astonish which is the attribute of ghosts. For him the former Margaret still existed, but under a cloak of unreality. Her friendly smile, her deep, quiet eyes, that reflected laughter as a great lake reflects the lamps swinging on the boats of fête, her manner of giving him her hand, of inclining her body a little backwards as she spoke, these things were familiar with the familiarity of a persistent memory—in the light of circumstance they were no more substantial than this.
The cold became intense; there were enormous stoves in every part of the ship; the ice made the scrubbing of decks impossible; officers kept watch in hoods and gauntlets of fur, and the men were shrouded in wool. In such weather there could be little activity. The Gunroom found nothing better to do than smoke, and gamble, and drink, and tell stories of women who were now inaccessible. And with Christmas Day came an opportunity for outbreak. To-morrow they were to sail for Woo-Sung—that is, for Shanghai. Christmas was their last day in harbour, a climax, an end to many months.
In accordance with Service custom the men had decorated their messes, and the Captain, followed by all the officers in order of seniority, inspected them. The mess-tables were covered with good things—cakes, jam, cigarettes, tobacco. At the end of every table stood a man with a plate containing samples of the mess’s Christmas fare, and from every plate each officer as he passed by was compelled to take a morsel. They ate what they could, and carried the rest in their caps.
When Captain’s rounds and Church and Divisions were completed, the Gunroom was entertained by the Wardroom. John drank cocktails with everyone, drank so many that he lost accurate count of them, and emerged with nothing but a vague consciousness of the figure eleven. He refused to believe he had drunk so many, for he was strangely sober. His speech was a little quickened, but his legs were steady and his brain was clear. Oh yes, his brain was clear. And he wasn’t making as much noise as those other fellows. They were further gone than he; the Wardroom was further gone than he.... And the Wardroom was drifting into the Gunroom; hospitality was being returned: cocktails were circulating again.... What about wine bills? Would they run their wine bills over?... Wine bills be damned! All these cocktails were going down to the Mess. Hartington had said so. They would be charged on the Mess share. And anyhow, seeing it was Christmas, the Captain——
“Thank God we’re going to Shanghai to-morrow!” Dendy exclaimed. “Then to Hong-Kong. Life moves again. Here’s to the pretty ladies what takes pity on the lone, lorn N.O.!”
John had another cocktail from the tray presented to him by the Chinese boy. He must go steady with those cocktails. Three since he came to the Gunroom; the third must be made to last.
“What about putting in for leave together at Shanghai?” said Dyce’s voice. “What about night leave?”