“It’s not ten yet,” Melville tried again.
Chatteris thought. “No,” he answered, “not to-night. To-morrow, in the light of everyday.
“I want a good, gray, honest day,” he said, “with a south-west wind.… These still, soft nights! How can you expect me to do anything of that sort to-night?”
And then he murmured as if he found the word a satisfying word to repeat, “Renunciation.”
“By Jove!” he said with the most astonishing transition, “but this is a night out of fairyland! Look at the lights of those windows below there and then up—up into this enormous blue of sky. And there, as if it were fainting with moonlight—shines one star.”
CHAPTER THE EIGHTH
MOONSHINE TRIUMPHANT
I
Just precisely what happened after that has been the most impossible thing to disinter. I have given all the things that Melville remembered were said, I have linked them into a conversation and checked them by my cousin’s afterthoughts, and finally I have read the whole thing over to him. It is of course no verbatim rendering, but it is, he says, closely after the manner of their talk, the gist was that, and things of that sort were said. And when he left Chatteris, he fully believed that the final and conclusive thing was said. And then he says it came into his head that, apart from and outside this settlement, there still remained a tangible reality, capable of action, the Sea Lady. What was she going to do? The thought toppled him back into a web of perplexities again. It carried him back into a state of inconclusive interrogation past Lummidge’s Hotel.