Powell had never before felt this mysterious uneasiness so strongly as on that evening when it had been his good fortune to make Mrs. Anthony laugh a little by his artless prattle. Standing out of the way, he had watched his captain walk the weather-side of the poop, he took full cognizance of his liking for that inexplicably strange man and saw him swerve towards the companion and go down below with sympathetic if utterly uncomprehending eyes.
Shortly afterwards, Mr. Smith came up alone and manifested a desire for a little conversation. He, too, if not so mysterious as the captain, was not very comprehensible to Mr. Powell’s uninformed candour. He often favoured thus the second officer. His talk alluded somewhat enigmatically and often without visible connection to Mr. Powell’s friendliness towards himself and his daughter. “For I am well aware that we have no friends on board this ship, my dear young man,” he would add, “except yourself. Flora feels that too.”
And Mr. Powell, flattered and embarrassed, could but emit a vague murmur of protest. For the statement was true in a sense, though the fact was in itself insignificant. The feelings of the ship’s company could not possibly matter to the captain’s wife and to Mr. Smith—her father. Why the latter should so often allude to it was what surprised our Mr. Powell. This was by no means the first occasion. More like the twentieth rather. And in his weak voice, with his monotonous intonation, leaning over the rail and looking at the water the other continued this conversation, or rather his remarks, remarks of such a monstrous nature that Mr. Powell had no option but to accept them for gruesome jesting.
“For instance,” said Mr. Smith, “that mate, Franklin, I believe he would just as soon see us both overboard as not.”
“It’s not so bad as that,” laughed Mr. Powell, feeling uncomfortable, because his mind did not accommodate itself easily to exaggeration of statement. “He isn’t a bad chap really,” he added, very conscious of Mr. Franklin’s offensive manner of which instances were not far to seek. “He’s such a fool as to be jealous. He has been with the captain for years. It’s not for me to say, perhaps, but I think the captain has spoiled all that gang of old servants. They are like a lot of pet old dogs. Wouldn’t let anybody come near him if they could help it. I’ve never seen anything like it. And the second mate, I believe, was like that too.”
“Well, he isn’t here, luckily. There would have been one more enemy,” said Mr. Smith. “There’s enough of them without him. And you being here instead of him makes it much more pleasant for my daughter and myself. One feels there may be a friend in need. For really, for a woman all alone on board ship amongst a lot of unfriendly men . . . ”
“But Mrs Anthony is not alone,” exclaimed Powell. “There’s you, and there’s the . . . ”
Mr. Smith interrupted him.
“Nobody’s immortal. And there are times when one feels ashamed to live. Such an evening as this for instance.”
It was a lovely evening; the colours of a splendid sunset had died out and the breath of a warm breeze seemed to have smoothed out the sea. Away to the south the sheet lightning was like the flashing of an enormous lantern hidden under the horizon. In order to change the conversation Mr. Powell said: