“Am I to be dictated to?” exclaimed the other, raising his voice. “This is my own ship, Mr. Flem—Fling—Fl——”
The name presented so much difficulty to Hall that it died away in a tangled murmur, and Archie saw that to try to make him understand anything important in his present state would be labour lost.
“Well, sir,” said he, “I will tell you at once that I suspect an attack on you is brewing in Montrose. I believe that it may happen at any moment. Having delivered myself of that, I had best leave you.”
The word “attack” found its way to the captain’s brain.
“It’s impossible!” he exclaimed crossly. “Why, plague on’t, I’ve got all the town guns! Nonsense, sir—no’sense! Come, I will call for a bottle of wine, ’n you can go. There’s an empty bunk, I s’pose.”
The order was given and the wine was brought. Archie noticed that the man who set the bottle and the two glasses on the table threw a casual look at Hall’s hand, which shook as he helped his guest. He had eaten little since morning, and drunk less. Now that he had attained his object, and found himself in temporary shelter and temporary peace, be realized how glad he was of the wine. When, after a single glassful, he rose to follow the sailor who came to show him his bunk, he turned to bid good-night to Hall. The light hanging above the captain’s head revealed every line, every contour of his face with merciless candour; and Flemington could see that no lover, counting the minutes till he should be left with his mistress, had ever longed more eagerly to be alone with her than this man longed to be alone with the bottle before him.
Archie threw himself thankfully into his bunk. There was evidently room for him on the ship, for there was no trace of another occupant in the little cabin; nevertheless, it looked untidy and unswept. The port close to which he lay was on the starboard side of the vessel, and looked across the strait towards the town. The lamps were nearly all extinguished on the quays, and only here and there a yellow spot of light made a faint ladder in the water. The pleasant trickling sound outside was soothing, with its impersonal, monotonous whisper. He wondered how long Hall would sit bemusing himself at the table, and what the discipline of a ship commanded by this curiously ineffective personality could be. To-morrow he must make out his story to the little man. He could not reproach himself with having postponed his report, for he knew that Hall’s brain, which might possibly be clearer in the morning, was incapable of taking in any but the simplest impressions to-night.
Tired as he was, he did not sleep for a long time. The scenes of the past few days ran through his head one after another—now they appeared unreal, now almost visible to his eyes. Sometimes the space of time they covered seemed age-long, sometimes a passing flash. This was Saturday night, and all the events that had culminated in the disjointing of his life had been crowded into it since Monday. On Monday he had not suspected what lay in himself. He would have gibed had he been told that another man’s personality, a page out of another man’s history, could play such havoc with his own interests.
He wondered what James was doing. Was he—now—over there in the darkness, looking across the rolling, sea-bound water straight to the spot on which he lay? Would he—could space be obliterated and night illumined—look up to find his steady eyes upon him? He lay quiet, marvelling, speculating. Then Logie, the shadowy town, the burning autumn-trees of Balnillo, the tulips round the house in far-away Holland, fell away from his mind, and in their place was the familiar background of Ardguys, the Ardguys of his childhood, with the silver-haired figure of Madam Flemington confronting him; that terrible, unsparing presence wrapped about with something greater and more arresting than mere beauty; the quality that had wrought on him since he was a little lad. He turned about with a convulsive breath that was almost a sob.