Chance by Joseph Conrad (novels to read TXT) 📕

He choked, unexpectedly.  She, reflective, hesitated a moment then making up her mind bravely.

“Neither am I keeping anything back from you.”

She had said it!  But he in his blind generosity assumed that she was alluding to her deplorable history and hastened to mutter:

“Of course!  Of course!  Say no more.  I have been lying awake thinking of it all no end of times.”

He made a movement with his other arm as if restraining himself from shaking an indignant fist at the universe; and she never even attempted to look at him.  His voice sounded strangely, incredibly lifeless in comparison with these tempestuous accents that in the broad fields, in the dark garden had seemed to shake the very earth under her weary and hopeless feet.

She regretted them.  Hearing the sigh which escaped her Anthony instead of shaking his fist at the universe began to pat her hand resting on his arm and then desisted, suddenly, as though he had burnt himself.  Then after a silence:

“You will have to go by yourself to-morrow.  I . . . No, I think I mustn’t come.  Better not.  What you two will have to say to each other—”

She interrupted him quickly:

“Father is an innocent man.  He was cruelly wronged.”

“Yes.  That’s why,” Anthony insisted earnestly.  “And you are the only human being that can make it up to him.  You alone must reconcile him with the world if anything can.  But of course you shall.  You’ll have to find words.  Oh you’ll know.  And then the sight of you, alone, would soothe—”

“He’s the gentlest of men,” she interrupted again.

Anthony shook his head.  “It would take no end of generosity, no end of gentleness to forgive such a dead set.  For my part I would have liked better to have been killed and done with at once.  It could not have been worse for you—and I suppose it was of you that he was thinking most while those infernal lawyers were badgering him in court.  Of you.  And now I think of it perhaps the sight of you may bring it all back to him.  All these years, all these years—and you his child left alone in the world.  I would have gone crazy.  For even if he had done wrong—”

“But he hasn’t,” insisted Flora de Barral with a quite unexpected fierceness.  “You mustn’t even suppose it.  Haven’t you read the accounts of the trial?”

“I am not supposing anything,” Anthony defended himself.  He just remembered hearing of the trial.  He assured her that he was away from England, the second voyage of the Ferndale.  He was crossing the Pacific from Australia at the time and didn’t see any papers for weeks and weeks.  He interrupted himself to suggest:

“You had better tell him at once that you are happy.”

He had stammered a little, and Flora de Barral uttered a deliberate and concise “Yes.”

A short silence ensued.  She withdrew her hand from his arm.  They stopped.  Anthony looked as if a totally unexpected catastrophe had happened.

“Ah,” he said.  “You mind . . . ”

“No!  I think I had better,” she murmured.

“I dare say.  I dare say.  Bring him along straight on board to-morrow.  Stop nowhere.”

She had a movement of vague gratitude, a momentary feeling of peace which she referred to the man before her.  She looked up at Anthony.  His face was sombre.  He was miles away and muttered as if to himself:

“Where could he want to stop though?”

“There’s not a single being on earth that I would want to look at his dear face now, to whom I would willingly take him,” she said extending her hand frankly and with a slight break in her voice, “but you—Roderick.”

He took that hand, felt it very small and delicate in his broad palm.

“That’s right.  That’s right,” he said with a conscious and hasty heartiness and, as if suddenly ashamed of the sound of his voice, turned half round and absolutely walked away from the motionless girl.  He even resisted the temptation to look back till it was too late.  The gravel path lay empty to the very gate of the park.  She was gone—vanished.  He had an impression that he had missed some sort of chance.  He felt sad.  That excited sense of his own conduct which had kept him up for the last ten days buoyed him no more.  He had succeeded!

He strolled on aimlessly a prey to gentle melancholy.  He walked and walked.  There were but few people about in this breathing space of a poor neighbourhood.  Under certain conditions of life there is precious little time left for mere breathing.  But still a few here and there were indulging in that luxury; yet few as they were Captain Anthony, though the least exclusive of men, resented their presence.  Solitude had been his best friend.  He wanted some place where he could sit down and be alone.  And in his need his thoughts turned to the sea which had given him so much of that congenial solitude.  There, if always with his ship (but that was an integral part of him) he could always be as solitary as he chose.  Yes.  Get out to sea!

The night of the town with its strings of lights, rigid, and crossed like a net of flames, thrown over the sombre immensity of walls, closed round him, with its artificial brilliance overhung by an emphatic blackness, its unnatural animation of a restless, overdriven humanity.  His thoughts which somehow were inclined to pity every passing figure, every single person glimpsed under a street lamp, fixed themselves at last upon a figure which certainly could not have been seen under the lamps on that particular night.  A figure unknown to him.  A figure shut up within high unscaleable walls of stone or bricks till next morning . . . The figure of Flora de Barral’s father.  De Barral the financier—the convict.

There is something in that word with its suggestions of guilt and retribution which arrests the thought.  We feel ourselves in the presence of the power of organized society—a thing mysterious in itself and still more mysterious in its effect.  Whether guilty or innocent, it was as if old de Barral had been down to the Nether Regions.  Impossible to imagine what he would bring out from there to the light of this world of uncondemned men.  What would he think?  What would he have to say?  And what was one to say to him?

Anthony, a little awed, as one is by a range of feelings stretching beyond one’s grasp, comforted himself by the thought that probably the old fellow would have little to say.  He wouldn’t want to talk about it.  No man would.  It must have been a real hell to him.

And then Anthony, at the end of the day in which he had gone through a marriage ceremony with Flora de Barral, ceased to think of Flora’s father except, as in some sort, the captive of his triumph.  He turned to the mental contemplation of the white, delicate and appealing face with great blue eyes which he had seen weep and wonder and look profoundly at him, sometimes with incredulity, sometimes with doubt and pain, but always irresistible in the power to find their way right into his breast, to stir there a deep response which was something more than love—he said to himself,—as men understand it.  More?  Or was it only something other?  Yes.  It was something other.  More or less.  Something as incredible as the fulfilment of an amazing and startling dream in which he could take the world in his arms—all the suffering world—not to possess its pathetic fairness but to console and cherish its sorrow.

Anthony walked slowly to the ship and that night slept without dreams.

Renovated certainly the saloon of the Ferndale was to receive the “strange woman.”  The mellowness of its old-fashioned, tarnished decoration was gone.  And Anthony looking round saw the glitter, the gleams, the colour of new things, untried, unused, very bright—too bright.  The workmen had gone only last night; and the last piece of work they did was the hanging of the heavy curtains which looped midway the length of the saloon—divided it in two if released, cutting off the after end with its companion-way leading direct on the poop, from the forepart with its outlet on the deck; making a privacy within a privacy, as though Captain Anthony could not place obstacles enough between his new happiness and the men who shared his life at sea.  He inspected that arrangement with an approving eye then made a particular visitation of the whole, ending by opening a door which led into a large state-room made of two knocked into one.  It was very well furnished and had, instead of the usual bedplace of such cabins, an elaborate swinging cot of the latest pattern.  Anthony tilted it a little by way of trial.  “The old man will be very comfortable in here,” he said to himself, and stepped back into the saloon closing the door gently.  Then another thought occurred to him obvious under the circumstances but strangely enough presenting itself for the first time.  “Jove!  Won’t he get a shock,” thought Roderick Anthony.

He went hastily on deck.  “Mr. Franklin, Mr. Franklin.”  The mate was not very far.  “Oh!  Here you are.  Miss . . . Mrs. Anthony’ll be coming on board presently.  Just give me a call when you see the cab.”

Then, without noticing the gloominess of the mate’s countenance he went in again.  Not a friendly word, not a professional remark, or a small joke, not as much as a simple and inane “fine day.”  Nothing.  Just turned about and went in.

We know that, when the moment came, he thought better of it and decided to meet Flora’s father in that privacy of the main cabin which he had been so careful to arrange.  Why Anthony appeared to shrink from the contact, he who was sufficiently self-confident not only to face but to absolutely create a situation almost insane in its audacious generosity, is difficult to explain.  Perhaps when he came on the poop for a glance he found that man so different outwardly from what he expected that he decided to meet him for the first time out of everybody’s sight.  Possibly the general secrecy of his relation to the girl might have influenced him.  Truly he may well have been dismayed.  That man’s coming brought him face to face with the necessity to speak and act a lie; to appear what he was not and what he could never be, unless, unless—

In short, we’ll say if you like that for various reasons, all having to do with the delicate rectitude of his nature, Roderick Anthony (a man of whom his chief mate used to say: he doesn’t know what fear is) was frightened.  There is a Nemesis which overtakes generosity too, like all the other imprudences of men who dare to be lawless and proud . . . ”

“Why do you say this?” I inquired, for Marlow had stopped abruptly and kept silent in the shadow of the bookcase.

“I say this because that man whom chance had thrown in Flora’s way was both: lawless and proud.  Whether he knew anything about it or not it does not matter.  Very likely not.  One may fling a glove in the face of nature and in the face of one’s own moral endurance quite innocently, with a simplicity which wears the aspect of perfectly Satanic conceit.  However, as I have said it does not matter.  It’s a transgression all the same and has got to be paid for in the usual way.  But never mind that.  I paused because, like Anthony, I find a difficulty, a sort of dread in coming to grips with old