The Beach of Dreams. H. De Vere Stacpoole
all but the hands of a skeleton and covered with jewels, she smoked cigarettes incessantly. She was one of those old women whose energy seems to increase with age, tireless as a gnat she was always the last in bed and the first on deck, though lying in her bunk half the night reading French novels of which she had a trunkful and smoking her eternal cigarettes.
Beside her sat her niece, Cléo de Bromsart, English on the mother’s side and educated in England, a girl of twenty, unmarried, dark-haired, fragile and beautiful as a dream. She was one of the old nobility, without dilution, yet strangely enough with money, for the Bromsarts, without marrying into trade, had adapted themselves to the new times so cleverly that Eugène de Bromsart the last of his race had retired from life leaving his only daughter and the last of her race wealthy, even by the standard of wealth set in Paris. She was a sportswoman and, despite her lack of frailty, had led an outdoor life and possessed a nerve of steel.
Madame de Warens had brought the girl up after she left school, had laboured over her and found her labour in vain. Cléo had no leanings towards the People and the opinions of her aunt seemed to her a sort of disreputable madness bred on hypocrisy. Cléo looked on the lower classes just as she looked on animals, beings with rights of their own but belonging to an entirely different order of creation, and one thing certainly could be said for her—she was honest in her outlook on life.
Beside her sat Doctor Epinard, the ship’s doctor, a serious young man who spoke little, and the fifth at table was Lagross, the sea painter, who had come for the sake of his health and to absorb the colours of the ocean. The vision of the Albatross with towering canvas breasting the blue-green seas in an atmosphere of sunset and storm was with him still as he sat listening to the chatter of the others and occasionally joining in. He intended to paint that picture.
It had come to him as a surprise. They had been playing cards when a quarter-master called them on deck saying that the weather had moderated and that there was a ship in sight, and there, away across the tumbling seas, the Albatross had struck his vision, remote, storm surrounded, and sunlit, almost a vision of the past in these days of mechanism.
“Now tell me, Prince,” Madame de Warens was saying, “how long do you propose staying at this Kerguelen Land of yours?”
“Not more than a week,” replied the Prince. “I want to take some soundings off the Smoky Islands and I shall put in for a day on the mainland where you can go ashore if you like, but I shan’t stay here long. It is like putting one’s head into a wolf’s mouth.”
“How is that?”
“Weather. You saw that sudden squall we passed through this evening, or rather you heard it, no doubt, well that’s the sort of thing Kerguelen brews.”
“Suppose,” said the astute old lady, “it brewed one of those things, only much worse, and we were blown ashore?”
“Impossible.”
“Why?”
“Our engines can fight anything.”
“Are there any natives in this place?”
“Only penguins and rabbits.”
“Tell me,” said Lagross, “that three-master we saw just now, would she be making for Kerguelen?”
“Oh, no, she must be out of her course and beating up north. She’s not a whaler, and ships like that would keep north of the Crozets. Probably she was driven down by that big storm we had a week ago. We wouldn’t be where we are only that I took those soundings south of Marion Island.”
“And, after Kerguelen, what land shall we see next?” asked the old lady.
“New Amsterdam, madame,” replied the Prince, “and after that the Sunda Islands and beautiful Java with its sun and palm trees.”
Mademoiselle de Bromsart shivered slightly. She had been silent up to this, and she spoke now with eyes fixed far away as if viewing the picture of Java with its palms and sapphire skies.
“Could we not go there now?” asked she.
“In what way?” asked the Prince.
“Turn the ship round and leave this place behind,” she replied.
“But why?”
“I don’t know,” said she, “perhaps it is what you say about Kerguelen, or perhaps it was the sight of that big ship all alone out there, but I feel—” she stopped short.
“Yes—”
“That ship frightened me.”
“Frightened you,” cried Madame de Warens, “why, Cléo, what is the matter with you to-night? You who are never frightened. I’m not easily frightened, but I admit I almost said my prayers in that storm, and you, you were doing embroidery.”
“Oh, I am not frightened of storms or things in the ordinary way,” said the girl half laughing. “Physical things have no power over me, an ugly face can frighten me more than the threat of a blow. It is a question of psychology. That ship produced on my mind a feeling as though I had seen desolation itself, and something worse.”
“Something worse!” cried Madame de Warens, “what can be worse than desolation?”
“I don’t know,” said Cléo, “It also made me feel that I wanted to be far away from it and from here. Then, Monsieur le Prince, with his story of desolate Kerguelen, completed the feeling. It is strong upon me now.”
“You do not wish to go to Kerguelen then?” said the Prince smiling as he helped himself to the entrée that was being passed round.
“Oh, monsieur, it is not a question of my wishes at all,” replied the girl.
“But, excuse me,” replied the owner of the Gaston de Paris, “it is entirely a question of your wishes. We are not a cargo boat, Captain Lepine is on the bridge, he has only to go into his chart house, set his course for New Amsterdam, and a turn of the wheel will put our stern to the south.” He touched an electric bell push, attached to the table, as he spoke.
“And your soundings?” asked she.
“They can wait for some other time or some other man, sea depths are pretty constant.”
A quarter-master appeared at the saloon door, came forward and saluted.
“Ask Captain Lepine to come aft,” said the Prince. “I wish to speak to him.”
“Wait,” said Mademoiselle Bromsart. Then to her host. “No. I will not have the course altered for me. I am quite clear upon that point. What I said was foolish and it would pain me more than I can tell to have it acted upon. I really mean what I say.”
He looked at her for a moment and seemed to glimpse something of the iron will that lay at the heart of her beauty and fragility.
“That will do,” said he to the quarter-master. “You need not give my message.”
Madame de Warens laughed. “That is what it is to be young,” said she, “if an old woman like me had spoken of changing our course I doubt if your quarter-master would have been called, Monsieur. But I have no fads and fancies, thank heaven, I leave all that to the young women of to-day.”
“Pardon me, madame,” said Doctor Epinard speaking for almost the first time, “but in impressions produced by objects upon the mind there is no room for the term fancy. I speak of course of the normal mind free of disease. Furthermore, we talk of objects as things of secondary importance and the mind as everything. Now I am firmly convinced that the mind of man, so far from being a thing apart from the objects that form its environment, is, in fact, nothing else but a mirror or focus upon which objects register their impressions and that all the thinking in the world is done not really by the mind but by the objects that form our thoughts and the reasons, utterly divorced from what we call human reason, that connect together the objects that form our environment.”