The Mahanaddy had just turned her blunt prow1 out westward2 from the harbour of Port Said, sniffing3 her native north wind, with a gentle rising movement to that old Mediterranean4 eastward-tending swell5. The lights of the most iniquitous6 town on earth were fading away in the mist of the desert on the left hand, and on the right the gloom of the sea merged7 into a grey sky.
The dinner-hour had passed, and the passengers were lolling about on the long quarter-deck, talking lazily after the manner of men and women who have little to say and much time wherein to say it.
It was quite easy to perceive that they had left a voyage of many days behind them, for the funny man had exhausted8 himself and the politicians were asleep. The lifeless, homeward-bound flirtations had waned9 long ago, and no one looked twice at any one else. They all knew each other's dresses and vices10 and little aggravating11 habits, and only three or four of them were aware that human nature runs deeper than such superficial details.
Away forward, behind the sheep-pens, an Italian gentleman in the ice industry was scraping on a yellow fiddle12 which looked sticky. But like many things of plain exterior13 this unprepossessing instrument had something in it, something that the Italian gentleman knew how to extract, and all the ship was hushed into listening. Such as had conversation left spoke14 in low tones, and even the stewards15 in the pantry ceased for a time to test the strength of the dinner-plates.
On a small clear space of deck between the door of the doctor's cabin and the saloon gangway two men were walking slowly backwards16 and forwards. They were both tall men, both large, and consequently both inclined to taciturnity. They had said, perhaps, as little as any two persons on board, which may have accounted for the fact that they were talking now, and still seemed to have plenty to say.
One was dark and clean-shaven, with something of the sea in his mien17 and gait. His nose and chin were singularly clean cut, and suggestive of an ancestral type. This was the ship's doctor, a man who probed men's hearts as well as their bodies, and wrote of what he found there. His companion was an antitype—a representative of the fair race found in England by the ancestors of the other when they came and conquered. He wore a beard, and his face was burnt to the colour of mahogany, which had a strange effect in contrast to the bluest of Saxon eyes.
The Doctor was talking.
“Then,” he was saying, “who the devil are you?”
The other smiled, a gentle, triumphant18 smile. The smile of a man who, humbly19 recognising himself at a just estimation, is conscious of having outwitted another, cleverer than himself.
“You finish your pipe,” he said, and he walked away with long firm strides towards the saloon stairs. The Doctor went to the rail, where, resting his arms on the solid teak, he leant, gazing thoughtfully out over the sea, which was part of his life. For he knew the great waters, and loved them with all the quiet strength of a slow-tongued man.
Before very long some one came behind and touched him on the shoulder. He turned, and in the fading light looked into the smiling face of his late companion—the same and yet quite different, for the beard was gone, and there only remained the long fair moustache.
“Yes,” said Dr. Mark Ruthine, “Jem Agar. I was a fool not to know you at first.”
“I have been practising so hard during the last ten months to look like some one else that I hardly feel like myself,” he said.
“Um-m! There was something uncanny about you when you first came on board. I used to watch you at meals, and wonder what it was. By God, Agar, I am glad!”
“Thanks,” replied Jem Agar. He was looking round him rather nervously21. “You don't think there is anybody on board who will know me, do you?”
“No one, barring the Captain.”
“Oh,” said Agar calmly, “he is all right. He can keep his mouth shut.”
“There is no doubt about that,” replied the Doctor.
A little pause followed, during which they both listened involuntarily to the ice-cream merchant's musical voice, which was now floating over the silent decks, raised in song.
“I should like to hear all about it some day,” said the ship's surgeon at last. He knew his man, and no detail of the strange lives that passed the horizon of his daily existence was ever forgotten. Only he usually found that those who had the most to tell required a little assistance in their narration22.
“It is rather a rum business,” answered Jem Agar, not displeased23.
At this moment the ship's bell rang four clear notes into the night.
“Ten o'clock,” said the Doctor. “Come into my cabin and have a smoke; the Captain will be in soon. He would like to hear the story too.”
So they passed into the cabin, and before they had been there many minutes the Captain joined them. For a moment he stood in the doorway24, then he came forward with outstretched hand.
“Well,” he said, “all that I can say is that you ought to be dead. But it's not my business.”
He had seen too many freaks of fortune to be surprised at this.
“I thought,” he continued, “that there was something familiar about the back of your head. Back of a man's head never changes. It's a funny thing.”
He sat down in his usual chair, and looked with a cheery smile upon him who had risen from the death column of the Times. Then he turned to his pipe.
“You know, Agar,” he said, “I was beastly sorry about that—death of yours. Cut me up wonderfully for a few minutes. That is saying a lot in these days.”
Agar laughed.
“It is very kind of you to say so,” he said rather awkwardly.
“And I,” added Dr. Ruthine from behind the whisky and soda26 tray, in the deliberate voice of a man who is saying something with an effort, “felt that it was a pity. That is how it struck me—a pity.”
Then, very disjointedly, and in a manner which could scarcely be set down here, Major James Agar told his singular story. There are—thank heaven!—many such stories still untold27; there are, one would be inclined to hope, many such still uncommenced. As a nation we may be on the decline, but there is something to go on with in us yet.
Once when the narrator paused, Dr. Ruthine went to the side table and opened some bottles.
“Whisky?” he inquired, with curt28 hospitality, “or anything else your fancy may paint, down to tea.”
Agar rose to pour out his own allowance, and for a moment the two men stood together. With the critical eye of a soldier, which seems to weigh flesh and blood, he looked his host for the time being up and down.
“They don't make men like you and me on tea,” he said, reaching out his hand towards a tumbler.
Then the story went on. At first the ship's doctor listened to it with interest but without absorption, then suddenly something seemed to catch his attention and hold it riveted29. When a pause came he leant forward, pointing an emphasising finger.
“When you spoke just now of the chief,” he said, “did you mean Michael?”
“Yes.”
“What! Seymour Michael?”
“Yes.”
The Captain tapped his pipe against his boot and leant back with the shrug30 of the shoulders awaiting further developments.
“And you mean to tell me that you put yourself entirely31 in the hands of Seymour Michael?” pursued the Doctor.
“Yes, why not?”
Mark Ruthine shook his head with a little laugh. “I always thought, Agar, that you were a bit of a fool!”
“Why, man,” said Ruthine, “Seymour Michael is one of the biggest rascals33 on God's earth. I would not trust him with fourpence round the corner.”
“Nor would I,” put in the Captain, “and the sum is not excessive.”
Jem Agar was sipping34 his whisky and soda with the placidity35 of a giant who fears no open fight and never thinks of foul36 play.
“I don't see,” he muttered, “what harm he can do me.”
“No more do I, at the moment,” replied the Doctor; “but the man is a liar25 and an unscrupulous cad. I have kept an eye on him for years because he interests me. He has never run a straight course since he came into the field; he has consistently sacrificed truth, honour, and his best friend to his own ambition ever since the beginning.”
Jem Agar smiled at the Doctor's vehemence37, although he was aware that such a display was far from being characteristic of the man.
“Of course,” he admitted, “in the matter of honour and glory I expect to be swindled. But I don't care. I know the chap's reputation, and all that, but he can hardly get rid of the fact that I have done the thing and he has not.”
“I was not thinking so much of that,” replied the other. “Men sell their souls for honour and glory and never get paid.”
He paused; then with the sure touch of one who has dabbled38 with pen and ink in the humanities, he laid his finger on the vulnerable spot.
“I was thinking more,” he said, “of what you had trusted him to do—telling certain persons, I mean, that you were not dead. He is just as likely as not to have suppressed the information.”
Jem Agar was looking very grave, with a sudden pinched appearance about the lips which was only half concealed39 by his moustache.
“Why should he do that?” he asked sharply.
“He would do it if it suited his purpose. He is not the man to take into consideration such things as feelings—especially the feelings of others.”
“You're a bit hard on him, Ruthine,” said Jem doubtfully. “Why should it suit his convenience?”
“Secrecy was essential for your purpose and his; in telling a secret one doubles the risk of its disclosure each time a new confidant is admitted. Besides, the man's nature is quite extraordinarily40 secretive. He has Jewish and Scotch41 blood in his veins42, and the result is that he would rather disseminate43 false news than true on the off chance of benefiting thereby44 later on. For men of that breed each piece of accurate information, however trivial, has a marketable value, and they don't part with it unless they get their price.”
There followed a silence, during which Jem Agar went back in mental retrospection to the only interview he had ever had with Seymour Michael, and the old lurking45 sense of distrust awoke within his heart.
“But,” said the Captain, who was an optimist—he even applied46 that theory to human nature—“I suppose it is all right now. Everybody knows now that you are among the quick—eh?”
“No,” replied Jem, “only Michael; it was arranged that I should telegraph to him.”
“Of course,” the Doctor hastened to say, for he had perceived a change in Agar's demeanour, “all this is the purest supposition. It is only a theory built upon a man's character. It is wonderful how consistent people are. Judge how a man would act and you will find that he has acted like it afterwards.”
As if in illustration of the theory Jem Agar looked gravely determined47, but uttered no threat directed towards Seymour Michael. His quiet face was a threat in itself.
“Well,” he said, rising, “I am keeping you fellows from your slumbers48. I am still sleeping on deck; can't get accustomed to the atmosphere below decks after six months' sleeping in the open.”
He nodded and left them.
“Rum chap!” muttered the Captain, looking at his watch when the footsteps had died away over the silent decks.
“One of the queerest specimens49 I know,” retorted Dr. Mark Ruthine, who was fingering a pen and looking longingly50 towards the inkstand. The Captain—a man of renowned51 discretion—quietly departed.
There is no more distrustful man than the simple gentleman of honour who finds himself deceived and tricked. It is as if the bottom suddenly fell out of his trust in all mankind, and there is nothing left but a mocking void. Jem Agar lay on his mattress52 beneath the awning53, and stared hard at a bright star near the horizon. He was realising that life is, after all, a sorry thing of chance, and that all his world might be hanging at that moment on the word of an untrustworthy man.
Before morning he had determined to telegraph from Malta to Seymour Michael to meet him at Plymouth on the arrival of the Mahanaddy at that port.
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1
prow
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| n.(飞机)机头，船头 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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3
sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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iniquitous
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| adj.不公正的；邪恶的；高得出奇的 | |
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merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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aggravating
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| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
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fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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stewards
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| （轮船、飞机等的）乘务员( steward的名词复数 )； （俱乐部、旅馆、工会等的）管理员； （大型活动的）组织者； （私人家中的）管家 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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30
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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placidity
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| n.平静，安静，温和 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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38
dabbled
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| v.涉猎( dabble的过去式和过去分词 )；涉足；浅尝；少量投资 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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41
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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42
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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43
disseminate
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| v.散布；传播 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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45
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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46
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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48
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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49
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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50
longingly
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| adv. 渴望地 热望地 | |
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51
renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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52
mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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53
awning
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| n.遮阳篷；雨篷 | |
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