Kabanata Kabanata 22 · Chapter XXII

I knew what it was as she came toward me. For ten minutes I had watched

her talking earnestly with the engineer, and now, with a sign for

silence, I drew her out of earshot of the helmsman. Her face was white

and set; her large eyes, larger than usual what of the purpose in them,

looked penetratingly into mine. I felt rather timid and apprehensive,

for she had come to search Humphrey Van Weyden’s soul, and Humphrey Van

Weyden had nothing of which to be particularly proud since his advent on

the _Ghost_.

We walked to the break of the poop, where she turned and faced me. I

glanced around to see that no one was within hearing distance.

“What is it?” I asked gently; but the expression of determination on her

face did not relax.

“I can readily understand,” she began, “that this morning’s affair was

largely an accident; but I have been talking with Mr. Haskins. He tells

me that the day we were rescued, even while I was in the cabin, two men

were drowned, deliberately drowned—murdered.”

There was a query in her voice, and she faced me accusingly, as though I

were guilty of the deed, or at least a party to it.

“The information is quite correct,” I answered. “The two men were

murdered.”

“And you permitted it!” she cried.

“I was unable to prevent it, is a better way of phrasing it,” I replied,

still gently.

“But you tried to prevent it?” There was an emphasis on the “tried,” and

a pleading little note in her voice.

“Oh, but you didn’t,” she hurried on, divining my answer. “But why

didn’t you?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “You must remember, Miss Brewster, that you are

a new inhabitant of this little world, and that you do not yet understand

the laws which operate within it. You bring with you certain fine

conceptions of humanity, manhood, conduct, and such things; but here you

will find them misconceptions. I have found it so,” I added, with an

involuntary sigh.

She shook her head incredulously.

“What would you advise, then?” I asked. “That I should take a knife, or

a gun, or an axe, and kill this man?”

She half started back.

“No, not that!”

“Then what should I do? Kill myself?”

“You speak in purely materialistic terms,” she objected. “There is such

a thing as moral courage, and moral courage is never without effect.”

“Ah,” I smiled, “you advise me to kill neither him nor myself, but to let

him kill me.” I held up my hand as she was about to speak. “For moral

courage is a worthless asset on this little floating world. Leach, one

of the men who were murdered, had moral courage to an unusual degree. So

had the other man, Johnson. Not only did it not stand them in good

stead, but it destroyed them. And so with me if I should exercise what

little moral courage I may possess.

“You must understand, Miss Brewster, and understand clearly, that this

man is a monster. He is without conscience. Nothing is sacred to him,

nothing is too terrible for him to do. It was due to his whim that I was

detained aboard in the first place. It is due to his whim that I am

still alive. I do nothing, can do nothing, because I am a slave to this

monster, as you are now a slave to him; because I desire to live, as you

will desire to live; because I cannot fight and overcome him, just as you

will not be able to fight and overcome him.”

She waited for me to go on.

“What remains? Mine is the role of the weak. I remain silent and suffer

ignominy, as you will remain silent and suffer ignominy. And it is well.

It is the best we can do if we wish to live. The battle is not always to

the strong. We have not the strength with which to fight this man; we

must dissimulate, and win, if win we can, by craft. If you will be

advised by me, this is what you will do. I know my position is perilous,

and I may say frankly that yours is even more perilous. We must stand

together, without appearing to do so, in secret alliance. I shall not be

able to side with you openly, and, no matter what indignities may be put

upon me, you are to remain likewise silent. We must provoke no scenes

with this man, nor cross his will. And we must keep smiling faces and be

friendly with him no matter how repulsive it may be.”

She brushed her hand across her forehead in a puzzled way, saying, “Still

I do not understand.”

“You must do as I say,” I interrupted authoritatively, for I saw Wolf

Larsen’s gaze wandering toward us from where he paced up and down with

Latimer amidships. “Do as I say, and ere long you will find I am right.”

“What shall I do, then?” she asked, detecting the anxious glance I had

shot at the object of our conversation, and impressed, I flatter myself,

with the earnestness of my manner.

“Dispense with all the moral courage you can,” I said briskly. “Don’t

arouse this man’s animosity. Be quite friendly with him, talk with him,

discuss literature and art with him—he is fond of such things. You will

find him an interested listener and no fool. And for your own sake try

to avoid witnessing, as much as you can, the brutalities of the ship. It

will make it easier for you to act your part.”

“I am to lie,” she said in steady, rebellious tones, “by speech and

action to lie.”

Wolf Larsen had separated from Latimer and was coming toward us. I was

desperate.

“Please, please understand me,” I said hurriedly, lowering my voice.

“All your experience of men and things is worthless here. You must begin

over again. I know,—I can see it—you have, among other ways, been used

to managing people with your eyes, letting your moral courage speak out

through them, as it were. You have already managed me with your eyes,

commanded me with them. But don’t try it on Wolf Larsen. You could as

easily control a lion, while he would make a mock of you. He would—I

have always been proud of the fact that I discovered him,” I said,

turning the conversation as Wolf Larsen stepped on the poop and joined

us. “The editors were afraid of him and the publishers would have none

of him. But I knew, and his genius and my judgment were vindicated when

he made that magnificent hit with his ‘Forge.’”

“And it was a newspaper poem,” she said glibly.

“It did happen to see the light in a newspaper,” I replied, “but not

because the magazine editors had been denied a glimpse at it.”

“We were talking of Harris,” I said to Wolf Larsen.

“Oh, yes,” he acknowledged. “I remember the ‘Forge.’ Filled with pretty

sentiments and an almighty faith in human illusions. By the way, Mr. Van

Weyden, you’d better look in on Cooky. He’s complaining and restless.”

Thus was I bluntly dismissed from the poop, only to find Mugridge

sleeping soundly from the morphine I had given him. I made no haste to

return on deck, and when I did I was gratified to see Miss Brewster in

animated conversation with Wolf Larsen. As I say, the sight gratified

me. She was following my advice. And yet I was conscious of a slight

shock or hurt in that she was able to do the thing I had begged her to do

and which she had notably disliked.