You can tear it
up and chuck the pieces away once we're on land again--" he spoke
nervously, and with contemptuous amazement Coxeter told himself that the
fellow was _afraid_. "Surely you don't think there's any danger?" he
asked. "D'you mean you've made this will because you think something may
happen to the boat?" The other nodded, "Accidents do happen"; he smiled rather foolishly as
he said the words, pronouncing the last one, as Coxeter noted with
disapproval, "habben." He was holding out a fountain pen; he had an
ingratiating manner, and Coxeter, to his own surprise, suddenly gave
way. "All right," he said, and taking the paper in his hand he glanced over
it. He had no desire to pry into any man's private affairs, but he
wasn't going to sign anything without first reading it. This odd little will consisted of only two sentences, written in a
clear, clerkly hand. The first bequeathed an annuity of £240 (six
thousand francs) to Léonie Lenoir, of Rue Lafayette, Paris; the second
appointed the testator's mother, Mrs. Solomon Munich, of Scott Terrace,
Maida Vale, residuary legatee and executor. The will was signed "Victor
Munich." "Very well, I'll sign it," said Coxeter, at last, "and I'll take charge
of it till we're on land. But look here--I won't keep it a moment
longer!" Then, perhaps a little ashamed of his ungraciousness, "I say,
Mr. Munich, if I were you I'd go below and take a stiffish glass of
brandy and water. I once had a fright, I was nearly run over by a
brewer's dray at Charing Cross, and I did that--took some brandy I
mean--" he jerked the words out, conscious that the other's sallow face
had reddened. Then he signed his name at the bottom of the sheet of paper, and busied
himself with putting the envelope carefully into his pocketbook. "There," he said, with the slight supercilious smile which was his most
marked physical peculiarity, but of which he was quite unconscious,
"your will is quite safe now! If we meet at Folkestone I'll hand it you
back; if we miss one another in the--er--fog I'll destroy it, as
arranged." He turned and began walking back to where Nan Archdale was sitting. What
a very odd thing! How extraordinary, how unexpected! Then a light broke in on him. Why, of course, it was Nan who had brought
this about! She had touched up the Jew fellow's conscience, frightened
him about that woman--the woman who had so absurdly termed him her
"_petit homme adoré_." That's what came of mixing up in other people's
business; but Coxeter's eyes nevertheless rested on the sitting figure
of his friend with a certain curious indulgence. Odd, sentimental,
sensitive creatures--women! But brave--not lacking in moral courage
anyway. As he came close up to her, Mrs. Archdale moved a little, making room
for him to sit down by her. It was a graceful, welcoming gesture, and
John Coxeter's pulse began to quicken.... He told himself that this also
was an extraordinary thing--this journey with the woman he had wished to
make his wife. He felt her to be so tantalizingly near, and yet in a
sense so very far away. His eyes fell on her right hand, still encased in his large brown glove. As he had buttoned that glove, he had touched her soft wrist, and a wild
impulse had come to him to bend yet a little closer and press his lips
to the white triangle of yielding flesh. Of course he had resisted the
temptation, reminding himself sternly that it was a caddish thing even
to have thought of taking advantage of Nan's confiding friendliness. Yet
now he wondered whether he had been a fool not to do it. Other men did
those things. *       *       *       *       *

There came a dragging, grating sound, the boat shuddering as if in
response. Coxeter had the odd sensation that he was being gently but
irresistibly pushed round, and yet he sat quite still, with nothing in
the saloon changed in relation to himself. Someone near him exclaimed in a matter-of-fact voice, "We've struck;
we're on a rock." Everyone stood up, and he saw an awful look of doubt,
of unease, cross the faces of the men and women about him. The fog-horn ceased trumpeting, and there rose confused sounds, loud
hoarse shouts and thin shrill cries, accompanying the dull thunder
caused by the tramping of feet. Then the lights went out, all but the
yellow flame of a small oil lamp which none of them had known was there. The glass-panelled door opened widely, and a burly figure holding a
torch, which flared up in the still, moist air, was outlined against the
steamy waves of fog. "Come out of here!" he cried; and then, as some people tried to push
past him, "Steady, keep cool! There'll be room in the boats for every
soul on board," and Coxeter, looking at the pale, glistening face, told
himself that the man was lying, and that he knew he lied. They stumbled out, one by one, and joined the great company which was
now swarming over the upper deck, each man and woman forlorn and lonely
as human beings must ever be when individually face to face with death. Coxeter's right hand gripped firmly Mrs. Archdale's arm. She was
pressing closely to his side, shrinking back from the rough crowd
surging about them, and he was filled with a fierce protective
tenderness which left no room in his mind for any thought of self. His
one thought was how to preserve his companion from contact with some of
those about them; wild-eyed, already distraught creatures, swayed with a
terror which set them apart from the mass of quiet, apparently dazed
people who stood patiently waiting to do what they were told. Close to Nan and Coxeter two men were talking Spanish; they were
gesticulating, and seemed to be disagreeing angrily as to what course to
pursue. Presently one of them suddenly produced a long knife which
glittered in the torchlight; with it he made a gesture as if to show the
other that he meant to cut his way through the crowd towards the spot,
now railed off with rope barriers, where the boats were being got ready
for the water. With a quick movement Coxeter unbuttoned his cloak and drew Nan within
its folds; putting his arms round her he held her, loosely and yet how
firmly clasped to his breast. "I can't help it," he muttered
apologetically. "Forgive me!" As only answer she seemed to draw yet
closer to him, and then she lay, still and silent, within his sheltering
arms,--and at that moment he remembered to be glad he had not kissed her
wrist. They two stood there, encompassed by a living wall, and yet how
strangely alone. The fog had become less dense, or else the resin
torches which flared up all about them cleared the air. From the captain's bridge there whistled every quarter minute a high
rocket, and soon from behind the wall of fog came in answer distant
signals full of a mingled mockery and hope to the people waiting there. But for John Coxeter the drama of his own soul took precedence of that
going on round him.