John Coxeter, standing back in the shadow, felt a sudden gust of envious
pain. They were evidently on their way home from their honeymoon, these
happy young people, blessed with good looks, money, health, and love;
their marriage had been the outcome of quite a pretty romance. But stay,--what was this they were saying? Both he and Nan unwillingly
heard the quick interchange of words, the wife's shrill, angry
utterances, the husband's good-humoured expostulations. "I won't stay on
the boat, Bob. I don't see why we should risk our lives in order that
you may be back in town to-morrow. I know it's not safe--my great-uncle,
the Admiral, always said that the worst storm at sea was not as bad as
quite a small fog!" Then the gruff answer: "My dear child, don't be a
fool! The boat wouldn't start if there was the slightest danger. You
heard what that man told us. The fog was much worse this morning, and
the boat was only an hour late!" "Well, you can do as you like, but _I_
won't cross to-night. Where's the use of taking any risk? Mother's
uncle, the Admiral----" and Coxeter heard with shocked approval the
man's "Damn your great-uncle, the Admiral!" There they stood, not more than three yards off, the pretty, angry
little spitfire looking up at her indignant, helpless husband. Coxeter,
if disgusted, was amused; there was also the comfort of knowing that
they would certainly pretend not to see him, even if by chance they
recognized him, intent as they were on their absurd difference. "I shall go back and spend the night at the station hotel. No, you
needn't trouble to find Stockton for me--there's no time." Coxeter and
Nan heard the laughing gibe, "Then you don't mind your poor maid being
drowned as well as your poor husband," but the bride went on as if he
hadn't spoken--"I've quite enough money with me; you needn't give me
anything--_good-bye_." She disappeared into the fog in the direction of the gangway, and
Coxeter moved hastily to one side. He wished to save Bob Rendel the
annoyance of recognizing him; but then, with amazing suddenness,
something happened which made Coxeter realize that after all women were
even more inexplicable, unreasonable beings than even he had always
known them to be. There came the quick patter of feet over the damp deck, and Mrs. Rendel
was back again, close to where her husband was standing. "I've made up my mind to stay on the boat," she said quietly. "I think
you are very unwise, as well as very obstinate, to cross in this fog;
but if you won't give way, then I'd rather be with you, and share the
danger." Bob Rendel laughed, not very kindly, and together they went across to
the stair leading below. Coxeter opened his mouth to speak, then he closed it again. What a
scene! What a commentary on married life! And these two people were
supposed to be "in love" with one another. The little episode had shocked him, jarred his contentment. "If you
don't mind, I'll go and smoke a pipe," he said stiffly. Mrs. Archdale looked up. "Oh yes, please do," and yet she felt suddenly
bereft of something warm, enveloping, kindly. The words formed
themselves on her lips, "Don't go too far away," but she did not speak
them aloud. But, as if in answer to her unspoken request, Coxeter called
out, "I'm just here, close by, if you want anything," and the
commonplace words gave her a curious feeling of security,--a feeling,
though she herself was unaware of it, which her own care and tenderness
for others often afforded to those round whom she threw the sheltering
mantle of her kindness. Perhaps because he was so near, John Coxeter remained in her thoughts. Almost alone of those human beings with whom life brought her in
contact, he made no demand on her sympathy, and very little on her time. In fact, his first offer of marriage had taken her so much by surprise
as to strike her as slightly absurd; she had also felt it, at the time,
to be an offence, for she had given him no right to encroach on the
inner shrine of her being. Trying to account for what he had done, she had supposed that John
Coxeter, being a man who evidently ordered his life according to some
kind of system, had believed himself ripe for the honourable estate of
marriage, and had chosen her as being "suitable." When writing her cold letter of refusal, she had expected to hear within
a few weeks of his engagement to some "nice" girl. But time had gone by
and nothing of the sort had happened. Coxeter's second offer, conveyed,
as had been the first, in a formal letter, had found her in a very
different mood, for it had followed very closely on that done by her of
which he, John Coxeter, had so greatly disapproved. She had been touched
this second time and not at all offended, and gradually they had become
friends. It was after his second offer that Nan began making use of him,
not so much for herself as on behalf of other people. Nan Archdale led her life without reference to what those about her
considered appropriate or desirable; and years had gone by since the
boldest busybody among them would have ventured a word of rebuke. Her
social background was composed of happy, prosperous people. They had but
little to do with her, however, save when by some amazing mischance
things went wrong with them; when all went well they were apt to forget
Nan Archdale. But John Coxeter, though essentially one of them by birth
and instinct, and though it had been through them that she had first met
him, never forgot her. Yet though they had become, in a sense, intimate, he made on her none of
those demands which endear a man to a woman. Living up on a pleasant
tableland of self-approval, he never touched the heights or depths which
go to form the relief map of most human beings' lives. He always did his
duty and generally enjoyed doing it, and he had no patience, only
contempt, for those who shirked theirs. The passion of love, that greatest of the Protean riddles set by nature
to civilized man and woman, played no part, or so Nan Archdale believed,
in John Coxeter's life. At the time she had received the letter in which
he had first asked her to marry him, there had come to her, seen through
the softening mists of time, a sharp, poignant remembrance of Jim
Archdale's offer, "If you won't have me, Nan, I'll do something
desperate! You'll be sorry then!" So poor Jim Archdale had conquered
her; and looking back, when she recalled their brief married life, she
forgot the selfishness and remembered only the love, the love which had
made Jim so dependent on her presence and her sympathy. But if John Coxeter were incapable of love, she now knew him to be a
good friend, and it was the friend--so she believed, and was grateful to
him for it,--who had asked her to accept what he had quixotically
supposed would be the shelter of his name when she had done that thing
of which he had disapproved. To-night Nan could not help wondering if he would ever again ask her to
marry him. She thought not--she hoped not.