Mrs Falchion | Page 5

temperament. All that was outer was fascinating,
all that was inner suggested coldness. After experience assured me that
all who came to know her shared this estimate, even in those days when
every man on the ship was willing to be her slave. She had a
compelling atmosphere, a possessive presence; and yet her mind at this
time was unemotional--like Octavia, the wife of Mark Antony, "of a
cold conversation." She was striking and unusual in appearance, and
yet well within convention and "good form." Her dress was simply and
modestly worn, and had little touches of grace and taste which, I
understand, many ladies on board sought to imitate, when they
recovered from the first feeling of envy.
She was an example of splendid life. I cared to look at her as one would
dwell on the sleek beauty of a deer--as, indeed, I have many a time
since then, in India, watched a tigress asleep on her chain, claws hidden,
wild life latent but slumbering. I could have staked my life that Mrs.
Falchion was insensible to love or passion, and unimpeachable in the
broad scheme of right and wrong; imperious in requiring homage,
incapable of giving it. I noticed when she laughed, as she did once at
table, that her teeth were very white and small and square; and, like a
schoolgirl, she had a habit of clicking them together very lightly, but
not conspicuously, as if trying their quality. This suggested, however,
something a little cruel. Her appetite was very good. She was coolly
anxious about the amusements; she asked me if I could get her a list of
the passengers, said that she was never sea-sick, and took a languid
interest in the ladies present. Her glance at the men was keen at first,
then neutral.
Once again, during the meal, she slowly turned and flashed an
inquiring glance at me. I caught her eyes. She did not show the least

embarrassment, and asked me if the band insisted on playing every day.
Before she left the saloon, one could see that many present were talking
about her. Even the grim old captain followed her with his eyes as she
went. When she rose, I asked her if she was going on deck. I did it
casually, as though it was her usual custom to appear there after dinner.
In like fashion she replied that her maid had some unpacking to do, she
had some things to superintend, and, when this was done, she intended
to spend a time on deck. Then, with a peculiar smile, she passed out.
[Note by Dr. Marmion appended to his MSS.:--"Many of the
conversations and monologues in this history, not heard by myself
when they occurred, were told to me afterwards, or got from the diaries
and notes of the persons concerned. Only a few are purely imaginary."]

CHAPTER II
"MOTLEY IS YOUR ONLY WEAR"
I went to my cabin, took a book, sat down, and began to smoke. My
thoughts drifted from the book, and then occurred a strange,
incongruous thing. It was a remembered incident. It came like a vision
as I was lighting a fresh cigar:
A boy and a girl in a village chemist's shop; he with a boy's love for her,
she responding in terms, but not in fact. He passed near her carrying a
measure of sulphuric acid. She put out her hand suddenly and playfully,
as though to bar his way. His foot slipped on the oily floor, and the acid
spilled on his hands and the skirt of her dress. He turned instantly and
plunged his hands into a measure of alcohol standing near before the
acid had more than slightly scalded them. She glanced at his startled
face; hers was without emotion. She looked down, and said petulantly:
"You have spoiled my dress; I cannot go into the street."
The boy's clothes were burnt also. He was poor, and to replace them
must be a trial to him; her father owned the shop, and was well-to-do.
Still, he grieved most that she should be annoyed, though he saw her

injustice. But she turned away and left him.
Another scene then crossed the disc of smoke:
The boy and girl, now man and woman, standing alone in the chemist's
shop. He had come out of the big working world, after travel in many
countries. His fame had come with him. She was to be married the next
day to a seller of purple and fine linen. He was smiling a good-bye, and
there was nothing of the old past in the smile. The flame now was in
her eyes, and she put out both her hands to stop him as he turned to go;
but his face was passionless. "You have spoiled