The Mission of Mr. Eustace Greyne | Page 8

reflections were mainly connected with the Gulf of Lyons.
Twilight was beginning to fall when, so far as he was capable of
thinking, he thought he would like a breath of air. For some moments
he lay quite still, dwelling on this idea which had so mysteriously come
to him. Then he got up, and thought again, seated upon the cabin floor.
He knew there was a deck. He remembered having seen one when he
came aboard. He put on his fur coat, still sitting on the cabin floor. The
process took some time--he fancied about a couple of years. At last,
however, it was completed, and he rose to his feet with the assistance of
the washstand and the berth.
The ship seemed very busy, full of almost American activity. He
thought a greater calm would have been more decent, and waited in the
hope that the floor would presently cease to forget itself. As it showed
no symptoms of complying with his desire he endeavoured to spurn it,
and, in the fulness of time, gained the companion.
It was very strange, as he remembered afterwards, that only when he
had gained the companion did the sense of his utter loneliness rush
upon him with overwhelming force: one of the ironies of life, he
supposed. Eventually he shook the companion off with a good deal of
difficulty, and found himself installed upon planks under a grey sky,
and holding fast to a railing, which was all that interposed between him
and eternity.
At first he was only conscious of greyness and the noise of winds and
waters, but presently a black daub seemed to hover for a second
somewhere on the verge of his world, to hover and disappear. He
wondered what it was. A smut, perhaps. He rubbed his face. The daub
returned. It was very large for a smut. He strove to locate it, and found

that it must be somewhere on his left cheek. With a great effort he took
out his pocket-handkerchief. Suddenly the daub assumed monstrous
proportions. He turned his head, and perceived the lady in black whom
he had seen tripping over the gangway on his arrival.
She was a few steps from him, leaning upon the rail in an attitude of the
deepest dejection, with her face averted; yet it struck him that her right
shoulder was oddly familiar, as her back had surely been. The turn of
her head, too--he coughed despairingly. The lady took no notice. He
coughed again. Interest was quickening in him. He was determined to
see the lady's face.
This time she looked around, showing a pale countenance bedewed
with tears, and totally devoid of any expression which he could connect
with a consciousness of his presence. For a moment she stared vacantly
at him, while he, with almost equal vacancy, regarded her. Then a thrill
of surprise shook him. A sudden light of knowledge leaped up in him,
and he exclaimed:
"Mademoiselle Verbena!" "Monsieur?" murmured the lady, with an
accent of surprise.
"Mademoiselle Verbena! Surely it is--it must be!"
He had staggered sideways, nearing her.
"Mademoiselle Verbena, do you not know me? It is I, Eustace Greyne,
the father of your pupils, the husband of Mrs. Eustace Greyne?"
An expression of stark amazement came into the lady's face at these
words. She leaned forward till her eyes were close to Mr. Greyne's then
gave a little cry.
"Mon Dieu! It is true! You are so altered that I could not recognise.
And then--what are you doing here, on the wide sea, far from
madame?"
"I was just about to ask you the very same question!" cried Mr. Greyne.

IV
"Alas, monsieur!" said Mademoiselle Verbena in her silvery voice, "I
go to see my poor mother."
"But I understood that she was dying in Paris."
"Even so. But, when I reached the Rue St. Honoré, I found that they
had removed to Algiers. It was the only chance, the doctor said--a
warm climate, the sun of Africa. There was no time to let me know.
They took her away at once. And now I follow--perhaps to find her
dead."
Large tears rolled down her cheeks. Mr. Greyne was deeply affected.
"Let us hope for the best," he exclaimed, seized by a happy inspiration.
The Levantine strove to smile.
"But you, monsieur, why are you here? Ah! perhaps madame is with
you! Let me go to her! Let me kiss her dear hands once more----"
Mr. Greyne mournfully checked her fond excitement.
"I am quite alone," he said.
A tragic expression came into the Levantine's face.
"But, then----" she began.
It was impossible for him to tell her about "Catherine." He was,
therefore, constrained to subterfuge.
"I--I was suddenly overtaken by--by influenza," he said, in some
confusion. "The doctor recommended