Mrs. Falchion

Chapter 1

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The part I played in Mrs. Falchion's career was not very noble, but I

shall set it forth plainly here, else I could not have the boldness to

write of her faults or those of others. Of my own history little need be

said in preface. Soon after graduating with honours as a physician, I was

offered a professional post in a college of medicine in Canada. It was

difficult to establish a practice in medicine without some capital, else

I had remained in London; and, being in need of instant means, I gladly

accepted the offer. But six months were to intervene before the beginning

of my duties--how to fill that time profitably was the question. I longed

to travel, having scarcely been out of England during my life. Some one

suggested the position of surgeon on one of the great steamers running

between England and Australia. The idea of a long sea-voyage was

seductive, for I had been suffering from over-study, though the position

itself was not very distinguished. But in those days I cared more for

pleasing myself than for what might become a newly-made professor, and I

was prepared to say with a renowned Irish dean: "Dignity and I might be

married, for all the relations we are."

I secured the position with humiliating ease and humiliating smallness of

pay. The steamer's name was the 'Fulvia'. It was one of the largest

belonging to the Occidental Company. It carried no emigrants and had a

passenger list of fashionable folk. On the voyage out to Australia the

weather was pleasant, save in the Bay of Biscay; there was no sickness on

board, and there were many opportunities for social gaiety, the

cultivation of pleasant acquaintances, and the encouragement of that

brisk idleness which aids to health. This was really the first holiday in

my life, and I enjoyed it thoroughly. Nothing of unusual interest

occurred on the outward voyage; for one thing, because there were no

unusual people among the passengers; for another, because the vessel

behaved admirably. The same cannot be said of the return voyage: and with

it my story really begins. Misfortune followed us out of Sydney harbour.

We broke a crank-shaft between there and Port Phillip, Melbourne; a fire

in the hold occurred at Adelaide; and at Albany we buried a passenger who

had died of consumption one day out from King George's Sound. At Colombo,

also, we had a misfortune, but it was of a peculiar kind, and did not

obtrude itself at once; it was found in an addition to our passenger

list. I had spent a day in exploring Colombo--visiting Arabi Pasha,

inspecting Hindu temples, watching the jugglers and snake-charmers,

evading guides and the sellers of brummagem jewellery, and idling in the

Cinnamon Gardens. I returned to the ship tired out. After I had done some

official duties, I sauntered to the gangway, and, leaning against the

bulwarks, idly watched the passengers come on board from the tender. Two

of these made an impression on me. One was a handsome and

fashionably-dressed woman, who was followed by a maid or companion (as I

fancied), carrying parcels; the other, a shabbily-dressed man, who was

the last to come up from the tender. The woman was going down the

companion-way when he stepped on deck with a single bag in his hand, and

I noticed that he watched her with a strange look in his eyes. He stood

still as he gazed, and remained so for a moment after she had gone; then

he seemed to recover himself, and started, as I thought, almost guiltily,

when he saw that my attention was attracted. He nervously shifted his bag

from one hand to the other, and looked round as though not certain of

where he should go. A steward came to him officiously, and patronisingly

too,--which is the bearing of servants to shabbily-dressed people,--but

he shook his head, caught his bag smartly away from the steward's

fingers, and moved towards the after part of the ship, reserved for

intermediate passengers. As he went he hesitated, came to the side of the

vessel, looked down at the tender for a moment, cast his eyes to where

the anchor was being weighed, made as if he would go back to the tender,

then, seeing that the ladder was now drawn up, sighed, and passed on to

the second-class companion-way, through which he disappeared.

I stood commenting idly to myself upon this incident, which, slight

though it was, appeared to have significance of a kind, when Hungerford,

the fifth officer, caught me slyly by the arm and said, "Lucky fellow!

Nothing to do but watch the world go by. I wish I had you in the North

Atlantic on a whaler, or in the No Man's Sea on a pearl-smack for a

matter of thirty days."

"Which proves you to be demoralised. I never saw a surgeon on a ship who

wasn't. They began with mind--more or less--they ate the fruits of

indolence, got precious near being sinful as well as indolent, and ended

with cheap cynicism, with the old 'quid refert'--the thing Hamlet

plagiarised in his, 'But it is no matter.'"

"Swift-like, is it? You see, I've practised on many of your race,

Marmion, and I have it pat now. You are all of two classes--those who

sicken in soul and leave after one trip, and those who make another trip

and are lost."

Hungerford pressed his fingers hard on my breastbone, looked at me

enigmatically from under his well-hung brows, and replied: "Brains put

out to seed, morals put out to vegetate--that's 'lost.'"

"Fifth officers work like navvies, and haven't time for foolishness.

They've got to walk the bridge, and practise the boats, and be

responsible for luggage--and here I am talking to you like an infallible

undergraduate, while the lascars are in endless confusion with a

half-dozen pieces of baggage, and the first officer foams because I'm not

there to set them right. I leave you to your dreams. Good-bye."

Hungerford was younger than myself, but he knew the world, and I was

flattered by these uncommon remarks, because he talked to no one else on

the ship in the same way. He never sought to make friends, had a thorough

contempt for social trifling, and shrugged his shoulders at the "swagger"

of some of the other officers. I think he longed for a different kind of

sea-life, so accustomed had he been to adventurous and hardy ways. He had

entered the Occidental service because he had fallen in love with a

pretty girl, and thought it his duty to become a "regular," and thus have

the chance of seeing her every three months in London. He had conceived a

liking for me, reciprocated on my part; the more so, because I knew that

behind his blunt exterior there was a warm and manly heart. When he left

me I went to my cabin and prepared for dinner, laughing as I did so at

his keen, uncompromising criticism, which I knew was correct enough; for

of all official posts that of a ship-surgeon is least calculated to make

a man take a pride in existence. At its best, it is assisting in the

movement of a panorama; at its worst, worse than a vegetation.

Hungerford's solicitude for myself, however, was misplaced, because this

one voyage would end my career as ship-surgeon, and, besides, I had not

vegetated, but had been interested in everything that had occurred,

humdrum as it was. With these thoughts, I looked out of the port-hole, to

see the shores of Colombo, Galle Face, and Mount Lavinia fading in the

distance, and heard seven bells--the time for dinner. When I took my seat

at the table of which I was the head, my steward handed to me a slip of

paper, saying that the chief steward had given a new passenger, a lady,

the seat at my right hand, which had been vacated at Colombo. The name on

the paper was "Mrs. Falchion." The seat was still empty, and I wondered

if this was the beautiful passenger who had attracted me and interested

the Intermediate Passenger. I was selfish enough to wish so: and it was

so.

We had finished the soup before she entered. The chief steward, with that

anxious civility which beauty can inspire in even so great a personage,

conducted her to her seat beside me. I confess that though I was at once

absorbed in this occurrence, I noticed also that some of the ladies

present smiled significantly when they saw at whose table Mrs. Falchion

was placed, and looked not a little ironically at the purser, who, as it

was known, always tried to get for his table the newest addition to the

passenger list--when it was a pretty woman. I believe that one or two

rude people chaffed the chief steward about "favouring the doctor"; but

he had a habit of saying uncomfortable things in a deferential way, and

they did not pursue the subject. Then they commiserated the purser, who

was an unpleasant little Jew of an envious turn of mind; and he, as I was

told, likened me to Sir John Falstaff. I was sensitive in those days, and

this annoyed me, particularly that I had had nothing to do with placing

Mrs. Falchion at my table. We are always most sensitive when guilty

concerning the spirit and not the letter.

One who has lived the cosmopolitan life of London should be quick at

detecting nationalities, but I found it difficult, even after I heard her

speak, to guess at Mrs. Falchion's native land. There were good reasons

for this, as may be duly seen. Her appearance in the saloon caused an

instant buzz of admiration and interest, of which she seemed oblivious.

If it was acting, it was good acting; if it was lack of

self-consciousness, it was remarkable. As I soon came to know, it was the

latter--which, in such a woman, increased the remarkableness. I was

inclined at first to venture the opinion that she was an actress; but I

discovered that she possessed the attracting power of an actress without

the calculated manner of one; her very lack of self-consciousness was

proof of this emancipation.

When she sat down, I immediately welcomed her by name to my table. The

only surprise she showed at my knowledge of her name and my

self-introduction was to lift her head slightly and look at me, as if

wondering whether I was likely to be an inquisitive and troublesome host;

and also, as I thought, to measure me according to her measure. It was a

quick look, and the interest she showed was of a passive kind. She asked

me as she might an old acquaintance--or a waiter--if the soup was good,

and what the fish was like; decided on my recommendation to wait for the

entrees; requested her next neighbour to pass the olives; in an

impersonal way began to talk about the disadvantages of life at sea;

regretted that all ship food tasted alike; wondered if the cook knew how

to make a Russian salad; and added that the menu was a national

compromise.

Now that she was close to me, I could see that her beauty was real and

notable. Her features were regular, her eyes of a greyish violet, her

chin strong, yet not too strong--the chin of a singer; her hands had that

charming quiet certainty of movement possessed by so few; and her colour

was of the most delightful health. In this delightful health, in her

bountiful yet perfect physical eloquence, her attractiveness, as it

seemed to me, chiefly lay. For no one would ever have guessed her to

possess an emotional 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."]

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