Read Online To the Ends of the Earth by William Golding - Free Book Online Page B

the French, who were quite beat down at this juncture ; but the mere mention of the French was enough to set her off and we had another description of her trembling away the hours of darkness in her cabin. We were a single ship. We were, as she said in thrilling accents,
          “— alone, alone,
    All, all alone,
    Alone on a wide, wide sea! ”
    Anything more crowded than the teeming confines of this ship is not to be found, I believe, outside a debtor’s gaol or a prison hulk. But yes she had met Mr Coleridge. Mr Brocklebank—pa—had painted his portrait and there had been talk of an illustrated volume but it came to nothing.
    At about this point, Mr Brocklebank, having presumably caught his daughter’s recitation, could be heard booming on metrically. It was more of the poem. I suppose he knew it well if he had intended to illustrate it. Then he and the philosopher set to again. Suddenly the whole saloon was silent and listening to them.
    “No, sir, I would not,” boomed the painter. “Not in any circumstances!”
    “Then refrain from eating chicken, sir, or any other fowl!”
    “No sir!”
    “Refrain from eating that portion of cow before you! There are ten millions of Brahmans in the East who would cut your throat for eating it!”
    “There are no Brahmans in this ship.”
    “Integrity—”
    “Once and for all, sir, I would not shoot an albatross. I am a peaceable person, Mr Prettiman, and I would shoot you with as much pleasure!”
    “Have you a gun, sir? For I will shoot an albatross, sir, and the sailors shall see what befalls—”
    “I have a gun, sir, though I have never fired it. Are you a marksman, sir?”
    “I have never fired a shot in my life!”
    “Permit me then, sir. I have the weapon. You may use it.”
    “You, sir?”
    “I, sir!”
    Mr Prettiman bounced up into full view again. His eyes had a kind of icy brilliance about them.
    “Thank you, sir, I will, sir, and you shall see, sir! And the common sailors shall see, sir—”
    He got himself over the bench on which he had been sitting, then fairly rushed out of the saloon. There was some laughter and conversation resumed but at a lower level. Miss Zenobia turned to me.
    “Pa is determined we shall be protected in the Antipodes!”
    “He does not propose going among the natives, surely!”
    “He has some thought of introducing the art of portraiture among them. He thinks it will lead to complacency among them which he says is next door to civilization. He owns, though, that a black face will present a special kind of difficulty.”
    “It would be dangerous, I think. Nor would the governor allow it.”
    “But Mr Brocklebank—pa—believes he may persuade the governor to employ him.”
    “Good God! I am not the governor, but—dear lady, think of the danger!”
    “If clergymen may go—”
    “Oh yes, where is he?”
    Deverel touched my arm.
    “The parson keeps his cabin. We shall see little of him, I think, and thank God and the captain for that. I do not miss him, nor do you I imagine.”
    I had momentarily forgotten Deverel, let alone the parson . I now endeavoured to draw him into the conversation but he stood up and spoke with a certain meaning.
    “I go on watch. But you and Miss Brocklebank, I have no doubt, will be able to entertain each other.”
    He bowed to the lady and went off. I turned to her again and found her to be thoughtful. Not I mean that she was solemn—no, indeed! But beyond the artificial animation of her countenance there was some expression with which I confess I was not familiar. It was—do you not remember advising me to read faces?—it was a directed stillness of the orbs and eyelids as if while the outer woman was employing the common wiles and archnesses of her sex, beyond them was a different and watchful person ! Was it Deverel’s remark about entertainment that had made the difference? What was—what is—she thinking ? Does she meditate an affaire du coeur as I am sure she would call