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  The Captain released a thankful sigh.

  “I’m sorry I was unable to see you during the last trip,” Mr. Simpson went on. “I spent most of my time below. A lovely voyage, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, lovely,” said the Captain. “The loveliest voyage,” he confided, with a chuckle, “that I have ever made.”

  Mr. Simpson laughed appreciatively, and from then on the

  Captain sailed on only one ship. He did not make every voyage—sometimes the weather was inclement and occasionally a prior commitment to Dr. Berensen confined him to the house— but whenever he did sail it was with Mr. Simpson as his first mate. A close friendship grew between them. Often he thought of inviting him to the house, but Neil, he knew, would dislike him.

  “What’s so wonderful about him?” Neil had challenged one day. “Oh, go right on talking about him if it makes you happy, but try to remember that he’s only a sailor, that’s all, a sailor.”

  Mr. Simpson, on the other hand, was always eager to hear about Neil, or about any other subject of which the Captain spoke. He listened to everything with a smile that was always a bit sad, his brown eyes troubled usually with vague flutters of melancholy.

  One day he unexpectedly conducted the Captain to his quarters, an experience which thrilled the Captain so, his legs trembled as they walked there. Small bookcases, their shelves full, were set back in the recesses of the square, compact room. Volumes on navigation and engineering were outnumbered by books of plays and poems and by works of philosophy, history, and psychology. There was a collection of sermons by a man named Donne, and several volumes with such inscrutable titles as The Meaning of Meaning and The Allegory of Love. Both portholes were open, fastened back by sturdy metal hooks, and twin shafts of light converged diagonally through the room. Mr. Simpson stooped over a foot locker and emerged with glasses and a bottle of good brandy.

  “These books,” asked the Captain, with a certain, conscious naïveté. “Do you use them all for your work?”

  Mr. Simpson smiled and shook his head. “Most of them are things I’ve held on to. I was going to college when the war came.”

  “And you never went back?”

  “It seemed so pointless,” Mr. Simpson said. “So out of date. The noise of machines used to fill the library and distract me.”

  The Captain nodded sympathetically.

  “And it’s so senseless to make plans,” Mr. Simpson went on, with an abrupt touch of bitterness. “We’re in the hands of something big. Something sweeps us along, makes us limp along in step, and we can only wriggle our hips a bit from side to side. I get furious as I see my time being wasted. There’s nothing I’m incapable of. I can do anything, anything at all, just to prove that I’ve a will of my own.”

  Mr. Simpson seemed really incensed now, and the Captain sat before him in wonder and awe. Suddenly the mood was shattered by three deafening blasts from the smokestack overhead. Mr. Simpson glanced at his watch and rose with a harsh, erratic laugh.

  “My God! It’s late. We’ll have to hurry.”

  The Captain, responding with alarm to the distress signal, rushed out behind him. He attained the gangplank with only a minute to spare, but his relief was only momentary and melted into regret when, safe and breathless on the pier, he yearningly contemplated the many enviable embarrassments which could have been his had he delayed but a few minutes longer.

  It was not until after Cynthia’s recovery that the Captain saw Mr. Simpson again.

  Cynthia came home with Neil one afternoon, tottering weakly against him, her face drawn and bloodless, her eyes dry and burning with a dim, sunken fire. A low moan escaped her.

  “She had a fainting spell in my office,” Neil explained to the Captain, after he had installed her in the bedroom and returned downstairs.

  “We’d better get the doctor.”

  “I had one come to the office. He says it’s nothing to worry

  about, just—nervous exhaustion.” Neil spoke without conviction and produced a grotesque effect when he tried to smile.

  There were just the two of them. Nevil was away at military school, and only that very morning Nan had been dispatched unwillingly for a weekend in Connecticut with Neil’s parents. Neil went upstairs at regular intervals and returned each time to report that Cynthia was sleeping. A vacant, unearthly stillness filled the house. At dinner there were the tiny bangs of the utensils and the rustling motion of the maid, but the silence was heavier than ever when she had gone, and the place seemed empty and strange, a weird mansion of numberless dark and un-approachable rooms.

  Soon Neil journeyed upstairs again. He came stumbling back excitedly.

  “She’s very sick! She wants Dr. Berensen!”

  “You’d better call him.”

  “I—I wish you would. He’d come quicker if you did.”

  Dr. Berensen remained with Cynthia a long time. The Captain waited grimly. Neil kept drifting restlessly from room to room, suffering silently in a kind of gloomy and useless desolation. At last Dr. Berensen emerged, moving rapidly with a stern, professional determination.

  “How is she, Henry? Is she all right?”

  Dr. Berensen brushed by without a word and strode to the telephone. The Captain was incredulous as he arranged for a nurse to be sent immediately.

  “Henry, what’s wrong? Is she very ill?”

  “I have to get back,” Dr. Berensen snapped.

  For a moment the Captain was stunned. Then he rushed after him and seized his arm. “What is it, Henry? God damn it! Tell me what’s wrong!”

  Dr. Berensen softened in the Captain’s grasp.

  “She’s very sick, Andrew. She may have to go to the hospital.”

  “Hospital?” the Captain echoed with dismay. “But what’s wrong with her?”

  “She has a bad infection,” Dr. Berensen said. “A kind of poisoning of the blood.”

  The Captain turned from him dejectedly and moved into the depths of the living room. A second later Neil drifted from the darkness and paused haltingly in the doorway. The fingers of his large hands worked in salientian spasms.

  “Did he tell you?”

  The Captain nodded.

  Neil took another step forward. “I want you to know,” he said, “that it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t care about it one way or the other.”

  The Captain gazed at him with dull, unresponsive eyes.

  “I can see you don’t believe me,” Neil went on abjectly. “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter. But it was Cynthia’s idea. She wanted it.” He broke off sharply. “What did Dr. Berensen tell you?” he demanded.

  The Captain turned from him and stared down glumly at the red carpet. “He told me that Cynthia is very ill,” he said tonelessly, “that she may have to go to the hospital.”

  “Oh.” Neil groaned and murmured something inaudible, then drifted back and slipped soundlessly away.

  It was almost midnight when Dr. Berensen, at last ready to depart, told the Captain that Cynthia was waiting to see him.

  “Henry!”

  “Go on up, Andrew, I’ll do all I can.”

  In Cynthia’s room everything was still. The nurse, a woman of Cynthia’s years with strong eyes and clear, hardened features, sat soundlessly in a corner. Cynthia gazed upward with a distant stare. The veins of her hands were a vivid, glistening blue, and her brittle fingers lay motionless before her like fallen soldiers.

  “Tell her to go out,” she said weakly.

  The nurse rose, but the Captain restrained her.

  “It isn’t necessary for you to talk.”

  “I want to talk. Oh, Daddy, Daddy! I’ve made you so miserable. I’ve made such a mess of everything, such a rotten mess!”

  The Captain placed his hand over her mouth and forced her gently back to the pillow. “Please try to rest, my dear. You haven’t made me miserable, and there is nothing I want you to explain. You must get well, Cynthia. That’s all that matters to me now.”

  Slowly she began to cry. O
nce before the Captain had watched a woman weep. That was when his own wife had revealed that she must soon undergo surgery. She had carried the knowledge in silence until she could no longer bear it alone, and one evening all her aching fear and misery came gushing out violently. Time had dimmed the vision, but it came back to him now in frightening detail, and he caught a ruthless glimpse of the moment through the yellowed, vacillating shadows of the past. Cynthia cried a long while, without sound or motion, and her face was like a weeping stone beneath the Captain’s comforting hand. Finally the tears stopped, and she smiled up at him with a deep and wistful affection.

  “My daddy,” she murmured, with loving pride. “My daddy.”

  There were three days of doubt, three days in which the fear of death haunted each trudging moment, and then the fever broke. She wanted the Captain with her always, was unwilling to spare him for even a moment. For Neil she had absolutely no use. When she was well enough, she took the Captain with her to a small farmhouse in Vermont. It was May and they were the only guests, and for a while it was all very pleasant. But she regained strength rapidly and grew restless, and after a week she transferred them both to a livelier and more popular resort nearer New York. This was no haven for the Captain, and he waited only until she was safely settled before he came to her with a lie.

  “It’s that infernal estate again. I must return at once.”

  Cynthia made no attempt to dissuade him. “Tell Neil to come up,” she said, with a slight whine. “Tell him to come right away. I’m really not well enough to be left alone.”

  Six weeks on land were more than enough for the Captain, and he was glad to get back to sea.

  “Did you enjoy your leave?” was Mr. Simpson’s casual greeting when the Captain finally showed himself on deck.

  “No, not really,” the Captain admitted, as he advanced slowly to the rail. “My daughter was ill.”

  “She’s all right now, I hope.”

  “Yes,” said the Captain cheerlessly. “As good as ever.”

  Mr. Simpson studied him a moment and turned away. A gray launch cut deftly through the water with a lonely roar. The small waves it raised came billowing in lazily against the pilings and washed back in a greasy froth. It was a dreary, depressing day; a brooding silence filled the air.

  “We have some time,” Mr. Simpson suggested suddenly. “How would you like to inspect the engine room?”

  The Captain whirled disbelievingly.

  Mr. Simpson laughed and guided him through a door, and suddenly they were spiraling down through a glittering array of valves and instruments, grotesque metal fittings, and unending planes of giant rivet heads. Men of flowing brawn labored everywhere, and the Captain noted the deference with which they regarded him. Down they went to the very bottom, where a huge, powerful shaft glistened in golden oil amid a queer, clacking battery of gears and pistons. From every side came the resonant harmony of clinking iron and hissing steam. There the Captain was introduced to Mr. Henslowe, another officer.

  “I’m very pleased to know you, Captain,” Mr. Henslowe said. “I hope you like our ship.”

  The Captain was far too excited to reply. He did not dare tamper with anything, but every second convinced him that he had never in his life known such intense joy.

  That was the grandest of the Captain’s adventures, a fitting climax, as it proved, for soon after he was to sail on his last voyage.

  It was but a few weeks later that Ralph Paterson came unexpectedly to the house, bringing with him his recent bride, a fair young girl less than half his age. The Captain was caught by their sudden arrival, and he planned to excuse himself after a decent interval, but he noticed how the new Mrs. Paterson was excluded from the group and sat ill at ease. He engaged her gently in conversation, and she responded gratefully. She was soon absorbed in his descriptions of foreign places. They were proceeding splendidly when Ralph Paterson swung his attention upon them.

  “What’s that?” he asked, in his gruff voice. “What’s that about Genoa?”

  “I was telling Mrs. Paterson,” replied the Captain, “that she must certainly see the Blue Grotto if ever she goes abroad.”

  “Well, she’s not going abroad,” Mr. Paterson asserted rather harshly, and then uttered a sharp laugh. “We’ve only just gotten together and now you’re trying to send her away. Anyway, it’s not in Genoa. It’s on Capri.”

  “No, no,” the Captain disagreed amiably. “I remember it distinctly. There are some lovely places on Capri, but the Blue Grotto is in Genoa.”

  “I don’t care what you remember.” Mr. Paterson turned to look him squarely in the face. “It’s on Capri whether you remember it or not.”

  The Captain smiled pleasantly and shook his head. “I really don’t think so. Possibly you’re—”

  His voice trailed away as be took note of Mr. Paterson’s belligerent indignation and grew aware suddenly of the tense quiet in the room. Cynthia was glaring at him fiercely, and Neil gaped with pale astonishment. The situation came abruptly into focus, and he hastened to make amends.

  “Perhaps you are right. Yes, I must be mistaken.”

  “I know damn well I’m right,” Mr. Paterson said angrily.

  “Yes, yes, of course. I was—a bit confused. Will you please excuse me? There are—are some things I must attend to.”

  There was not the slightest sound as the Captain walked un-steadily from the room and made his way upstairs, where he sat down limply on the edge of his bed. He was still sitting there when Cynthia entered without knocking. She closed the door carefully and confronted him with a face that was all bone and tight skin.

  “You fool!” she exclaimed furiously. “You stupid, stupid fool!”

  “But I was right, Cynthia. It is in Genoa.”

  “I don’t care where it is! You and your damn lies about your trips to Europe and your precious Mr. Simpson and his engine room. And tonight of all times! Are you insane?”

  “They aren’t lies,” protested the Captain.

  “They are lies! How would you know where anything is? You’ve only taken one trip in your life and that on the dirty old steamer that brought you here. A lot of traveling you’ve done! That’s the truth, isn’t it?”

  “But it is in Genoa, Cynthia. I swear it is.”

  “Answer me! They are lies, aren’t they?” Her face blazed wildly as she took a menacing step toward him. “Aren’t they?”

  “Yes,” the Captain whispered, and his voice covered a sob. “Yes, they are lies.”

  Cynthia stepped back and surveyed him with grim scornful satisfaction. “Well, we’re sick of hearing them. Do you understand? There’s not to be another word about them. Not another word.”

  The Captain began trembling as soon as she had gone, trembling in every part with an increasing violence that thundered dreadfully through his soul. Only when he remembered his experience in the engine room, the men watching him with respect

  and Mr. Henslowe asking his opinion, did he begin to grow calm.

  In the morning he could not bring himself to move. He gave no reply when a timid knock sounded on the door and was repeated. Finally Cynthia entered. Her eyes were hollow and moist. The Captain stared down at his chest.

  “Are you feeling all right, Daddy?” she inquired in a tremulous, low voice.

  The Captain nodded.

  “You didn’t come down for breakfast. I thought maybe you were sick when you didn’t come down.”

  The Captain shook his head.

  “Shall I bring you anything?” she offered hopefully. “Some orange juice and cereal? I’ll bring it if you want me to.”

  Again he shook his head.

  Cynthia waited yearningly, held back by a last shred of pride that begged only the tiniest payment for submission. The Captain gave no sign.

  “Please come down, Daddy,” she said, as she sadly prepared to go. “I’ll worry about you if you stay up all day.”

  “All right,” said the Captain. “I’ll come down.”<
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  A dismal mood filled the house during the next few days as the Captain resisted all attempts at a tacit reconciliation. They were ready to forgive, but he was not. He found no pleasure in their unhappiness. He himself was deeply distressed, but some obdurate resolution would not let him yield, and he was sustained only by the thought he would soon be sailing again with Mr. Simpson. The only comfort came from Nan. She approached him one day when he was alone and kissed him softly on the forehead.

  “Poor Grandpa,” she murmured, as though musing aloud. “You used to come to me when I had nightmares. I still have them, you know.”

  “I’m afraid there’s no longer anything I can do,” said the Captain, patting her hand gratefully.

  The Captain left for his next voyage in total secrecy and arrived at the ship much too early to find Mr. Simpson. Coming aboard was like stepping from some mephitic cavern into the blowing, warm fragrance of day. Everything seemed unusually beautiful; even the gulls—ugly, avaricious things, he had always thought them—gleamed with an unnaturally white brilliance. The Captain grew bold in his elation, and he strode up to another officer and inquired for Mr. Simpson. His manner must have been abrupt, for the officer regarded him with surprise.

  “It’s really very important.”

  The officer smiled. “Of course. Please come this way.”

  “If you would just tell him I am waiting.”

  “It’s perfectly all right,” the officer assured him. “Come right along.”

  He led the Captain to an empty cabin where he took his name and politely requested him to wait. The Captain was sorry now that he had acted so impulsively. The din of voices drifted from the deck below, distant and unreal, like the beach noises of a sultry summer’s day. He grew more uncomfortable as he waited, and suddenly an airy sensation of dizziness came over him and everything began to seem unreal.

  At last there were footsteps in the corridor. He stood up with relief when the door opened; then stared stupefied as four men entered the room. There were two officers, the one he had first addressed and another with a flowering opulence of gold braid, and two men in topcoats, one somewhat stout, the other with a sharp, red face. The Captain was alarmed.