“Auf wiedersehen,” he said. “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.”
Mr. Arcularis was finding it impossible, absolutely impossible, to keep warm. A cold fog surrounded the ship, had done so, it seemed, for days. The sun had all but disappeared, the transition from day to night was almost unnoticeable. The ship, too, seemed scarcely to be moving—it was as if anchored among walls of ice and rime. Monstrous that, merely because it was June, and supposed, therefore, to be warm, the ship’s authorities should consider it unnecessary to turn on the heat! By day, he wore his heavy coat and sat shivering in the corner of the smoking room. His teeth chattered, his hands were blue. By night, he heaped blankets on his bed, closed the porthole’s black eye against the sea, and drew the yellow curtains across it, but in vain. Somehow, despite everything, the fog crept in, and the icy fingers touched his throat. The steward, questioned about it, merely said, “Icebergs.” Of course—any fool knew that. But how long, in God’s name, was it going to last? They surely ought to be past the Grand Banks by this time! And surely it wasn’t necessary to sail to England by way of Greenland and Iceland!
Miss Dean—Clarice—was sympathetic.
“It’s simply because,” she said, “your vitality has been lowered by your illness. You can’t expect to be your normal self so soon after an operation! When was your operation, by the way?”
Mr. Arcularis considered. Strange—he couldn’t be quite sure. It was all a little vague—his sense of time had disappeared.
“Heavens knows!” he said. “Centuries ago. When I was a tadpole and you were a fish. I should think it must have been at about the time of the Battle of Teutoburg Forest. Or perhaps when I was a Neanderthal man with a club!”
“Are you sure it wasn’t farther back still?”
What did she mean by that?
“Not at all. Obviously, we’ve been on this damned ship for ages—for eras—for æons. And even on this ship, you must remember, I’ve had plenty of time, in my nocturnal wanderings, to go several times to Orion and back. I’m thinking, by the way, of going farther still. There’s a nice little star off to the left, as you round Betelgeuse, which looks as if it might be right at the edge. The last outpost of the finite. I think I’ll have a look at it and bring you back a frozen rime-feather.”
“It would melt when you got it back.”
“Oh, no, it wouldn’t—not on this ship!”
Clarice laughed.
“I wish I could go with you,” she said.
“If only you would! If only—”
He broke off his sentence and looked hard at her—how lovely she was, and how desirable! No such woman had ever before come into his life; there had been no one with whom he had at once felt so profound a sympathy and understanding. It was a miracle, simply—a miracle. No need to put his arm around her or to kiss her—delightful as such small vulgarities would be. He had only to look at her, and to feel, gazing into those extraordinary eyes, that she knew him, had always known him. It was as if, indeed, she might be his own soul.
But as he looked thus at her, reflecting, he noticed that she was frowning.
“What is it?” he said.
She shook her head, slowly.
“I don’t know.”
“Tell me.”
“Nothing. It just occurred to me that perhaps you weren’t looking quite so well.”
Mr. Arcularis was startled. He straightened himself up.
“What nonsense! Of course, this pain bothers me—and I feel astonishingly weak—”
“It’s more than that—much more than that. Something is worrying you horribly.” She paused, and then with an air of challenging him, added, “Tell me, did you—”
Her eyes were suddenly asking him blazingly the question he had been afraid of. He flinched, caught his breath, looked away. But it was no use, as he knew; he would have to tell her. He had known all along that he would have to tell her.
“Clarice,” he said—and his voice broke in spite of his effort to control it—“it’s killing me, it’s ghastly! Yes, I did.”
His eyes filled with tears, he saw that her own had done so also. She put her hand on his arm.
“I knew,” she said. “I knew. But tell me.”
“It’s happened twice again—twice—and each time I was farther away. The same dream of going round a star, the same terrible coldness and helplessness. That awful whistling curve.…” He shuddered.
“And when you woke up”—she spoke quietly—“where were you when you woke up? Don’t be afraid!”
“The first time I was at the farther end of the dining saloon. I had my hand on the door that leads into the pantry.”
“I see. Yes. And the next time?”
Mr. Arcularis wanted to close his eyes in terror—he felt as if he were going mad. His lips moved before he could speak, and when at last he did speak it was in a voice so low as to be almost a whisper.
“I was at the bottom of the stairway that leads down from the pantry to the hold, past the refrigerating plant. It was dark, and I was crawling on my hands and knees … crawling on my hands and knees! …”
“Oh!” she said, and again, “Oh!”
He began to tremble violently; he felt the hand on his arm trembling also. And then he watched a look of unmistakable horror come slowly into Clarice’s eyes, and a look of understanding, as if she saw.… She tightened her hold on his arm.
“Do you think.…” she whispered.
They stared at each other.
“I know,” he said. “And so do you.… Twice more—three times—and I’ll be looking down into an empty.…”
It was then that they first embraced—then, at the edge of the infinite, at the last signpost of the finite. They clung together desperately, forlornly, weeping as they kissed each other, staring hard one moment and closing their eyes the next. Passionately, passionately, she kissed him, as if she were indeed trying to give him her warmth, her life.
“But what nonsense!” she cried, leaning back, and holding his face between her hands, her hands which were wet with his tears. “What nonsense! It can’t be!”
“It is,” said Mr. Arcularis slowly.
“But how do you know?… How do you know where the—”
For the first time Mr. Arcularis smiled.
“Don’t be afraid, darling—you mean the coffin?”
“How could you know where it is?”
“I don’t need to,” said Mr. Arcularis.… “I’m already almost there.”
Before they separated for the night, in the smoking room, they had several whisky cocktails.
“We must make it gay!” Mr. Arcularis said. “Above all, we must make it gay. Perhaps even now it will turn out to be nothing but a nightmare from which both of us will wake! And even at the worst, at my present rate of travel, I ought to need two more nights! It’s a long way, still, to that little star.”
The parson passed them at the door.
“What! turning in so soon?” he said. “I was hoping for a game of chess.”
“Yes, both turning in. But tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow, then, Miss Dean! And good night!”
“Good night.”
They walked once round the deck, then leaned on the railing and stared into the fog. It was thicker and whiter than ever. The ship was moving barely perceptibly, the rhythm of the engines was slower, more subdued and remote, and at regular intervals, mournfully, came the long reverberating cry of the foghorn. The sea was calm, and lapped only very tenderly against the side of the ship, the sound coming up to them clearly, however, because of the profound stillness.
“‘On such a night as this—’” quoted Mr. Arcularis grimly.
“‘On such a night as this—’”