Chapter Fifteen
Although temporarily lulled by this jovial dismissal of his scruples, Moray did not find Bert’s arguments altogether convincing or conclusive. He spent a troubled night and, awakening next morning still tense with indecision, decided he must at least go down to the ship and have a talk with Captain Torrance. It was only proper for him to enquire if Dr Collins might be an acceptable substitute, in the event . . . well, in the event that he was unable to make the return trip. The skipper was a sensible man whose advice was worth having; and besides, no one need know of his intention, the moment was favourable. Since Dorrie’s mother had pleaded fatigue, nothing definite had been arranged in the way of sightseeing, and he had no engagement with the Holbrooks until the evening, when he was to meet them for the gala dinner and dance which was a regular Saturday night feature at the North Eastern. He got up, shaved and dressed and took a taxi to Victoria Dock.
The sight of the Pindari, now almost clear of dunnage, solid and familiar, struck a note of reality that was reassuring, even comforting, suggestive that once on board he might be safe, even from himself. He hastened up the gangplank. But when he reached the chart-room deck both cabins were locked, the quartermaster on duty told him that neither the captain nor Mr O’Neil was aboard. Going below, he could find only the assistant purser, who explained that none of the senior officers would be back from leave until Sunday evening.
“The second mate’s on the dock if you want to see him.”
Moray shook his head, turned slowly away.
“By the by,” said the other, “there’s some mail for you.”
He went to his desk and fingered through a bundle of letters from which he handed over two. Moray, with a sudden constriction of his heart, recognised that one, rather thin, was from Willie, the other, thick and bulky, from Mary. He could not bring himself to open them. Later, he told himself. As he stepped off the ship to the dock, where the taxi still awaited him, he stuffed them into his inside pocket.
All that day Moray tried to summon up sufficient will, yet he could not bring himself to read the letters; the reproach of their pure and loving contents was more than he could face. And because he did not open them, because he feared them, he was no longer touched and contrite. Instead there crystallised in his mind an exasperation, almost a resentment, that they should have reached him at this crisis in his life. The letters, still sealed, swung him subconsciously towards Doris and all that the Holbrooks could offer him. Defensively, under the twin urges of money and sex, he set out to construct from his earliest beginnings a logical argument in his own favour: the loss of his parents, the unwanted child, the miseries of impoverished dependence, the superhuman efforts to get his medical degree. Surely he was due a rich reward, and now it was within his grasp. Could he be expected to throw it away, as though it were worthless?
True, there was Mary—he forced himself at least to think the name. But hadn’t he been rushed into that affair, carried away by his impulsive nature, inexperience, and the romantic background in which he had discovered her. She too, no doubt, had been swept off her feet by those same untrustworthy and transient influences. He didn’t want to hurt her or to leave her in the lurch, but he did owe something to himself. And who knew but what, later on, he might be able . . . well, to do something for her, to make up for his defection. He didn’t quite know what, but it was a comforting possibility. Young men made mistakes, repented of them, and made amends—were forgiven. Must he be the exception?
This was his frame of mind when, still uncertain and undecided, he went down somewhat broodingly at eight o’clock to join the Holbrooks in the restaurant. Clearly his mood was not keyed to enjoyment, yet it was amazing and in the circumstances doubtless commendable how, not to put a damper on the party, he cast aside his personal problems and reacted to the lively welcome of his friends. Bert especially was in tremendous form, and the moment he set eyes on Doris he knew that she was in one of her sultry, over-charged moods. She had prepared herself with thoroughness and was wearing a short, sleeveless white dress, cut low in the neckline and embroidered with little crystal beads. It looked what it was, a most expensive piece of flimsiness. It did a great deal for her, and she knew it.
The dinner, which was luscious and prolonged, proved a further reviving influence, and when, after the dessert—a delectable compote of pineapple and persimmons served with chapattis—coffee and cognac were brought, Moray saw what an idiot he had been to mope and worry all day. Now he hadn’t a care in the world. Presently they went into the ballroom where the old man had, as usual, done things in style. Champagne stood in an ice-pail beside their orchid-strewn table on the edge of the dance floor, facing the palm-fringed platform occupied by the scarlet-coated band.
“We like to see the young folks enjoying themselves, don’t we, Mother?” As they took their places Holbrook made the remark in a sentimental tone induced by several double brandies. “Couldn’t you have found yourself a nice partner too, Bert?”
“I would have, Dad, only I’m sorry I can’t stay long,” said Bert, with a wink to Moray. “Got to see a dog about a man.”
“Have a drop of bubbly before you go.”
The cork popped. They all had a glass of champagne. Then the lights were dimmed, the band struck up a waltz. Bert got to his feet with a theatrically formal bow to Dorrie that exposed and bisected his tight plump buttocks into two full moons,
“May I claim family privilege, and have the honour, Miss Holbrook?”
They danced this first dance in brother-and-sister fashion, then, after downing a second glass of champagne, Bert breezily consulted his watch.
“Good Lord, I must push off or that little poodle will be barking up the wrong tree. Be sure you all have a good time. Cheerio, chin-chin!”
“Don’t be too late, Bert dear,” remonstrated Mrs Holbrook. “You were last night.”
“Certainly not, Mater.” He bent and kissed her. “Only let’s face it, ducky, Bert’s a big boy now. See you bright and early in the morning.”
He’s off to the little Eurasian, thought Moray. The band struck up a snappy one-step. Mrs Holbrook glanced at Moray, then at Doris, not smiling this time but with serious meaning, as though to say: You two now, and while you’re about it make up your minds. Moray could not take the floor with confidence. Besides, he had sampled the cognac thoroughly after dinner, and it seemed to be going well with the champagne.
“If I may say so, my dears,” Mrs Holbrook commented, when they returned, “you make a very handsome couple.”
Holbrook, smiling indulgently, just a trifle fuzzy, poured them both another glass of champagne. Then they danced again. They danced every dance together, and it seemed as though each time his arm encircled her she drew closer to him, so that every movement of her body provoked an answering movement of his, until they moved as one in a corresponding rhythm that throbbed along his nerves. He could feel that she was wearing very few clothes. At first he had made pretence at a few remarks, commenting on the other dancers and on the band, which was first rate, but she silenced him with a pressure of her arm,