ver the table, seemed to make the
whole house tremble to the roof-tree. And Mr. Van Wyk, whose feeling of
outraged love had been translated into a form of struggle with nature,
understood very well that, for that man whose whole life had been
conditioned by action, there could exist no other expression for all the
emotions; that, to voluntarily cease venturing, doing, enduring, for his
child's sake, would have been exactly like plucking his warm love for
her out of his living heart. Something too monstrous, too impossible,
even to conceive.

Captain Whalley had not changed his attitude, that seemed to express
something of shame, sorrow, and defiance.

"I have even deceived you. If it had not been for that word 'esteem.'
These are not the words for me. I would have lied to you. Haven't I
lied to you? Weren't you going to trust your property on board this very
trip?"

"I have a floating yearly policy," Mr. Van Wyk said almost unwittingly,
and was amazed at the sudden cropping up of a commercial detail.

"The ship is unseaworthy, I tell you. The policy would be invalid if it
were known . . ."

"We shall share the guilt, then."

"Nothing could make mine less," said Captain Whalley.

He had not dared to consult a doctor; the man would have perhaps asked
who he was, what he was doing; Massy might have heard something. He had
lived on without any help, human or divine. The very prayers stuck in
his throat. What was there to pray for? and death seemed as far as ever.
Once he got into his cabin he dared not come out again; when he sat down
he dared not get up; he dared not raise his eyes to anybody's face;
he felt reluctant to look upon the sea or up to the sky. The world was
fading before his great fear of giving himself away. The old ship was
his last friend; he was not afraid of her; he knew every inch of her
deck; but at her too he hardly dared to look, for fear of finding he
could see less than the day before. A great incertitude enveloped him.
The horizon was gone; the sky mingled darkly with the sea. Who was this
figure standing over yonder? what was this thing lying down there? And
a frightful doubt of the reality of what he could see made even the
remnant of sight that remained to him an added torment, a pitfall always
open for his miserable pretense. He was afraid to stumble inexcusably
over something--to say a fatal Yes or No to a question. The hand of God
was upon him, but it could not tear him away from his