Chapter XXVI

CHAPTER XXV] AT Marta's table, on the boat, there were three other women and a man; the latter correspondingly de pressed, in proportion to the square of the numbers. Marta could not retain from one meal to another the names of these fortuitous companions. The man him self she feared she would never be able to obliterate from her mind, not as a name or a face, but by reason of his occupation. He collected testimonials for a patent mattress. His mission abroad was to persuade a heavy-weight champion then honeymooning in Europe to join this chorus of commendation. He had been unsuccessful, and obviously was pondering wherein he had erred. Of the women, two were suburban matrons, the third inevitably academic, all in quest of culture. They exchanged views on Westminster Abbey, and the perversity of the French, who are in the habit of drink ing wine daily without moral and physical disintegra tion. This was the fourth day out. Leaping over board in mid-ocean was perhaps too drastic a remedy.

Marta muttered ((Damnation," and pressed her napkin 330 N EVE R ASK THE END to her lips. The nearest matron appeared pained. . "There is flour in the spinach," Marta felt obliged to explain.. The English, she reflected) exhibit super human ingenuity in making food revolting. She ex cused herself and wandered below. She had stayed in Paris a week after Russ left. Jane amiably included her in various gaieties. Several other acquaintances discovered themselves. A note from Freddy Riggs she left unanswered, for no particular reason; it would be all right with Freddy. There was no occasion to sit upon the ground and make some pretty match with shedding tears. The sea is melan choly. She had spent most of the four days in her cabin. It was an odd single cabin, furnished to suggest "the maid's room,') probably not designed for pas senger acccommodation but allotted to her by a purser who recognized desperation at sight. • • • The sea is melancholy because its motion is incessant, wave after wave in endless succession, like the stream of traffic at the Gare de Lyons ..••Marta worked for an hour steadily, wrote a letter to Pauline, and picked up a book.

It couldn't last, she thought. Nothing lasts. Or is there something? There must be, or what should the three of us, so tired and spent, have had to offer.... At intervals the ship's orchestra was audible, playing on the promenade deck.••.To be always young, and light-footed, and in love. But we were none of those N E V .E R ASK THE END 331 things, yet we valued each other. We were glad of each other ••..She read: But what Mve t.he gods to do witb such complainers? They love the beautiful, the hard and thfJ proud Only these can 'lJ)Qken them trom the night. Yet when the gods no longer care, we still do. So we have that of our own, beyond their gift, of which they cannot deprive us. Which they envy us . . . From the deep level of consciousness another thought strove to take form, hovered like a cloud. 'She put out the light, which distracted her. She would switch it on again presently and read awhile longer.

In the half-light which remained two memories inter vened. . . . She had sat down on the floor by the bed head to bid Russ goodnight, saying: Go to sleep.. She did not need to see to become aware that he smiled: You've got a funny idea of what will put a man to sleep. But she had done no more than kiss him gently; therefore she must alwaysremember him saying that.... Later, in the night, she had heard him sigh and turn over, without waking. His arms ached.... He said he did not forget his friends. He was sure he would see them again. • • • What had she been about to think through? • . . The waves broke with a rhythmic susurrus against the steel sides of the ship; she heard footsteps, cabin doors opening and shutting. A tag of music floated down ward. She wasn't asleep, for she heard a steward 332 N EVE R ASK THE END closing the port at the end of the corridor) and she knew where she was.

But Russ was there. too; he held her close a·nd kissed her twice. His mouth was warm, and his heart beat strongly against hers, the spirit acknowledging sweetly its debt to the body for having served its joy•.•. For the last time . . • "Oh," she cried, "he didn't want to die." The words echoed in her inward ear, as though she had spoken aloud, while she knew she had not. She must have dreamed it. Why did she say that? No, no, no.•.•But she knew••••In the stillness, her inward voice said again sorrowfully: Honey, you're in luck. You'!l miss a lot of trouble • . . Strange she should be the one to tell him. . . . But he knows that. He's telling me •••Oh, brave! He knows it, and he didn't want to die. 'We had a good life. We would do it allover again) and hope to do better.