The Voyage Out
for they were all absorbed in looking at the storm. As the thunder
showed no signs of withdrawing, but seemed massed right overhead, while
the lightning aimed straight at the garden every time, an uneasy gloom
replaced the first excitement.
Finishing the meal very quickly, people congregated in the hall, where
they felt more secure than in any other place because they could
retreat far from the windows, and although they heard the thunder, they
could not see anything. A little boy was carried away sobbing in the
arms of his mother.
While the storm continued, no one seemed inclined to sit down, but they
collected in little groups under the central skylight, where they stood
in a yellow atmosphere, looking upwards. Now and again their faces
became white, as the lightning flashed, and finally a terrific crash
came, making the panes of the skylight lift at the joints.
“Ah!” several voices exclaimed at the same moment.
“Something struck,” said a man’s voice.
The rain rushed down. The rain seemed now to extinguish the lightning
and the thunder, and the hall became almost dark.
After a minute or two, when nothing was heard but the rattle of water
upon the glass, there was a perceptible slackening of the sound, and
then the atmosphere became lighter.
“It’s over,” said another voice.
At a touch, all the electric lights were turned on, and revealed a
crowd of people all standing, all looking with rather strained faces up
at the skylight, but when they saw each other in the artificial light
they turned at once and began to move away. For some minutes the rain
continued to rattle upon the skylight, and the thunder gave another
shake or two; but it was evident from the clearing of the darkness and
the light drumming of the rain upon the roof, that the great confused
ocean of air was travelling away from them, and passing high over head
with its clouds and its rods of fire, out to sea. The building, which
had seemed so small in the tumult of the storm, now became as square
and spacious as usual.
As the storm drew away, the people in the hall of the hotel sat down;
and with a comfortable sense of relief, began to tell each other
stories about great storms, and produced in many cases their
occupations for the evening. The chess-board was brought out, and Mr.
Elliot, who wore a stock instead of a collar as a sign of
convalescence, but was otherwise much as usual, challenged Mr. Pepper
to a final contest. Round them gathered a group of ladies with pieces
of needlework, or in default of needlework, with novels, to superintend
the game, much as if they were in charge of two small boys playing
marbles. Every now and then they looked at the board and made some
encouraging remark to the gentlemen.
Mrs. Paley just round the corner had her cards arranged in long ladders
before her, with Susan sitting near to sympathise but not to correct,
and the merchants and the miscellaneous people who had never been
discovered to possess names were stretched in their arm-chairs with
their newspapers on their knees. The conversation in these
circumstances was very gentle, fragmentary, and intermittent, but the
room was full of the indescribable stir of life. Every now and then the
moth, which was now grey of wing and shiny of thorax, whizzed over
their heads, and hit the lamps with a thud.
A young woman put down her needlework and exclaimed, “Poor creature! it
would be kinder to kill it.” But nobody seemed disposed to rouse
himself in order to kill the moth. They watched it dash from lamp to
lamp, because they were comfortable, and had nothing to do.
On the sofa, beside the chess-players, Mrs. Elliot was imparting a new
stitch in knitting to Mrs. Thornbury, so that their heads came very
near together, and were only to be distinguished by the old lace cap
which Mrs. Thornbury wore in the evening. Mrs. Elliot was an expert at
knitting, and disclaimed a compliment to that effect with evident
pride.
“I suppose we’re all proud of something,” she said, “and I’m proud of
my knitting. I think things like that run in families. We all knit
well. I had an uncle who knitted his own socks to the day of his
death—and he did it better than any of his daughters, dear old
gentleman. Now I wonder that you, Miss Allan, who use your eyes so
much, don’t take up knitting in the evenings. You’d find it such a
relief, I should say—such a rest to the eyes—and the bazaars are so
glad of things.” Her voice dropped into the smooth half-conscious tone
of the expert knitter; the words came gently one after another. “As
much as I do I can always dispose of, which is a comfort, for then I
feel that I am not wasting my time—”
Miss Allan, being thus addressed, shut her novel and observed the
others placidly for a time. At last she said, “It is surely not natural
to leave your wife because she happens to be in love with you. But
that—as far as I can make out—is what the gentleman in my story does.”
“Tut, tut, that doesn’t sound good—no, that doesn’t sound at all
natural,” murmured the knitters in their absorbed voices.
“Still, it’s the kind of book people call very clever,” Miss Allan
added.
“_Maternity_—by Michael Jessop—I presume,” Mr. Elliot put in, for he
could never resist the temptation of talking while he played chess.
“D’you know,” said Mrs. Elliot, after a moment, “I don’t think people
_do_ write good novels now—not as good as they used to, anyhow.”
No one took the trouble to agree with her or to disagree with her.
Arthur Venning who was strolling about, sometimes looking at the game,
sometimes reading a page of a magazine, looked at Miss Allan, who was
half asleep, and said humorously, “A penny for your thoughts, Miss
Allan.”
The others looked up. They were glad that he had not spoken to them.
But Miss Allan replied without any hesitation, “I was thinking of my
imaginary uncle. Hasn’t every one got an imaginary uncle?” she
continued. “I have one—a most delightful old gentleman. He’s always
giving me things. Sometimes it’s a gold watch; sometimes it’s a
carriage and pair; sometimes it’s a beautiful little cottage in the New
Forest; sometimes it’s a ticket to the place I most want to see.”
She set them all thinking vaguely of the things they wanted. Mrs.
Elliot knew exactly what she wanted; she wanted a child; and the usual
little pucker deepened on her brow.
“We’re such lucky people,” she said, looking at her husband. “We really
have no wants.” She was apt to say this, partly in order to convince
herself, and partly in order to convince other people. But she was
prevented from wondering how far she carried conviction by the entrance
of Mr. and Mrs. Flushing, who came through the hall and stopped by the
chess-board. Mrs. Flushing looked wilder than ever. A great strand of
black hair looped down across her brow, her cheeks were whipped a dark
blood red, and drops of rain made wet marks upon them.
Mr. Flushing explained that they had been on the roof watching the
storm.
“It was a wonderful sight,” he said. “The lightning went right out over
the sea, and lit up the waves and the ships far away. You can’t think
how wonderful the mountains looked too, with the lights on them, and
the great masses of shadow. It’s all over now.”
He slid down into a chair, becoming interested in the final struggle of
the game.
“And you go back to-morrow?” said Mrs. Thornbury, looking at Mrs.
Flushing.
“Yes,” she replied.
“And indeed one is not sorry to go back,” said Mrs. Elliot, assuming an
air of mournful anxiety, “after all this illness.”
“Are you afraid of dyin’?” Mrs. Flushing demanded scornfully.
“I think we are all afraid of that,” said Mrs. Elliot with dignity.
“I suppose we’re all cowards when it comes to the point,” said Mrs.
Flushing, rubbing her cheek against the back of the chair. “I’m sure I
am.”
“Not a bit of it!” said Mr. Flushing, turning round, for Mr. Pepper
took a very long time to consider his move. “It’s not cowardly to wish
to live, Alice. It’s the very reverse of cowardly. Personally, I’d like
to go on for a hundred years—granted, of course, that I had the full
use of my faculties. Think of all the things that are bound to happen!”
“That is what I feel,” Mrs. Thornbury rejoined. “The changes, the
improvements, the inventions—and beauty. D’you know I feel sometimes
that I couldn’t bear to die and cease to see beautiful things about
me?”
“It would certainly be very dull to die before they have discovered
whether there is life in Mars,” Miss Allan added.
“Do you really believe there’s life in Mars?” asked Mrs. Flushing,
turning to her for the first time with keen interest. “Who tells you
that? Some one who knows? D’you know a man called—?”
Here Mrs. Thornbury laid down her knitting, and a look of extreme
solicitude came into her eyes.
“There is Mr. Hirst,” she said quietly.
St. John had just come through the swing door. He was rather blown
about by the wind, and his cheeks looked terribly pale, unshorn, and
cavernous. After taking off his coat he was going to pass straight
through the hall and up to his room, but he could not ignore the
presence of so many people he knew, especially as Mrs. Thornbury rose
and went up to him, holding out her hand. But the shock of the warm
lamp-lit room, together with the sight of so many cheerful human beings
sitting together at their ease, after the dark walk in the rain, and
the long days of strain and horror, overcame him completely. He looked
at Mrs. Thornbury and could not speak.
Every one was silent. Mr. Pepper’s hand stayed upon his Knight. Mrs.
Thornbury somehow moved him to a chair, sat herself beside him, and
with tears in her own eyes said gently, “You have done everything for
your friend.”
Her action set them all talking again as if they had never stopped, and
Mr. Pepper finished the move with his Knight.
“There was nothing to be done,” said St. John. He spoke very slowly.
“It seems impossible—”
He drew his hand across his eyes as if some dream came between him and
the others and prevented him from seeing where he was.
“And that poor fellow,” said Mrs. Thornbury, the tears falling again
down her cheeks.
“Impossible,” St. John repeated.
“Did he have the consolation of knowing—?” Mrs. Thornbury began very
tentatively.
But St. John made no reply. He lay back in his chair, half-seeing the
others, half-hearing what they said. He was terribly tired, and the
light and warmth, the movements of the hands, and the soft
communicative voices soothed him; they gave him a strange sense of
quiet and relief. As he sat there, motionless, this feeling of relief
became a feeling of profound happiness. Without any sense of disloyalty
to Terence and Rachel he ceased to think about either of them. The
movements and the voices seemed to draw together from different parts
of the room, and to combine themselves into a pattern before his eyes;
he was content to sit silently watching the pattern build itself up,
looking at what he hardly saw.
The game was really a good one, and Mr. Pepper and Mr. Elliot were
becoming more and more set upon the struggle. Mrs. Thornbury, seeing
that St. John did not wish to talk, resumed her knitting.
“Lightning again!” Mrs. Flushing suddenly exclaimed. A yellow light
flashed across the blue window, and for a second they saw the green
trees outside. She strode to the door, pushed it open, and stood half
out in the open air.
But the light was only the reflection of the storm which was over. The
rain had ceased, the heavy clouds were blown away, and the air was thin
and clear, although vapourish mists were being driven swiftly across
the moon. The sky was once more a deep and solemn blue, and the shape
of the earth was visible at the bottom of the air, enormous, dark, and