Maiden Voyage

THIRTY-SIX

Dinner, because of the storm, had been put back to nine o'clock. In his cabin, Rudyard Philips was unhappily dressing in front of his mirror, reasonably sure that his support of Sir Peregrine had assured his release from arrest, but also sure that neither Ralph Peel nor Louise Narron would ever speak to him again.

Like the well-intentioned brother in the Grimm's fairy story who had mistakenly taken the left-hand fork in the road which led through the enchanted forest, Rudyard felt as if everything he had said and done since Toy had left him had been perplexingly and paradoxically wrong. He knew that he should have stood by Ralph, and denounced Sir Peregrine's navigation through the storm. He knew that he should have seized the wheel, and proved himself a hero to Louise. But he also knew that Sir Peregrine, no matter how drunk he had been, had probably been steering the right course, and the fact that the Arcadia had weathered the waves with nothing more than superficial damage to her foredeck had proved the old soak to be right.

The ironic part about it was that Rudyard would receive no commendations from Sir Peregrine to compensate him for losing Ralph Peel's comradeship and Louise Narron's affection. He had, after all, been showing no more loyalty than the commodore would normally have expected of him. He only hoped he was right in assuming that Sir Peregrine would allow him to leave his cabin, and attend dinner.

Well, he thought, tying up his bow-tie and staring at himself in the looking-glass, he would never see Louise again once this voyage was over. Nor would he be likely to serve with Ralph Peel any more. The Aurora would be out of dry-dock by the time he returned to Liverpool, and he would have his usual command back.

Perhaps he should reconcile himself to the fact that he was always going to be second best—that he could never have what he really wanted, whether it was a ship or a woman. Perhaps if he lowered his sights, and lived out his life as good old dependable Rudyard Philips, then all these vicious conflicts of loyalty would come to an end. He was lucky to have the Aurora, wasn't he? And there was never any shortage of eligible young women on board ship. He would find somebody some day. Somebody plain, and likeable.

There was a knock at his cabin door. He took a cigarette out of his cigarette-case, and said, "Come in." It was a messenger boy with an envelope, ship's stationery, with his name, "Mr. R. Philips," written on the front in oblique blue handwriting. He tipped the boy sixpence and tore the letter open with his thumb.

It read, "My darling Ruddy... I have been visited by your brother officer Mr. Peel who told me everything that happened on the bridge. He told me that you had no choice, and that I should not feel badly about you, because he himself bears no grudge, and would have done the same in your dilemma as you did. In any case I think you have shown me that no woman can live her life alone, according to her own rules and nobody else's... You are a gentle man whose simple affection and constant honour are an example to me. I was prepared to think only the worst of you, because I had been so badly hurt by my previous affair; when I should only have been thinking the best. Forgive me, Louise."

Rudyard laid the letter carefully on the edge of his bureau, and lit his cigarette. He watched the letter through narrowed eyes as he smoked, as if he wanted to make sure that it was real, and that it wasn't going to burst into flames, or shrink away to ashes.

Then he found that he had to clear his throat and press his eyes with the tips of his fingers, because he was crying.