He was a wonderful man when all was said and done.  They said he had had a name in his day.  Mr. Sterne could well believe it; and he concluded serenely that Captain Whalley must be able to see people more or less —­as himself just now, for instance—­but not being certain of anybody, had to keep up that unnoticing silence of manner for fear of giving himself away.  Mr. Sterne was a shrewd guesser.

This necessity of every moment brought home to Captain Whalley’s heart the humiliation of his falsehood.  He had drifted into it from paternal love, from incredulity, from boundless trust in divine justice meted out to men’s feelings on this earth.  He would give his poor Ivy the benefit of another month’s work; perhaps the affliction was only temporary.  Surely God would not rob his child of his power to help, and cast him naked into a night without end.  He had caught at every hope; and when the evidence of his misfortune was stronger than hope, he tried not to believe the manifest thing.

In vain.  In the steadily darkening universe a sinister clearness fell upon his ideas.  In the illuminating moments of suffering he saw life, men, all things, the whole earth with all her burden of created nature, as he had never seen them before.

Sometimes he was seized with a sudden vertigo and an overwhelming terror; and then the image of his daughter appeared.  Her, too, he had never seen so clearly before.  Was it possible that he should ever be unable to do anything whatever for her?  Nothing.  And not see her any more?  Never.

Why?  The punishment was too great for a little presumption, for a little pride.  And at last he came to cling to his deception with a fierce determination to carry it out to the end, to save her money intact, and behold her once more with his own eyes.  Afterwards—­what?  The idea of suicide was revolting to the vigor of his manhood.  He had prayed for death till the prayers had stuck in his throat.  All the days of his life he had prayed for daily bread, and not to be led into temptation, in a childlike humility of spirit.  Did words mean anything?  Whence did the gift of speech come?  The violent beating of his heart reverberated in his head—­seemed to shake his brain to pieces.

He sat down heavily in the deck-chair to keep the pretense of his watch.  The night was dark.  All the nights were dark now.

“Serang,” he said, half aloud.

“Ada, Tuan.  I am here.”

“There are clouds on the sky?”

“There are, Tuan.”

“Let her be steered straight.  North.”

“She is going north, Tuan.”

The Serang stepped back.  Captain Whalley recognized Massy’s footfalls on the bridge.

The engineer walked over to port and returned, passing behind the chair several times.  Captain Whalley detected an unusual character as of prudent care in this prowling.  The near presence of that man brought with it always a recrudescence of moral suffering for Captain Whalley.  It was not remorse.  After all, he had done nothing but good to the poor devil.  There was also a sense of danger—­the necessity of a greater care.