CHAPTER II
Macrae's Forebodings Realized
A MONTH passed, during which Captain Evered's forebodings as to the lack of sympathy between Wilson and Macrae were thoroughly realised. Upon Macrae, who had been accustomed from his childhood to solitude, the effect was not marked; but with Lieutenant Wilson it was different. He grew irritable, unreasonable, and almost morose. His victim was the Chinaman, Ling, upon whom he seemed to take a savage pleasure in venting his spleen.
When off duty, Macrae would wander off to the cliff, and there, for hour after hour, would sit brooding or writing up the diary that May Treherne, with remarkable foresight, had urged him to keep. His earlier entries were devoted to a description of many incidents of the voyage, and the hundred and one impressions made on a peculiarly receptive mind.
He found in the diary a new medium of expression, a relief from the brooding of his boyhood. At first he discovered great difficulty in expressing himself, but gradually found himself writing with increasing ease and facility. One day, on looking back through the earlier pages, he was surprised to find how awkwardly they read. He realised that they did not well represent or reflect his life. He knew that he could now do it better. He decided to begin again, and, now that he was more accustomed to expressing himself in writing, to give a description of his life at Station X.
Diary of Life at Station X
5th October.
YOU can scarcely realize the task you set me—I mean, its difficulty—when you asked me to keep a diary. It is a great pleasure, as nothing calls up your sweet face so clearly as writing to you all that is in my mind. It is the next best thing to speaking to you. I have already told you that I am forbidden to tell of the place or of my duties. They are very light, although of the utmost importance in these times. As a soldier would put it, we are a reserve rather than an active force, liable to be called upon, but, for an important reason, used as little as possible. We interchange a daily word or two to see that we are in working order.
I am afraid you will find this diary uninteresting sometimes, but you will know that I have some excuse. Even the weather is uneventful here. How little we know at home how wearisome and monotonous perpetual blue skies can be!
During the long hours off duty, I sit here in this loftiest nook on the cliff overlooking the ocean, writing to you, dozing, or looking out over the limitless expanse of waters. The long slow swell seems to move like enchanted waves, until my own thoughts too seemed lulled to harmony with their changeless rhythm. It is just in such moments that the ominous impression of the approach of that shadow I spoke to you about seems to become more real.
I have learned here that the feeling of isolation, when confined with an uncongenial companion, is more oppressive than if I were entirely alone. How different things would be if only Lieutenant Wilson were a different sort of man. I often think I should get on much better with many a worse man than he. He is most exact so far as performance of duty is concerned, it seems to me even too exact. There is no possibility of any one under him for one moment shirking duty, and of course I have no wish to do so. As a matter of fact, there is so little of it that I would willingly take mine and half his if he would permit it. He treats me with the most rigid politeness, but I can always feel a something at the back of it. I am aware of my social shortcomings, and can make every excuse for him not haying a companion more to his liking. He feels the life as much as I do, but does not appear able to unbend. You would be surprised at how few words we exchange in the twenty-four hours, often, in relieving each other at the door of the signal room, saluting without a word at all!
The Chinaman
AT first it struck even the Chinaman as curious, for I have more than once seen him regarding us, out of his almond eyes, with the suspicion of a grin for a moment humanizing his impenetrable countenance.
I wonder if all Chinamen are like this one, and I wonder what this one is like! He is a walking image of inscrutability and silence; his very footfall makes no sound. I think, if one wanted to pretend to be very wise, a perfect storehouse of wisdom that one did not really possess, the great thing to do would be to say nothing. This can be quite impressive if it is done in the right way. The Chinaman does it in the right way, while, as Lieutenant Wilspn does it, it is not impressive, but only irritating.
The Chinaman's duties are light, and he does them very methodically. He gives no sign as to whether he likes or dislikes them, or if the slow hours sometimes hang heavy on his hands or not. I think he must be a philosopher, taking it all as the expenditure of so much time for so much pay, and carrying out his contract with a calm that seems to hold in it an element of contempt for all the world and all that is in it. As I have already mentioned, Lieutenant Wilson can convey contempt; but to me, that of the Chinese appears much the loftier of the two.
And yet it is of this placid individual that Lieutenant Wilson manages to fall foul.
I am well convinced that it is not so much through any fault in Ling, as the necessity for some safety valve for the escape of the lieutenant's temper. I am forbidden him by the regulations. He really is most unreasonable. A few minutes' delay in the performance of some slight duty or service, when heaven knows an hour would make little enough difference, is enough to provoke an outburst. Lieutenant Wilson's display of temper always show a harsh and overbearing, I might almost say a bullying disposition.
You will see, therefore, that apart from my slight duties, there is little to occupy my time, and I am reduced to being my own companion, a miserable substitute at best for pleasant company. That is where my diary comes in, and saves me from what would otherwise be many a tiresome hour. I wonder sometimes whether this was not in your
