It was like that then, the island, thought Cam, once more drawing herfingers through the waves. —
She had never seen it from out at sea before.
It lay like that on the sea, did it, with a dent in the middle and two sharpcrags, and the sea swept in there, and spread away for miles and mileson either side of the island. —
It was very small; shaped something like aleaf stood on end. —
So we took a little boat, she thought, beginning to tellherself a story of adventure about escaping from a sinking ship. —
But withthe sea streaming through her fingers, a spray of seaweed vanishing behindthem, she did not want to tell herself seriously a story; —
it was thesense of adventure and escape that she wanted, for she was thinking, asthe boat sailed on, how her father’s anger about the points of the compass,James’s obstinacy about the compact, and her own anguish, all hadslipped, all had passed, all had streamed away. —
What then came next?
Where were they going? From her hand, ice cold, held deep in the sea,there spurted up a fountain of joy at the change, at the escape, at the adventure(that she should be alive, that she should be there). —
And thedrops falling from this sudden and unthinking fountain of joy fell hereand there on the dark, the slumbrous shapes in her mind; —
shapes of aworld not realised but turning in their darkness, catching here and there,a spark of light; —
Greece, Rome, Constantinople. Small as it was, andshaped something like a leaf stood on its end with the gold-sprinkledwaters flowing in and about it, it had, she supposed, a place in the universe—even that little island? —
The old gentlemen in the study shethought could have told her. —
Sometimes she strayed in from the gardenpurposely to catch them at it. —
There they were (it might be Mr Carmichaelor Mr Bankes who was sitting with her father) sitting opposite eachother in their low arm-chairs. —
They were crackling in front of them thepages of THE TIMES, when she came in from the garden, all in amuddle, about something some one had said about Christ, or hearingthat a mammoth had been dug up in a London street, or wonderingwhat Napoleon was like. —
Then they took all this with their clean hands
(they wore grey-coloured clothes; they smelt of heather) and theybrushed the scraps together, turning the paper, crossing their knees, andsaid something now and then very brief. —
Just to please herself she wouldtake a book from the shelf and stand there, watching her father write, soequally, so neatly from one side of the page to another, with a littlecough now and then, or something said briefly to the other old gentlemanopposite. —
And she thought, standing there with her book open, onecould let whatever one thought expand here like a leaf in water; —
and if itdid well here, among the old gentlemen smoking and THE TIMES cracklingthen it was right. —
And watching her father as he wrote in his study,she thought (now sitting in the boat) he was not vain, nor a tyrant anddid not wish to make you pity him. —
Indeed, if he saw she was there,reading a book, he would ask her, as gently as any one could, Was therenothing he could give her?
Lest this should be wrong, she looked at him reading the little bookwith the shiny cover mottled like a plover’s egg. —
No; it was right. Look athim now, she wanted to say aloud to James. (But James had his eye onthe sail. —
) He is a sarcastic brute, James would say. —
He brings the talkround to himself and his books, James would say. —
He is intolerably egotistical.
Worst of all, he is a tyrant. But look! she said, looking at him.
Look at him now. She looked at him reading the little book with his legscurled; —
the little book whose yellowish pages she knew, without knowingwhat was written on them. —
It was small; it was closely printed; on thefly-leaf, she knew, he had written that he had spent fifteen francs on dinner; —
the wine had been so much; he had given so much to the waiter; —
allwas added up neatly at the bottom of the page. —
But what might be writtenin the book which had rounded its edges off in his pocket, she didnot know. —
What he thought they none of them knew. —
But he was absorbedin it, so that when he looked up, as he did now for an instant, itwas not to see anything; —
it was to pin down some thought more exactly.
That done, his mind flew back again and he plunged into his reading. —
Heread, she thought, as if he were guiding something, or wheedling a largeflock of sheep, or pushing his way up and up a single narrow path; —
andsometimes he went fast and straight, and broke his way through thebramble, and sometimes it seemed a branch struck at him, a brambleblinded him, but he was not going to let himself be beaten by that; —
on hewent, tossing over page after page. —
And she went on telling herself astory about escaping from a sinking ship, for she was safe, while he satthere; —
safe, as she felt herself when she crept in from the garden, andtook a book down, and the old gentleman, lowering the paper suddenly,
said something very brief over the top of it about the character ofNapoleon.
She gazed back over the sea, at the island. But the leaf was losing itssharpness. —
It was very small; it was very distant. The sea was more importantnow than the shore. —
Waves were all round them, tossing andsinking, with a log wallowing down one wave; —
a gull riding on another.
About here, she thought, dabbling her fingers in the water, a ship hadsunk, and she murmured, dreamily half asleep, how we perished, eachalone.