Chance

"You remember," went on Marlow, "how I feared that Mr. Powell's want of

experience would stand in his way of appreciating the unusual. The

unusual I had in my mind was something of a very subtle sort: the unusual

in marital relations. I may well have doubted the capacity of a young

man too much concerned with the creditable performance of his

professional duties to observe what in the nature of things is not easily

observable in itself, and still less so under the special circumstances.

In the majority of ships a second officer has not many points of contact

with the captain's wife. He sits at the same table with her at meals,

generally speaking; he may now and then be addressed more or less kindly

on insignificant matters, and have the opportunity to show her some small

attentions on deck. And that is all. Under such conditions, signs can

be seen only by a sharp and practised eye. I am alluding now to troubles

which are subtle often to the extent of not being understood by the very

hearts they devastate or uplift.

Yes, Mr. Powell, whom the chance of his name had thrown upon the floating

stage of that tragicomedy would have been perfectly useless for my

purpose if the unusual of an obvious kind had not aroused his attention

from the first.

We know how he joined that ship so suddenly offered to his anxious desire

to make a real start in his profession. He had come on board breathless

with the hurried winding up of his shore affairs, accompanied by two

horrible night-birds, escorted by a dock policeman on the make, received

by an asthmatic shadow of a ship-keeper, warned not to make a noise in

the darkness of the passage because the captain and his wife were already

on board. That in itself was already somewhat unusual. Captains and

their wives do not, as a rule, join a moment sooner than is necessary.

They prefer to spend the last moments with their friends and relations. A

ship in one of London's older docks with their restrictions as to lights

and so on is not the place for a happy evening. Still, as the tide

served at six in the morning, one could understand them coming on board

the evening before.

Just then young Powell felt as if anybody ought to be glad enough to be

quit of the shore. We know he was an orphan from a very early age,

without brothers or sisters--no near relations of any kind, I believe,

except that aunt who had quarrelled with his father. No affection stood

in the way of the quiet satisfaction with which he thought that now all

the worries were over, that there was nothing before him but duties, that

he knew what he would have to do as soon as the dawn broke and for a long

succession of days. A most soothing certitude. He enjoyed it in the

dark, stretched out in his bunk with his new blankets pulled over him.

Some clock ashore beyond the dock-gates struck two. And then he heard

nothing more, because he went off into a light sleep from which he woke

up with a start. He had not taken his clothes off, it was hardly worth

while. He jumped up and went on deck.