With perfect detachment Mrs. Fyne watched me go out after her husband.
That woman was flint.
* * * * *
The fresh night had a smell of soil, of turned-up sods like a grave--an
association particularly odious to a sailor by its idea of confinement
and narrowness; yes, even when he has given up the hope of being buried
at sea; about the last hope a sailor gives up consciously after he has
been, as it does happen, decoyed by some chance into the toils of the
land. A strong grave-like sniff. The ditch by the side of the road must
have been freshly dug in front of the cottage.
Once clear of the garden Fyne gathered way like a racing cutter. What
was a mile to him--or twenty miles? You think he might have gone
shrinkingly on such an errand. But not a bit of it. The force of
pedestrian genius I suppose. I raced by his side in a mood of profound
self-derision, and infinitely vexed with that minx. Because dead or
alive I thought of her as a minx . . ."
I smiled incredulously at Marlow's ferocity; but Marlow pausing with a
whimsically retrospective air, never flinched.
"Yes, yes. Even dead. And now you are shocked. You see, you are such a
chivalrous masculine beggar. But there is enough of the woman in my
nature to free my judgment of women from glamorous reticency. And then,
why should I upset myself? A woman is not necessarily either a doll or
an angel to me. She is a human being, very much like myself. And I have
come across too many dead souls lying so to speak at the foot of high
unscaleable places for a merely possible dead body at the bottom of a
quarry to strike my sincerity dumb.
The cliff-like face of the quarry looked forbiddingly impressive. I will
admit that Fyne and I hung back for a moment before we made a plunge off
the road into the bushes growing in a broad space at the foot of the
towering limestone wall. These bushes were heavy with dew. There were
also concealed mudholes in there. We crept and tumbled and felt about
with our hands along the ground. We got wet, scratched, and plastered
with mire all over our nether garments. Fyne fell suddenly into a
strange cavity--probably a disused lime-kiln. His voice uplifted in
grave distress sounded more than usually rich, solemn and profound. This
was the comic relief of an absurdly dramatic situation. While hauling
him out I permitted myself to laugh aloud at last. Fyne, of course,
didn't.
I need not tell you that we found nothing after a most conscientious
search. Fyne even pushed his way into a decaying shed half-buried in dew-
soaked vegetation. He struck matches, several of them too, as if to make
absolutely sure that the vanished girl-friend of his wife was not hiding
there. The short flares illuminated his grave, immovable countenance
while I let myself go completely and laughed in peals.