Chance

Marlow looked at me with his dark penetrating glance. I was struck by

the absolute verisimilitude of this suggestion. But we were always

tilting at each other. I saw an opening and pushed my uncandid thrust.

"You have a ghastly imagination," I said with a cheerfully sceptical

smile.

"Well, and if I have," he returned unabashed. "But let me remind you

that this situation came to me unasked. I am like a puzzle-headed chief-

mate we had once in the dear old Samarcand when I was a youngster. The

fellow went gravely about trying to "account to himself"--his favourite

expression--for a lot of things no one would care to bother one's head

about. He was an old idiot but he was also an accomplished practical

seaman. I was quite a boy and he impressed me. I must have caught the

disposition from him."

"Well--go on with your accounting then," I said, assuming an air of

resignation.

"That's just it." Marlow fell into his stride at once. "That's just it.

Mere disappointed cupidity cannot account for the proceedings of the next

morning; proceedings which I shall not describe to you--but which I shall

tell you of presently, not as a matter of conjecture but of actual fact.

Meantime returning to that evening altercation in deadened tones within

the private apartment of Miss de Barral's governess, what if I were to

tell you that disappointment had most likely made them touchy with each

other, but that perhaps the secret of his careless, railing behaviour,

was in the thought, springing up within him with an emphatic oath of

relief "Now there's nothing to prevent me from breaking away from that

old woman." And that the secret of her envenomed rage, not against this

miserable and attractive wretch, but against fate, accident and the whole

course of human life, concentrating its venom on de Barral and including

the innocent girl herself, was in the thought, in the fear crying within

her "Now I have nothing to hold him with . . . "

I couldn't refuse Marlow the tribute of a prolonged whistle "Phew! So

you suppose that . . . "

He waved his hand impatiently.

"I don't suppose. It was so. And anyhow why shouldn't you accept the

supposition. Do you look upon governesses as creatures above suspicion

or necessarily of moral perfection? I suppose their hearts would not

stand looking into much better than other people's. Why shouldn't a

governess have passions, all the passions, even that of libertinage, and

even ungovernable passions; yet suppressed by the very same means which

keep the rest of us in order: early training--necessity--circumstances--fear

of consequences; till there comes an age, a time when the restraint of

years becomes intolerable--and infatuation irresistible . . . "