The Passing Bells by Phillip Rock Page B

. . .”
    â€œLovely,” he murmured, “lovely—” He suddenly stiffened and pulled away from her, his face even more pallid than it had been before. “Oh, God! I can’t. . . . I . . . I have to go to Southampton tomorrow and greet some bloody cousin from America. Oh, damn . . . I’m sorry, darling, but . . .”
    Her smile was cryptic. “I understand, Charles. There’s no need to explain. I quite understand.”

4
    Martin Rilke double-checked his tiny cabin to make sure that he had left nothing behind. He had packed in a hurry, having spent the entire morning on deck gawking at the coast of England as the S.S. Laconia moved up the channel toward Southampton.
    â€œYou won’t see a better day than this in a long while,” one of the ship’s stewards had told him. “We ’ave quite a bit of mist most days, sir.”
    Not a speck of mist that morning. Martin had gulped down his breakfast and had gone on deck to share a pair of binoculars with a fellow passenger, a Dr. Horner from Cincinnati, who was on his way to London for a month’s seminar on neurosurgery. Both men had been fascinated by the vivid greens and whites of the land, the sparkling blue of the sea. The passage had been marred by a summer storm on the second day out of New York, gray seas and a clammy rain staying with them as far as the coast of Ireland. Of the Emerald Isle they had seen nothing but great banks of cloud, but the clouds had parted when they entered the English Channel and there was not so much as a scrap of vapor to mar the scenery.
    â€œ ‘This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle . . . ’ ” Dr. Horner had recited grandly as he leaned against the rail, the binoculars cradled in his hands. “Shakespeare, Richard the Third .”
    â€œ Second ,” Martin had corrected. “ Richard the Second . ‘This precious stone set in the silver sea.’ It does look like a precious stone, doesn’t it?”
    â€œFire opal, Martin. Gosh, I wish my Agnes had been able to make this trip. And she thought New England was beautiful when we went up to the Berkshires last summer. Can’t hold a candle to the old.” He had handed over the glasses. “Take a squint at that little village beneath those cliffs. If that doesn’t put the icing on the cake, I don’t know what will.”
    The landscape had at last given way to less pastoral views, reminding them both that England was not all quaint villages and rolling hills. By noon they were steaming up the Solent into the crowded roadstead of Southampton, whose shoreline was cluttered with iron cranes, docks, wharves, and warehouses.
    â€œIt’s been a pleasure traveling with you, Martin,” Dr. Horner had said before going below. “Perhaps we can have lunch one day in London. I’ll be at Guy’s Hospital . . . the Sir William Osler seminar group.”
    A seaman with a handcart waited impatiently outside the cabin door. Martin hoped that the good doctor had been better organized than he.
    â€œOkay,” Martin said. “You can take the steamer trunk and the suitcase, but leave the leather attaché case.”
    â€œYes, sir,” the sailor grunted as he pushed his cart into the cabin.
    Martin took one last look around—under the bunk, in the dresser drawers, the closet. He suffered from a vague absentmindedness at times, and it wouldn’t have surprised him to have come across a drawer filled with socks and underwear. But everything had been packed. Though rushed, he had been thorough. There was nothing of his left in the cabin except the attaché case, a brown wool jacket, and a Kodak folding camera in a leather carrying case. He put on the jacket and checked his appearance in the mirror. He wasn’t all that happy about the fit of the jacket. It had been bought off the rack at Marshall Field and was a bit too