I
It was a new phase of life entirely. The _Star of Troy_ was not the
_Skipping Goone_; yet was, in her way, quite as romantic. Jerome had a
feeling from the very first that the _Star of Troy_ wasn’t altogether a
typical tramp freighter. She possessed a most remarkable captain, for
one thing, and a most remarkable captain’s daughter. Also there seemed
something cryptic about her whole destiny. The _Skipping Goone_ had
always seemed like a nice, plump, amiable, sensible old lady, whereas
about the _Star of Troy_ there was something ageless, lithe, and alert,
something unfathomable: the very rush of water under her bow had a
mysterious thrill behind it. Here was a bow accustomed to explore strange
waters. Yes, the two craft were wholly alien creatures. Yet Jerome found
the subtler atmosphere of the taciturn, drab tramp no less alluring. In
place of the swishing sails and the comfortable strain of rigging there
was now the rhythmic plod of an engine. He grew to love it. By all means
there was a wealth of romance here, if of a less garrulous and gypsy
sort, and the former clerk responded to it keenly—though soberly, too,
for the old Jerome was no more.
His talks with Captain Utterbourne held for him the fascination of a
piece of strange, vivid fiction. What a mine the man was; what a life he
lived! As for his life, no one but Utterbourne himself could really know
the full richness of it, since with no one did he choose to share it save
in flashes and fractions.
The talk now largely centered about the project of the new Mediterranean
experiment. But Jerome felt that although the Captain might appear for a
moment wholly engrossed in it, even this venture, important and daring,
even, as it might seem, was but one venture out of a score, perhaps, with
which his brilliant mind was ever busy.
The evenings were rich and unforgettable, with the _Star of Troy_
slipping so steadily on through tropic seas and the little white cabin,
with the map of the world covering all one wall, so cheerful and bright.
They would gather here after dinner: Utterbourne, Elsa, Jerome, and
usually one or two of Utterbourne’s men—Sutherland or Sargeant or maybe
Rutherford, keen-faced and clever, playing their parts in the mysterious
game about which no mind save one could really know all. The China boy,
smiling with his usual affectionate understanding (though sometimes,
too, with that more cryptic smile which belongs to the unsearchable
East) would mix them suave, delicious drinks. And they would smoke and
talk of life in many climes and under all sorts of conditions. Captain
Utterbourne, whatever the theme, could hold them in a thrall, when it
pleased him. Sometimes he would elect silence. But when he began to
speak, the air took on a subtle sparkle, though he was never guilty of
mere wit.
And then, perhaps, the talk would turn to business—as it generally did,
sooner or later, with so much still in the air which must be reduced to
concreteness. And Elsa would grow bored and pick up a novel, which she
would read, or pretend to read, with an air of languid absorption; or
she would leave them and go out alone on deck in the lofty dark to dream
of nobody knew what—dreams of her own, as profoundly hidden away in the
unassailable depths of her consciousness as were the secret thoughts and
broodings of the Captain himself.
Jerome had many talks with Elsa, too, for the days were long at sea, and
each seemed glad of the other’s company. It was upon these occasions that
Jerome most surprised himself, for they stirred in him a new and very
pleasurable sense of poise, which he had never even dreamed of acquiring
in the days of his futile groping. He felt himself a match for Elsa—not,
however, that she didn’t frequently baffle him with her drooping eyes and
coolly static expression.
He looked forward to their talks together; and in her own way, so did
Elsa, too. Yes, perhaps in her own way Elsa looked forward to them with
even more eagerness than Jerome himself. He interested her—particularly,
she would tell herself, in the light of what his past had been. She
remembered (and the picture kept rising in her mind) how she had come
upon him that afternoon in the street with Stella, and how he had merely
mumbled something and gone away. But she remembered, too, how his
shoulders had straightened, as though unconsciously; and how she had
felt, in her somewhat psychic manner, that it would be the beginning of
better things for him. Then she had forgotten about him, and here he was
again. She had not guessed that his progress would carry him so far in
one short year.
Elsa discreetly (perhaps selfishly, too, without altogether realizing it)
refrained from any mention of Stella at first, and Jerome never mentioned
her, either. Yet, Stella was sometimes in their minds as they talked.
And one evening she burst like a bomb on their ears. It was Utterbourne
who spoke of her. The _Star of Troy_ was bound for San Francisco, but
there were to be stops: the Captain had already announced something a
little vague about picking up cargo somewhere in the Chagos archipelago.
Bluntly, at length, he turned to Elsa and said:
“By the way, we’re likely to run into one of your old friends.”
“Yes, dad?”
“She married Ferdinand King and they came out here to settle. Or have I
told you all this before?”
“No, dad. It’s quite fresh news—except her marriage. If you remember, I
was the maid of honour. Otherwise you’ve not repeated yourself,” replied
his daughter dryly.
Jerome had a strong feeling of unreality. The news stabbed him with
amazement. Yet after all it was only simple and natural that news of her
at last should fall from the Captain’s lips. He found himself musing in
many moods.
“What in the world do you suppose they can be doing ’way off here?” asked
Elsa the next afternoon, as she and Jerome sat together under a bit of
awning aft. “Did you hear the Captain say what island it is?”
“No. He said the Chagos group. I’m trying to recall what’s raised there.”
“Guava, I suppose,” said Elsa. “Or copra.”
“Mr. King must have been put in charge of some business. Perhaps he
oversees output from the whole archipelago,” remarked Jerome with
somewhat expansive generosity.
“Like a prince, in a way, didn’t you always think him?” ventured Elsa,
her eyes darting toward him for a moment, but her expression otherwise
supremely uncompromising.
“I’m afraid I’m hardly a judge of princes,” Jerome fenced back.
“Well, I mean—a sort of fabulous prince, you know,” she persisted.
“Almost too good to be true.” Jerome laughed easily, and she went on:
“His beauty, as I recollect it, was of that tremendous sort that leaves
the whole world gasping as it passes by. I was conscious of it in church,
during the ceremony.” And she added: “Were you there?” with another of
her little exploring darts.
“At the church? Yes,” he answered carelessly. “I slipped in at the last
minute, and stayed well back.”
Elsa gazed at him fixedly a moment, then observed: “Mr. King always
reminded me a little of some Roman emperor, though which one I never
figured out. Then he’s struck me as perhaps Apollo, with the soul of Sir
Willoughby!” She laughed.
“You may be right,” her companion shrugged. “I barely met him once. I
took him to be the type most women would fall for.”
“You haven’t a very high opinion of us, I’m afraid, as a sex, Mr.
Stewart.”
“You mustn’t let my sweeping remarks lead you astray,” he said, his eyes
coolly mirthful, and a new look of cynicism about his mouth.
“You mean you’re willing to allow there might be exceptions?” It wasn’t,
perhaps, entirely clear, but that was Elsa’s way.
“Oh, yes, of course,” he laughed.
“That would give us common ground to meet on, wouldn’t it?”
“Then you glory in being an exception?” He seemed eager to play up to her
mood—almost inspired to a sort of transient cleverness.
“Oh, naturally,” replied Elsa, her eyes drooping as she gazed off past
him at nothing at all. “Just the way Tinker Bell gloried in being an
‘abandoned little creature.’ One lives and learns. Doesn’t one?”
“Yes.” After all, the plain monosyllable held still a place in his soul.
“I suppose you’re an exception, too,” she said, “if the subject isn’t
becoming too vague with handling.”
“I believe we’re two of a kind,” he told her, with a real little flare of
daring. There seemed a curious romantic gleam in the situation. “I’ve had
my flings and learned my lessons,” he admitted.
She mused. “Yes. Still, it’s perhaps best to rap on wood, don’t you
think?”
Jerome made a careless gesture. “Oh, I’m not worried.”
“Still,” she went on in her utterly unmoved way, “the world is a swarm of
temptations, and the man who feels most secure is usually just the one
to be twisted round some woman’s finger—or vice versa, of course. You
understand.”
“Yes, I understand.”
In fact, they both understood. And in fact it seemed to them as they
talked that there was rather a good deal of common ground. It was not an
unpleasant discovery.
“I’d always said,” she went on, “I’d had my flings and learned my lessons
too. But I’m not superstitious, and I never rapped on wood. Well,” she
smiled, her brown eyes drooping a little more, “it would have been
better if I had. For I was taken in, after all. I almost reached the
point of parroting ‘I do’ in the presence of a rector. But I escaped in
time, which is something,” she ended seriously, her wise young mouth
taking on a singularly compact look.
He would have preferred, and really very much preferred, remaining
unenmeshed in Elsa Utterbourne’s eyes. But it occurred to him that
candour, in a case of this sort, might be the wisest course. Her own
passionless frankness encouraged him, and he muttered: “I was taken in,
too. But with me the case went a little harder.”
“How?”
“Well, I didn’t escape in time—that’s all.”
She gazed at him with renewed interest, her foot tapping slowly against
the rail. “I didn’t know that,” she murmured. And, since he didn’t
spontaneously enlarge upon the interesting announcement, as she hoped he
would, the girl presently asked him: “Would you like to talk about it? If
you wouldn’t, please say so. I’ll never mention it again.”
He laughed, shortly and with some bitterness. “It won’t be necessary to
do much talking. It was just something that came about. The moon was
partly responsible, but I don’t care to lay the blame on any one but
myself.”
“Some one in the troupe?” Elsa ventured.
“Yes. We didn’t get on together. She’s on her way to San Francisco
now—and freedom,” he replied, with quiet significance.
“I see,” she said.
Their eyes met, and they shared between them a complex smile.