"I did not choose thee, dearest. It was Love
That made the choice, not I."
W. S. BLUNT.
All the way up the river from the Nore after they had picked up the
pilot the ship moved through a dense fog. A huge P. & O. liner, heavily
laden with passengers and mails, she had to proceed cautiously, like
some blind giant, emitting every two minutes a dolorous wail from her
foghorns.
"Clear the way, I am coming," was the substance of the weird sound, and
in answer to it shrill whistles sounded on all sides, from small fleets
of fishing-boats, coal hulks, and cargo boats bound from far-off lands.
"We are here too," they panted in answer; "don't run us down, please."
It was eerie work, even for the passengers, who remained in blissful
ignorance of the danger of their situation. By rights the ship should
have been in dock before breakfast; they had planned the night before
that an early dawn should see them awake and preparing to land; yet here
was eleven o'clock, and from what the more hardy of them could learn by
direct questioning of those in authority, they had not as yet passed
Canvey Island. Dick Grant, ship's doctor and therefore free of access to
inquirers, underwent a searching examination from all and sundry. The P.
& O. regulations are, that the officers shall not talk or in any way
become friendly with any of the passengers; the ship's doctor and the
purser share the responsibility of looking after their clients' comfort,
well-being, and amusement. On occasions such as a fog, when the hearts
of passengers are naturally full of questions as to where they are, how
long will the fog last, is there any danger, and ought we to have on our
life-belts, these two afore-mentioned officials have a busy time. Dick
felt that Barton, the purser in question, had played him rather a shabby
trick, for Barton had asserted that the work of sorting out passengers'
luggage and seeing to their valuables would confine him to his office
till the ship docked, which excuse left Dick alone to cope with the
fog-produced situation.
Dick had been at sea now for close on two years. He had shifted from
ship to ship, had visited most of the ports in the near and far East.
This was his last voyage; he was going to go back and take up life in
London. From Marseilles he had written to Mabel telling her to expect
him the week-end after they got in.
His journeyings had given him many and varied experiences. The blue eyes
had taken unto themselves some of that unwavering facing of life which
seems to come almost always into the eyes of people who spend their
lives upon the sea. He had learned to be patient and long-suffering with
the oddities of his patients, passengers who passed through his hands on
their brief journeyings; he had seen the pathos of the sick who were
shipped with the full knowledge that they would die ere the first port
was reached, simply because the wistful ache of home-sickness would not
allow them to rest. Home-sickness! Dick had known it keep a man alive
till the grey cliffs of Dover grew out of the sea and he could fall back
dead and satisfied.
Board ship throws people together into appalling intimacy; Love springs
full-winged into being in the course of an afternoon; passion burns at
red-heat through drowsy, moon-filled nights. Almost wilfully, to begin
with, Dick had flung himself into romance after romance; perhaps unknown
to himself, he sought to satisfy the hunger of heart which could throb
in answer to a dream, but which all reality left untouched. He played at
love lightly; he had an ingrained reverence for women that even
intercourse with Anglo-Indian grass-widows and the girl who revels in a
board-ship flirtation was unable altogether to eradicate. He made love,
that is to say, only to those women who first and openly made love to
him; but it is to be doubted whether even the most ardent of them could
boast that Dicky Grant had ever been in love with them. They slipped out
of his ken when they disembarked at their various ports, and the
photographs with which they dowered him hardly served to keep him in
mind of their names. And a certain weariness had grown up in his heart;
he felt glad that this was to be his last voyage. He had put in two good
crowded years, but he was no nearer realizing his dream than he had been
on the day when Mabel had said to him: "Did you think I should not know
when you fell in love?"
Dick was thinking of this remark of Mabel's as he stood by himself for
the time being, right up by the front of the ship peering into the fog,
and with the thought came a memory of the girl with the brown eyes who
had stood to face him, her hands clenched at her sides, as she told her
piteous tale. Piteous, because of its very bravado. "I am not afraid or
ashamed," she had claimed, while fear stared out of her eyes and shame
flung the colour to her face. What had the past two years brought her?
Had she stood with her back to the wall of public opinion and fought her
fight, or had the forces of contempt and blame been too strong for her?
A very light hand on his arm brought him out of his thoughts with a
start, and he turned to find a small, daintily-clad lady standing beside
him.
"How much longer shall we be?" she asked; "and when am I going to see
you again, Dicky, once we land?"
She had called him Dicky from the second day of their acquaintance. Mrs.
Hayter always called men by their Christian names, or by nicknames
invented by herself.
Dick let his eyes linger over her before he answered--immaculately
dressed as ever--the wildest storm saw Mrs. Hayter with her hair waved,
the other ladies claimed--small, piquante face, blue eyes and a
marvellous complexion despite her many seasons spent in the East. She
was the wife of an Indian Civilian, a tall, grey-headed man, who had
come on board to see her off at Bombay. Dick had been rather struck with
the tragedy of the man's face, that once he had seen it; he connected it
always for some unexplainable reason with Mrs. Hayter's small, soft
hands and the slumberous fire in her blue eyes. Not that Dick was not
friendly with Mrs. Hayter; he had had on the contrary rather a
fierce-tempered flirtation with her. Once, under the spell of a night
all purple sea and sky and dim set stars, he had caught her to him and
kissed her. Kissed the eager, laughing mouth, the warm, soft neck, just
where the little pulse beat in the hollow of her throat. She had
practically asked him to kiss her, yet that, he reflected in his cooler
mood the next morning, was no excuse for his conduct, and, rather
ashamed of himself, he had succeeded in avoiding her fairly well until
this moment. He had not the slightest desire to kiss her again; that was
always the sad end to all his venturings into the kingdom of romance.
"Where are you going to?" he answered her last question first; "if it is
anywhere near London, I shall hope to look you up."
Mrs. Hayter laughed, a little caught-in laugh. "Look me up, Dicky,
between you and me! Never mind, you funny, shy, big boy, you shall put
it that way if you like. As a matter of fact, I am going to stay at the
Knightsbridge Hotel for a week or so on my way through to my husband's
people. Why don't you come there too?"
The invitation in her voice was unmistakable and set his teeth on edge.
"It's too expensive for me," he answered shortly; "but I will come and
call one day if I may."
"Of course," she agreed, "let's make it dinner the day after to-morrow.
Dicky," she moved a little closer to him, "is it me or yourself you are
angry with about the other night?"
"Myself," Dick said dryly, and had no time for more, for on the second a
shiver shook the ship, throwing Mrs. Hayter forcibly against him, and
the air was suddenly clamorous with shrill whistles, cries, and the
quick throb of engines reversed.
Through the fog, which with a seeming malignity was lifting, veil upon
thick veil, now that the mischief was accomplished, Dick could see the
faint outlines of land; gaunt trees and a house, quite near at hand,
certainly within call. Mrs. Hayter was in a paroxysm of terror,
murmuring her fright and strange endearing terms all jumbled together,
and the deck had waked to life; they seemed in the centre of a curious,
nerve-ridden crowd. It was all very embarrassing; Dick had to hold on to
Mrs. Hayter because he knew she would fall if he let her go, and she
clung to him, arms thrown round his neck, golden hair brushing against
his chin.
"There's not a particle of danger," a strong voice shouted from
somewhere in the crowd. Dick could recognize it as the captain's.
"Please don't get alarmed, ladies, it is quite unnecessary, with any
luck we will be off almost immediately."
In that he proved incorrect, for, heavily weighted as the _India_ was,
she stayed firmly fixed in Thames mud. By slow degrees the fog lifted
and showed the long lines of the shore, and the solitary house standing
out like a sentinel in the surrounding flatness.
Dick had succeeded in disentangling Mrs. Hayter's arms and had escorted
her to a seat.
"I am afraid I have given myself away hopelessly," she whispered,
clutching him with rather a shaky hand. "Did anybody see us?"
"Everybody, I should think," he told her gravely, "But, after all, most
things are excusable in a possible wreck."
"Yes," she agreed, "only Mrs. Sandeman is all eyes to my doings, and on
one occasion she even wrote Robert. Cat!"
The last expression was full of vindictiveness. Dick was seized with a
disgust for his own share in the proceedings; he hoped devoutly that
Mrs. Sandeman, a rather austere-faced, tight-lipped woman, would not
write and disturb Robert's peace of mind for any doings of his. Also he
took a mental resolve to see no more of Mrs. Hayter.
By four o'clock all the passengers, with a mild proportion of their
luggage, had been transferred to small tugs for transport to Tilbury;
for on a further examination into the state of affairs it had been found
that the _India_ would probably remain where she was until a certain
lightening of her freight should make it easier for her to refloat.
It was three days later, in fact, before Dick reached London. He found
two letters waiting for him at his club; one from Mabel, telling him how
glad they would be to see him, could he not make it earlier than the
week-end; and one from Mrs. Hayter. Would he come and dine with her that
evening? He need not trouble to answer, she was dining all alone and
would not wait for him after half-past seven.
"If you can't come to dinner," she had added, "look in afterwards; there
is something I rather particularly want to say to you."
He dressed for the evening meal in a vague state of discontent. He had
not the slightest intention of going to Mrs. Hayter's, still the thought
of her, waiting for him and expecting him, made him uneasy. At one
moment he meditated telephoning to her to tell her he was unavoidably
prevented from coming, but dismissed the excuse as being too palpably a
lie. He was restless, too, and at a loss as to how to spend his evening,
the loneliness of being by himself in London after a two years' absence
was beginning to oppress him. None of his old pals seemed to be in
town--anyway they did not turn up at the club. Finally he decided to
look in at the Empire, or one of the neighbouring music-halls, and
strolled forth in that direction.
London certainly seemed no emptier than usual. Streams of motor-cars,
taxis, and buses hurried along Piccadilly, the streets were busy with
people coming and going. Out of the shadows just by the Burlington
Arcade a woman spoke to him--little whispered words that he could pass
on without noticing; but she had brushed against him as she spoke, the
heavy scent she used seemed to cling to him, and he had been conscious
in the one brief glance he had given her, that she was young, pretty,
brown-eyed. The incident touched on his mind like the flick of a whip.
He stared at the other women as they passed him, meeting always the same
bold yet weary invitation of their eyes, the smile which betokened
nothing of mirth. And as he stared and passed and stared again it grew
on him that he was in reality searching for someone, searching those
street faces in the same way as once before he had sought among the
passers-by for one girl's face. The thought was no sooner matured than
he hated it--and now he tried to keep his eyes off these women passing
by, loathing the thought of their nightly pilgrimage, of their
shame-haunted trade.
The Empire performance hardly served to distract his thoughts. He was
out in the streets again before the ballet turn came on even. It had
started to rain, a slight, indefinite drizzle; Leicester Square
presented a drab and dingy appearance. The blaze of lights from the
surrounding theatres shone on wet streets and slippery pavements. A
drunken woman who had been ejected from the public-house at the corner
stood leaning against a neighbouring lamp-post; her hat had fallen
askew, stray, ragged wisps of hair hung about her face, from time to
time she lifted up her voice and shouted at the children who had
gathered in a ring to watch her antics. Life was horribly, hurtfully
ugly at times. Dick would have liked to have shaken his shoulders free
of it all and known himself back once more on the wind-swept deck of an
outgoing steamer.
He strode off in the direction of Trafalgar Square, and still dim,
draggled shapes haunted his footsteps, leered at him from the shadows,
brushed against him as he passed. As he turned into the lighted purlieus
of the Strand he paused for a moment, undecided which course to take
next, and it was then that he saw Joan again.
She was standing a little in front of him on the edge of the pavement,
evidently waiting for a bus. Another girl stood near her, talking in
quick, childish excitement, recounting some conversation, for she acted
the parts as she spoke. Joan seemed to pay very little attention to her
companion, though occasionally she smiled in answer to the other's
laughter.
He had recognized her at once! Now he stood with his eyes glued on her,
taking in every detail of her appearance--the wide-brimmed hat, the
little lace collar showing outside her jacket, the neat shoes.
Even as she talked Fanny's bird-like eyes darted here and there among
the crowd and lit presently on the young man, so palpably staring at her
companion. She edged nearer to Joan and nudged her.
"You have got off, honey," she whispered. "Turn your eyes slowly and you
will catch such a look of devotion as will keep you in comfort for the
rest of your life."
Joan flushed: Fanny could always succeed in bringing the hot blush to
her face, even though she had been on tour with the company now for two
months. Also she still resented being stared at, though Fanny was doing
her best to break her in to that most necessary adjunct of their
profession. Rather haughtily, therefore, she turned, and for a second
his eyes met hers, bringing a quick, disturbing memory which she could
in no way place.
At any other time Dick would have taken off his hat and claimed
acquaintance; just for the present moment, though, something held him
spellbound, staring. Fanny giggled, and Joan, having had time to raise
her feelings to a proper pitch of anger, let her eyes pass very coldly
and calmly from the top of the young man's hat to the tip of his boots
and back again. Contempt and dislike were in the glance, what Fanny
called her "Kill the worm" expression. Then No. 11 motor-bus plunged
alongside, and "Here we are at last!" called Fanny, dragging at Joan's
arm.
With a sense of victory in her heart, since the young man had obviously
been quelled by her anger, Joan climbed up to the top of the bus and sat
down in a seat out of sight. Fanny, however, turned to have a final look
at the enemy from the top step. As the bus moved, she saw him shake
himself out of his trance and start forward.
"Good-night," she called in cheerfully affectionate tones; the conductor
turned to stare up at her. "Some other day; can't be done to-night,
sonny."
Then she subsided, almost weak with laughter at her own joke, beside a
righteously irritated Joan.
"Nearly had the cheek to follow us, mind you," she told her, amid gasps;
"properly smitten, he was."
"I wish you had not called out to him," said Joan stiffly. "It is so--so
undignified."
Fanny quelled her laughter and looked up at Joan. "Undignified," she
repeated; "it stopped him from coming, anyway. You don't look at things
the right way, honey. One must not be disagreeable or rude to men in our
trade, but one can often choke them off by laughing at them."