I awoke next morning after a sweet and dreamless sleep that was almost
inspiring. Months and months had passed since I slept in a European
bed, and, although necessity had accustomed me to the habit of a
Japanese mat upon the floor and a block of wood for a pillow, I must
confess that the bed of the West still seemed to me a very paradise of
luxury. There were more patent contrivances about that yacht than I
have ever seen in such small compass before. Of course it had electric
lights everywhere. There was a water-condensing machine, an ice-making
machine, and all the usual fittings that now go to the construction
of a luxurious steamer for sailing in warm latitudes. There was a
bathroom which was Oriental in its splendour and Occidental in its
patent fittings. One could have any sort of bath that one desired. By
simply turning a handle on a dial the great marble basin became filled
with water at any temperature indicated by the figures at which you set
the pointer, from boiling-hot to ice-cold. This was indeed a delight,
and when I came to it from my room in dressing-gown and slippers I
found the Japanese boy there with a cup of delicious tea such as can be
had only in the immediate vicinity of China. On a dainty plate whose
figure work was only partially obscured by a filmy lace napkin were
some finger-lengths and finger-widths of buttered toast. “Rupert, my
boy,” I said to myself, “you have indeed fallen upon your feet!”
I now knew that I was going to have the pleasantest voyage of my life.
The clouds which yesterday threatened to obscure my acquaintance with
Miss Hemster had cleared away, and although I had surmised that the
young woman was somewhat quick to take offence when one approached
the confines of either ridicule or criticism, yet I was well aware
that no man has a right to inflict conversation that is distasteful
upon any woman, and I thought I had sufficient power over my speech to
prevent further errors in that direction. A most unaccustomed sense of
elation filled me, and, as I tossed about my wardrobe, I came across a
pair of Oxford bags that I had not worn for years. As they were still
spotlessly white, I put them on, with a blazer which gave to the world
the somewhat glaring colors of my college, and, thus gloriously arrayed
with cap on head, I almost imagined myself about to stroll along the
High, once more an extremely young man.
My costume made quite a sensation at the breakfast-table, and caused
great laughter on the part of our worthy captain, who said the only
thing it reminded him of was a clown in Barnum’s circus. Miss Hemster
was good enough to compliment the outfit, and, after the meal was over,
did me the honour of strolling up and down the deck for nearly an
hour, after which she disappeared below. Silas K. Hemster occupied his
customary place on deck in the wicker armchair, and after his daughter
had deserted me I stood beside him for a few moments, endeavouring to
engage him in conversation, but soon saw that he preferred his own
thoughts, for which preference, to be sure, I could find no fault with
him, for anything I had to say was neither novel nor entertaining.
I was about to go below and select a book from the rather extensive
library when there met me at the head of the companion-way the notes of
the very subdued playing of one of Chopin’s most charming nocturnes. I
paused for a moment at the head of the stair, then descended softly,
saying to myself that Miss Hemster was a most accomplished musician.
Perhaps I have not stated that at the farther end of the saloon from
the foot of the stairs stood an excellent piano, and at the stairway
end an equally fine American organ. As I descended I soon saw that the
musician was Miss Stretton, who sat with her back toward me, playing
with a touch I have seldom heard equalled even by professionals.
I am very fond of music, so I slipped quietly into a chair and
listened to those divine harmonies divinely played. Miss Stretton
went on from nocturne to nocturne, and I felt somewhat guilty at thus
surreptitiously listening, but resolved that the moment she gave a sign
of ceasing I would steal quietly up the stair again without revealing
my presence.
Down the passage facing me, that formed a highway from the saloon to
the suites occupied by the ladies, I saw Miss Hemster come out of her
room, and, by the same token, she must have seen me. She advanced a
few steps, then stood still, apparently listening to the music, finally
turned, and re-entered her apartment with a distinct, emphatic slam of
the door. I paid no attention to this, but then was the time for me
to steal on deck again if I had had any wisdom in my head, which I so
frequently must admit I have not. Miss Stretton, absorbed in the music,
presumably had not heard the slam of the door, but a little later Miss
Hemster emerged again, and this time came straight down the passage
and through the saloon, with a swish, swish of silken skirts that
sounded eloquent in anger. I have never heard silk skirts rustle since
then without remembering the occasion I am endeavouring to describe;
yet never before or since have I heard the hiss of silk that actually
swore, if I may be permitted the use of such an expression.
The young woman marched past me with head erect, and a gleam in her
eyes such as I had seen on one occasion before, but this time fixed
and anything but transient, as the other flash had been. I rose
respectfully to my feet as she passed, but she cast not even a glance
at me, merely pausing for a second at the foot of the stairs to catch
up the train of her magnificent gown, then up the steps she went at a
run. Now I had consciously given the girl no cause of annoyance, but,
the music having ceased suddenly, I turned around and saw Miss Stretton
regarding me with something like dismay in her eyes.
“How long have you been here?” she asked.
“Oh, only for a few minutes,” I replied. “Pray go on, Miss Stretton.
I am very fond of music, and not for years have I been privileged to
hear it so well played.”
“It is very kind of you to say that,” murmured Hilda Stretton, “but I
think I have played enough for one morning.”
“At least finish the selection you were just now engaged upon,” I
begged.
“Some other time, please,” she said in a low voice; and I did not urge
her further, for I saw she was frightened.
“Very well,” I replied, “I shall take that as a promise.”
She inclined her head as she came down the room, and went up the
stairs, disappearing also on deck, leaving me wondering what all this
disquietude was about. I thought of going on deck myself, but, feeling
slightly resentful at the treatment accorded me by Miss Hemster, I
walked forward, sat down on the piano-stool, and began to drum a few
of the catchy London tunes that ran through my head. I was playing
“Knocked ’em in the Old Kent Road” with little idea of how excellent
an overture it would prove for the act about to be commenced, and was
thinking of the Strand, and the Tivoli, and Chevalier, and Piccadilly
Circus, and the Empire, and Leicester Square, and the Alhambra, when I
was startled by a woman’s appealing voice crying just above a whisper:
“Oh, don’t, Gertie; please don’t!”
I turned my head and saw, coming down the stairway, Gertrude Hemster
followed by Hilda Stretton. The latter was evidently almost on the
verge of tears, but the face of the former was shocking to behold.
I could not have believed that a countenance so beautiful was capable
of being transformed into a visage that might have stood model for a
picture of murderous wrath.
[Illustration: “Will you stop your foolish pounding on _my_ piano?”
_Page 95_
]
“Will you stop your foolish pounding on _my_ piano?” she cried, with a
tremendous emphasis on the first personal pronoun.
“Madam, I have stopped,” I replied, giving a soft answer that failed to
have the supposed effect.
“I guess you think you own the yacht and all it contains, don’t you?
Now, I beg to inform you that we don’t allow employees to conduct
themselves as if they were in a bar-room or a drinking-saloon.”
As she said this, she strode once up and down the length of the room.
“Madam,” said I, “I beg your pardon, and shall never touch your piano
again. My only excuse is that I have been so accustomed to public
liners, where the piano is free to all, that for the moment I forgot
myself.”
At this juncture Miss Stretton was so injudicious as to touch the other
on the elbow, apparently trying to guide her into the passage that led
to her room, but Miss Hemster whirled around like an enraged tigress,
and struck her companion a blow that would have landed on her cheek
had not the victim suddenly and instinctively raised an arm to protect
her face. Then with the viciousness of a harridan of Drury Lane Miss
Hemster grasped the shrinking girl by the shoulders, and shook her as a
terrier does a rat, finally forcing her down into a seat by the side
of the table. One girl’s face was as white as paper, and the other’s
nearly purple with rage. I had intended to go up on deck, but paused
for two reasons. First I was afraid of injury to Miss Stretton, and
secondly the struggle took place, if struggle it could be called when
one was entirely passive, in the midst of the only route open to me.
“You dare to interfere, you little fool,” shrieked Miss Hemster.
“You that are the cause of all the trouble, with your silly little
ditties--tinkle-tinkle-tinkle-tinkle--and I’ll box your ears for you if
you dare stir!”
“Madam,” said I, “you are possibly so ignorant as not to know that you
were listening to Chopin’s most subtle harmonies.”
This had exactly the effect I desired, which was to turn her away from
the trembling girl whom she had so harshly misused.
“Ignorant, you puppy! Have you the gall to apply such language to me,
looking, as you do, like a monkey on a stick; like a doll that one can
buy at the bargain counter.”
This graphic description of my Oxford blazer was so striking that in
spite of the seriousness of the case I did the one thing I should not
have done,--I laughed. The laugh was like a spark to a powder-mine, and
what made the crisis worse was that the old gentleman in his armchair
on deck, hearing the shrieking voice, came down, his face haggard with
anxiety.
“Gertie, Gertie!” he cried. I would not like to say the young lady
swore, but she came so near it that there was but tissue paper between
the expression she used and that which an angry fish-wife would have
employed. With the quickness of light she sprang at a large Japanese
vase which temporarily decorated the center of the table. This she
heaved up, and with the skill of a football player flung it squarely at
me. Now, I have had some experience on the football field myself, and
I caught that vase with a dexterity which would have evoked applause
had any enthusiast of the game happened to be present. I suppose my
placing of this huge vase on the top of the piano was the last straw,
or perhaps it was her father coming forward, crying in a grief-shaken
voice, “Oh, Gertie, Gertie, my child, my child!”
I was so sorry for him that I passed him and would have gone on deck
out of the way, but my purpose was checked by a startling incident. The
young woman had whisked open a drawer. I heard it come clattering to
the floor, for she had jerked it clear from its place; then there was
a scream. Turning quickly around I met the blinding flash of a pistol,
and heard behind me the crash of a splintering mirror. The sound of the
revolver in that contracted space was deafening, and even through the
smoke I saw that my young friend was about to fire again. I maintain
it was not fear for my own life that caused instant action on my part,
but this infuriated creature, who seemed to have become insane in her
anger, faced three helpless, unarmed people, and whatever was to be
done had to be done quickly. I leaped through the air, and grasped
her two wrists with an energetic clutch I daresay she had never
encountered before.
“Drop that revolver!” I cried.
“Let go my wrists, you beast,” she hissed in my face. For answer I
raised her arms and brought them down with a force that would have
broken her fingers with the weight of the revolver if she had not let
it go clattering to the floor.
“You beast, you beast, you beast!” she shrieked at me, as well as
her choking throat would allow utterance. I swung her around a
quarter-circle, then pushed her back, somewhat rudely I fear, until she
sank down into a chair.
“Now, sit there and cool,” I cried, giving her a hearty shake, so that
she should know how it felt herself. “If you don’t keep quiet I’ll box
your ears.”
I don’t defend my action at all; I merely state that I was just as
angry as she was, and perhaps a little more so.
“You brute, let go of my wrists! I’ll kill you for this! Hilda, call
the captain and have this man put in irons. Father, how can you stand
there like a coward and see a beastly ruffian use me in this way?”
“Oh, Gertie, Gertie!” repeated the father without moving.
She now burst into a passionate flood of tears, and I released her
wrists, ready, however, to catch them again if she made any motion to
reach the revolver.
During this fierce if brief contest,--it took less time in happening
than it requires in telling,--Miss Stretton had been seated in the
chair upon which the angry woman had thrust her, and she gazed at
us in open-eyed terror. The old man stood half leaning against the
table, steadying himself with his hands. Miss Hemster’s fit of weeping
was as dramatic as everything else she did. It began with a burst of
very angry and genuine tears, and this storm passed through a gamut
of more or less varying emotions until it subsided into a hysterical
half-sobbing, half-gasping wail which resembled the cry of the helpless
child who had been tyrannized over. It was bogusly pathetic, but I
saw it went straight to the old man’s heart and wrung it with very
real agony, and this mean advantage which I knew she was taking of
the father’s deep love for her increased my scornful contempt for the
creature. His grief was actual enough, and she was quite consciously
playing upon it, although,--wonderful actress that she was,--she
pretended an utter abandon of heart-breaking sorrow.
As for me, I undoubtedly felt myself the brute she had named me, and
even at that moment,--much more so later,--was shocked to find in
my own nature depths of primeval savagery which had hitherto been
unsuspected. Seeing, however, that the worst of the storm was over,
and that the young woman would make no more attempts at gun-firing, I
replaced the drawer in position and threw into it its scattered former
contents. Then I picked up the revolver, saying:
“I will keep this, for there is nothing more dangerous than such an
instrument in the hands of a woman who can’t shoot.”
The effect of this remark on the drooping figure was instantaneous.
She abruptly raised her tear-sodden face, which now became crimson with
a new wave of anger.
“You gaping baboon,” she cried, “I can shoot a great deal better than
you can!”
I paid no heed to her, but, advising Mr. Hemster to lock up any other
firearms he might have on board, abruptly left the saloon.