"You love Beatrix."
"A precious clever fellow, aren't you? What the devil made you get to
love so quickly? I expected you to flounder through a dozen guesses and
then be wide of the mark."
"A man and a woman and love," said Fraser. "Why hire a detective to make
a mystery of that? It's any poet's job."
Franklin kicked the wall viciously. "There's nothing for a poet in
this," he said. "I do love this girl. I wish to God I didn't. I'd give
ten years of my life if she left me as cold as a flapping fish. You
know what we talked over this morning. We decided that there was only
one way for me to get out honestly of that fool maze in which I'd been
caught. The reasons were pretty obvious. My family and the Vanderdykes
were at the mercy of that glossy charlatan and because of the
ungovernable impulses of this ... this--what in thunder _is_ the right
word for Beatrix? I give it up."
"Undiscovered girl. Will that do?"
"No," said Franklin. "Not a bit like it."
"Well, then, dollar-ruined, misnamed victim of a false civilization.
How's that?"
"Too long and too pedantic. I wanted one word. However, let it go.
What's it matter? It's a waste of words to describe her and a waste of
time to consider her. When I put things to her plainly and bluntly, she
told me to go to the devil. I sent for you to use your influence,
hoping, as of course you can see, that she might come down to solid
things and see sense,--hoping too that, married, I might be able to
force my way into her heart, if she's got one."
"Oh, yes, she's got one."
"I doubt it. Very highly finished watch works is all the heart she's
got. However, since that first talk we've had another and that's made
your kindness in coming here utterly useless."
Fraser turned eagerly towards his friend. He had no hope of ever being
any more to Beatrix than an art student can be to a very perfect
Gainsborough at which he gazes from behind a rail. He could neither buy
her nor win her. She was completely out of his reach. Not able to marry
her himself, he would rather see her married to Franklin than any living
man. "Why?" he asked.
"Because I'm off. I'm out. I'm through. I'm not an expert in love.
As a matter of fact I'm a boob in the business. It's new to me. But
it's hit me good and hard, old son, and with any encouragement or with
half a chance, I'd go for it with everything decent that's in me."
"Go for it," said Fraser, with an odd thrill in his voice. "You have
all the luck."
Franklin shook his head. "No. I've done. She has no use for me. She
mocks me, twists me round her finger, holds me up by the scruff of the
neck, gets more fun out of me than if I were a red-nosed comedian and
nearly drives me to murder. I just _have_ to get away. I'm going
to-night."
"To-night? But my dear old Pel, you--you only found out that you loved
her a few hours ago."
"Quite long enough."
"But, good Lord, you _must_ let me see what I can do. When we were kids
I used to have some influence with her. That is, once or twice she did
things for my sake. To chuck the whole thing now, when it looks far
more serious than ever,--why Pel, my dear man, talk about ungovernable
impulses----"
"Oh, I know," growled Franklin. "We're both tarred with the same brush.
We're both money-maniacs. However, in perfectly cold blood, standing
here to-night, I assure you that I am better out of her way. I can't
help her. She won't be helped. She doesn't give a red cent for
anything that may happen. All she cares about is just to go laughing
through the moment. Well, let her. But she'll have to go alone. I love
her in the sort of way that makes me want to choke her when she starts
her tricks. That's the truth. I'm sorry. I don't want to be unsporting
and all that but, Malcolm, she isn't safe with me." His voice shook as
he said this thing.
"Wait until the morning," said Fraser urgently. "Let me show her the
mess she's in."
"Can't be done," said Franklin. "I've told Albert to put my things in
the car and I'm off to town right away. I shall go aboard in the
morning and weigh anchor at two o'clock. I'll wait for you till then
and not a second later." He laid his hand on Fraser's shoulder. "Get
your things and come now. There's nothing to do here, worse luck."
"In any case," said Fraser, "I want to have a bit of a talk with Beatrix
now that I'm here."
"All right. Well, then, so long, Malcolm. It was mighty good of you to
come. Don't fail to be in time to-morrow." He turned and went, walking
quickly and waking all the flowers with his energy.
Fraser watched him go,--his tall, wiry, square-shouldered, muscular
figure thrown out against the moon-silvered stone-work of the terrace.
Then he turned back to the scene that filled his brain with imagery and
that inarticulate worship which is offered by all good students to the
Master for the perfection of His work. The silence sang. Many of the
shore lights had gone out. But the moon rode high and the stars were at
their brightest. The faint breeze had fallen away. Fraser raised his
hand above his head in a sort of salute and then wheeled round and
followed Franklin toward the elephantine house that made a huge black
patch against the transparent sky. As he got nearer to it the music of
a Hula-Hula thing came to him,--a fascinating, hip-moving mixture that
suggested both Hawaii and Broadway and he could see the dancers flitting
past the open windows of the ball-room. Among them was Beatrix, in the
arms of one of those spineless semi-professional dancing men, a new,
curious and uncomfortable breed that has developed in New York since the
craze carried it on to its feet. Her mouth was open and her teeth
gleaming and her young body moving with exquisite grace and ease.
Fraser went up to one of the windows and watched her until the tune came
to an end. Every man has a dream. Somewhere or other in the life of
men, all men, there is one precious, priceless thing tucked away in the
secret drawer of the heart. Beatrix, as a little, frank, fearless girl,
lived and was glorified, for Fraser.
He allowed himself just one short sigh. "And now," he said to himself,
"to show for the first time in history that a poet can be a man of
action for the sake of a friend. If I fail, I'll, yes, I'll eat and
drink my self-filling pen."
It was one o'clock the next day when Franklin left the chart-room of the
_Galatea_, where he had been planning out a cruise with the skipper. He
went on deck. All hands had been busily at work since early morning,
cleaning and polishing. The yacht looked like a beautiful woman, fresh
from the hands of manicure and maid.
There was a shout of "Galatea ahoy" from the port side. Franklin took
no notice. It was probably the arrival of the last boat-load of stores.
He stood with his arms behind him and his mind back in the Vanderdyke
gardens with the afternoon sun aslant upon them, and as he watched the
retreating figure of the imperious girl to whom he was less than the
dust, a mere pawn to be moved when it was necessary in her game, the
amazing thrill which had discovered to him the love that was to be the
greatest thing in his life, ran all over him again, and shook him with
its strength and passion.
Well, he was bolting from her, bolting because he was afraid. It was
the act of a coward, perhaps, but that girl had the power of making
queer creatures of men. And he did not intend to be one of them. That
was all.
A laugh, taken up by the breeze and thrown past his ear like the petal
of a flower, turned him round. Unable to believe his eyes, he saw
Beatrix, Ida Larpent and Malcolm Fraser, standing on deck, while luggage
was being piled about them. Fraser waved his hand triumphantly. Mrs.
Larpent gave one of her slow smiles and Beatrix, with the expression of
an angel and a touch of timidity and even humbleness that Franklin had
never seen before, came forward. "Come aboard, sir," she said, with a
very proper salute. "Malcolm showed me the error of my ways last night
and like a good and faithful wife I am going on my honeymoon."
And then the old Beatrix returned and a mocking smile turned Franklin's
heart to ice.
*XVI*
Franklin was a man who inherited a horror of scenes. If he saw a crowd
in the street reinforced by running figures he turned on his heel and
went the other way. Anything in the nature of an argument sent him out
into the street. He was at any time perfectly willing to fight, either
for the sake of the exercise or to punish an offender, but he shied at a
fracas, a domestic wrangle or the remote possibility of placing himself
in a position of being surrounded by many people all talking at the same
time. He had camped in solitary places, and communed with nature in her
forest cathedrals. He liked the silences.
The moment that this amazing boat-load came aboard the _Galatea_ he saw
himself plunged into a scene, if ever there was one. Malcolm Fraser was
bursting with information and explanations. Mrs. Larpent gave every
indication of the fact that she felt that some justification for her
presence was required, and behind Beatrix's impish laugh there was a
high-spirited story waiting to be told.
Just for one moment Franklin stood bare-headed in front of Beatrix
completely and utterly nonplussed. She was the last person on earth whom
he had expected to see on the yacht. He had, indeed, made up his mind
never to see her again.--to cut and run from the pain of her, the
allurement, the overwhelming attraction. He gazed at her as if she had
fallen from the clouds. He had been treated like a child again, "used"
once more, and he was angry, but as he took in her charming appearance,
the calm audacity of her expression, the indescribable loveliness of her
face, he rejoiced. Then he pulled himself together and tried to perform
the operation of smiling as a new husband should. "You're in excellent
time," he said, and gave a shout, caught the eye of the mate and
beckoned him to come forward. "Get everything ready for Mrs. Franklin
and Mrs. Larpent. Look alive and have Mr. Fraser's things taken down to
his stateroom at once."
The mate was English. "Aye! Aye, sir!" He was also young and sandy
and somewhat precocious, and from the tail-end of his eye there came a
look of deep admiration for the owner's wife, whom he now saw for the
first time.
"Stop a minute," said Franklin. "I don't see anything of your maid,
Beatrix. You'll never be able to get along without her."
"You're very thoughtful," said Beatrix, graciously. "Anyone would think
you had been on a honeymoon before." And then she laughed. "For some
reason or other Helene is very much afraid of you. I brought her, but
evidently she's hidden behind something,--the baggage probably." She
called "Helene," and the pretty face and compact figure of the young
Breton appeared reluctantly from behind several huge innovation trunks,
hat-boxes, boot-cases, cabin-trunks, and the Lord knows what
besides,--enough, as it seemed to Franklin, to supply half a dozen wives
with unnecessaries.
"Perhaps you'll go below with Mr. Jones and make your own arrangements.
Otherwise, I'm afraid you won't be very comfortable."
Beatrix smiled in her best social manner. "It's too bad to put you to
all this inconvenience and worry," she said. "I'm so sorry, but I dare
say we shall all fit in with perfect ease and comfort. More like a
young liner than a yacht, isn't she? And who named her the _Galatea_?
So terribly suitable, as little Mrs. Reeves would say. Lead the way,
Mr. Jones."
There was a touch of almost navy etiquette about the way in which the
mate saluted and obeyed.
Beatrix beckoned to Helene, who was as frightened as a rabbit at sight
of dogs, and the little party went below. Franklin watched her go, saw
her look about her with a touch of perfectly simple excitement, envied
the sun as she put up her face to catch it and the friendly smile with
which she rewarded the mate. "If only," he said to himself, "if
only----"
And then Mrs. Larpent came forward. There was a most curious little
smile round her very red lips and wide nostrils, and a whole dictionary
of meaning in her eyes. "You must be a little surprised to see----"
Franklin cut her short. "Not at all. Delighted!" he said, bluntly.
"Would you be good enough to follow Beatrix and take your choice of
staterooms? I will endeavor to get a stewardess for you before we
sail."
"Thanks, so much!" said Ida Larpent, making no attempt to disguise her
sense of triumph at being on the yacht. "How delightful it will be to
get away from the land and its people for a time. I congratulate you on
the _Galatea_."
Franklin waited until she had disappeared and then strode over to
Malcolm Fraser, who was watching the arriving baggage, took his arm and
marched him out of ear-shot of the crew. "What the devil have you done?
You call yourself a friend and land me in this mess!" His voice was
thick with anger.
Fraser looked as astonished as he felt. "But you called me down to the
Vanderdykes to do this very thing," he said. "I've done it. What's the
trouble?"
"You colossal idiot!" said Franklin. "Haven't you imagination enough to
see it for yourself? Have you forgotten every blessed thing that I told
you last night? You haven't persuaded this girl to come aboard to
oblige her people or to keep my name out of the papers. She doesn't
give a solitary curse whether hers is in them or not. She's come just
to have the satisfaction of playing with fire, and has brought Ida
Larpent because she knows instinctively that she is the last woman on
earth I care to see her with or have on the _Galatea_."
All the way back to town, Fraser had been congratulating himself on
having achieved the impossible. He opened his mouth to speak.
"I think you'd better dry up," said Franklin, "and give me time to cool
down. At this moment I feel like pitching you overboard." He turned on
his heel, went forward and stood, with his hands thrust into his
pockets, gazing down the river.
Like all poets, Malcolm Fraser was a very sensitive person. He was
deeply hurt at the way in which his efforts were received by the man for
whom he had a very deep regard. Like all poets,--even those who confine
themselves to gloomy verses, to graves and broken hearts and wind in the
trees,--he was an optimist. He had made up his mind that he had only to
get Beatrix away to sea with Franklin to bring romance into their very
strange, exotic story. He held the belief,--shared by many
philosophers,--that in most cases love is the outcome of
propinquity,--especially at sea. He didn't possess much, but he would
give it all to watch the girl he loved become a woman and find herself
for love of his friend. He threw a sympathetic glance at the square
shoulders of his friend, and went below to his own familiar stateroom.
From this he could hear Beatrix's merry laugh. She, at any rate, seemed
to be happy, and that was something. He could not for the life of him
understand,--with his friend's confession still warm in his
memory,--why, he, too, was not in the seventh heaven of delight at the
fulfilment of what had yesterday seemed to be a dream. To the amazing
unconventionality of the whole affair he gave no thought. He was an
artist.
Finally, and with a huge effort to master his anger and amazement, joy
and sense of impending trouble, Franklin summed things up to the best of
his ability: "Here's Beatrix," he said to himself, "not married to
me,--supposedly on our honeymoon. I love her like an idiotic
school-boy--she loathes me like the devil. Here's Ida Larpent, out for
everything that she can get, playing her own hand with all the cunning
of a card-sharp. Here's Fraser, one of the very best, a man with a
heart of gold to whom friendship means loyalty, with a love for Beatrix
which has outlasted his boyhood. And almost in sight of us all is the
open sea. Great Scott, what a mess!"