"Of course," said Franklin. "But before we put off do what you can to
get a stewardess aboard for Mrs. Larpent. You had better send Jones
ashore. He has a wide smile and does things pretty quick, and,--wait a
second, Captain,--let him bring back all the latest novels that he can
find. We shall need something to keep the ladies busy."
The Captain chuckled. He had been married twice.
*XVII*
The _Galatea_ was under way at two o'clock,--a clear, bright, sparkling
afternoon with a hot sun, a transparent sky and hardly a puff of wind.
Built on thorough sea-going lines, newly painted and in apple-pie order
and carrying a crew of forty men she was, as well she might be, the envy
of passing craft. Men who knew, ran their eyes along her graceful lines
with admiration and took pleasure in her swan-like movement. Others on
tugboats, shifting a quid, made rough guesses as to her daily cost in
the manner of women talking over the clothes, jewels and spendings of a
distinguished leader of society.
About one-thirty two things happened,--the first of them comic, the
other not without a touch of pathos. The sandy-headed mate, Horatio
Jones, whose middle name of Nelson was dropped by him with a sneaking
sense of its unfitness, had used his wide smile and glib tongue to some
purpose and returned to the yacht with Mrs. O'Dowd after a busy thirty
minutes. The young Irish, childless, wife of a sea-faring friend of
his, she was not above earning good wages as stewardess and taking a
look at the world, her husband being away. Also he brought with him a
heterogeneous box full of what the book-seller had called the latest
novels, but some of them had been out six months and so were in ripe old
age. There was no time to make much of a choice, but Jones had, as
usual, looked after himself by seeing that his collection included Rex
Beach, Jack London, Irvin Cobb, Robert Chambers, Gene Stratton-Porter
and Sinclair Lewis. It was simply to make up weight that he threw in
Wells, Walpole, Dunsany, Lucas Malet, Conrad, Galsworthy, and other
drawing-room "geezers," as he called them. They meant nothing to him.
He handed Mrs. O'Dowd over to the chief steward and with an air of pride
and satisfaction followed the case down to the library and arranged its
pristine contents in a long alluring line on the centre table. It
seemed to him that the hardly-ever read sporting and technical volumes
behind the glass of all the cases turned up their noses in contempt.
The pathetic incident was the unexpected arrival of little Mrs. Lester
Keene, who came on board with the air of a moving picture heroine chased
by at least six desperate and obviously made up villains armed to the
teeth. A little bag into which she had placed all her small items of
jewelry and other treasures was clutched in one agitated hand and she
carried an umbrella in the other. She was one of those women who regard
an umbrella as the patent of respectability rather than as a weapon of
service. She took it with her walking or driving,--wet or fine. It was
a fetish, an institution. Deprived of her umbrella she would have felt
like an actor without his daily advertisement or an Oxford Don caught
naked by a chambermaid. She was assisted aboard, with many gasps, by a
deck hand, and drew up, expecting apparently to see pirates and the
skull and cross bones. Franklin turned and saw her and smiled a
welcome.
For some reason which he didn't endeavor to define he was glad to see
the admirable little woman who had won his complete respect and
admiration in her endeavor to put up a fight in Beatrix's bedroom that
memorable night. "My dear Mrs. Keene," he said, holding out his hand,
"I'm delighted to see you. Welcome to the _Galatea_! I was wondering
how it was that my wife came to leave you behind."
Mrs. Keene bridled with indignation. "Your wife?" she said. "Well,
this is really a most extraordinary country."
"I beg your pardon," said Franklin, "I should have said Miss
Vanderdyke." It had seemed to him quite natural to use the word "wife."
"That's why I have come," said Mrs. Keene, her rather loose skin
wabbling nervously. "Need I say more?"
"Nothing more, but I must ask you at once to oblige me by remembering
that everybody on this yacht believes, and must continue to believe,
that Miss Vanderdyke is Mrs. Franklin. You know why as well as I do.
That is understood, of course." His question, behind which there was
very palpably the suggestion of a drastic course of action, achieved a
bow from Mrs. Keene. He then pointed to a small suit-case. "Is that
all you've brought?"
"I had no time to pack anything else," she said. "Where is Beatrix?"
"Below, settling for the cruise."
"The cruise? Is this to be a cruise? Can nothing prevent this rash
act?"