The little woman, who had great grit and even heroism beneath her
indecisive and fluttering exterior, drew herself up. "Very good," she
said, "I shall do what I conceive to be my duty." All the same she
threw an anxious glance about her. It was quite obvious that she was
looking for life-belts, life-boats, rafts and all the other
paraphernalia of shipwrecks. No one could guess, nor did she herself
quite realize, the immensity of her triumph of mind over matter in
trusting herself at sea or the extent of the damage to her sense of
propriety that was made by her being obliged to lend her countenance to
a quite indescribable proceeding. If she had imagined that she would
ever find herself a companion to a young woman who went for a honeymoon
with a man to whom she had not been married she would willingly have
starved in London or taken a position as a waitress in an A.B.C. shop.
"I was not well last night," she said, with a quiver in her voice. "I
had one of my most severe attacks of neuralgia. I overslept myself this
morning. I can only think that Beatrix left me behind because she was
too thoughtful to disturb me. Mr. Franklin, I am not very strong. I
have had a terrible time to get here. You must please forgive my
agitation."
Franklin felt thoroughly inclined to put his arm round the tremulous
lady's shoulder and say, "There, there!" as Beatrix always did, and
soothe her with soft words. It seemed to him that she was, with her
pedantic and old-fashioned ideas, rather like the Dodo in the century to
which he belonged, or that she resembled a faded stuffed canary under a
glass case in a room furnished and painted by cubists. "You will find
your stateroom very comfortable," he said, "and I will do all that I can
to make you happy and contented. I'm very glad you've come."
"Thank you! You are kinder than my former experience led me to expect.
And now, please, where are the stairs?"
Franklin smothered his laugh. He was glad for her sake that the mate
was not in earshot. He called up one of the deck boys. "Take Mrs.
Lester Keene below," he said, "and tell the chief steward to look after
her."
It so happened that Mrs. Keene was immediately seen by Beatrix, and
before Franklin moved away he heard her high, clear voice. "Brownie,
you darling! Fancy seeing you here. I left you with red flannel round
your face. You must have come by aeroplane." And then he heard the
sound of someone bursting into tears and moved away.
It was not until the _Galatea_ had left her mooring well behind her that
Malcolm Fraser screwed up his courage to face his friend. He found
Franklin forward with his arms folded and a pipe between his teeth,
watching the amazing skyline of the receding city, and running his eyes
over the great docks that lined the banks of the river, the gigantic
ferries, the impertinent tugs and a transatlantic liner being edged inch
by inch into her berth, her portside all a-flutter with waving
handkerchiefs.
For several minutes Fraser stood shoulder to shoulder with his best pal,
waiting for him to turn. He would have waited for an hour without a
word because he had the rare gift of imagination and therefore of
sympathy. The two are twins. But presently Franklin turned and there
was an irresistible twinkle in his eyes. "Now then," he said, as though
continuing a conversation, "how the blazes did you do it?"
To Fraser that twinkle was worth a great deal. "Do you want to know the
details, old man?"
"'Course I do. Women aren't the only curious animals on earth, y'
know."
"After you had left," said Fraser gravely, "I tackled Beatrix. I had to
wait until the dance was over and most of the people had gone to bed.
Oddly enough I caught her at a moment when she was more like the little
simple girl with whom I used to play games as a kid than I've seen her
for years. Perhaps it was due to the moon or the stars,--or both.
Anyway she took my arm and we wandered into the garden and for quite a
long time we talked of the old days and some of the things that she used
to dream about. I think the fairies must have been dancing somewhere
near. Then I switched things round to the present and told her, pretty
plainly, what I conceived it to be her duty to do to retrieve herself.
I spoke to her honestly and bluntly, like a brother, and she was very
patient and listened to me without a word. I didn't exaggerate things
at all. I didn't see how I could. They've gone to the whole lengths of
exaggeration already. I talked about her family and their wholesome
desire to avoid scandal, and I painted a picture of what York could do
to put the name of Vanderdyke, which stands so high, into the kitchen,
the garage and the reeking saloon. I pointed out that if, for the first
time in her life, she didn't do something all against the grain she
would jeopardize the noble efforts of Aunt Honoria and outrage all the
endeavors of her father and mother to build up an aristocracy in this
country. I believe I must have talked for half an hour and all the time
she sat with her hands clasped together and the moonlight on her face,
more beautiful than I have ever seen her look and more like the child
that she used to be before she discovered the intolerance of wealth and
had been spoiled by the obsequiousness of everybody round her. Just
when I thought that I had won my point and was beginning to feel the
warm glow of triumph, she got up. 'My dear old Malcolm, no wonder you
write poetry,' she said. 'You are a sort of cherub, my dear. You have
a head--a very nice head--and two wings, and that's all. All the same
there is much heart in your eloquence and an immense amount of common
sense. The only thing is, I don't intend to marry Pelham Franklin under
any circumstances whatever, so God bless you, old boy, and good night.'
And with that she turned away, sang a little song and foxtrotted through
the gardens on to the terrace and into the house. Presently I saw a
light in her window, gave the whole thing up and went off to bed with my
tail between my legs. Imagine my surprise when about eight o'clock this
morning a discreet man-servant brought me a letter from her. Here it
is." He slipped it out of his pocket and read it aloud:
"Dear Poet:
"I have altered my mind just to prove to you that I am a woman after
all, little as you think so. Also,--two reasons are better than
one,--because I am bored stiff and have decided to take a cruise on the
_Galatea_. But you must come, because we shall need a fourth at
bridge,--make that an absolute stipulation,--and Mrs. Larpent will make
the third. Pack your little trunk, dear Malcolm, and be ready
immediately after breakfast. Heigh-ho, for the wind and the sea."
"H'm," said Franklin, "she beats me."
*XVIII*
As he sat down to dinner that night in the admirable saloon, wholly
devoid of the frills and furbelows which are so dear to the hearts of
incurable landlubbers, Franklin threw an amused glance at Malcolm
Fraser, who read it, laughed and signalled back. "Yes, by Jove, a very
different table from the one we're used to! How about compensations?"
Franklin looked from one guest to another, with close scrutiny. He
caught the meaning of Fraser's mental question. Compensation?
Beatrix Vanderdyke, dressed as though she were a woman of thirty bound
for the opera,--in the highest spirits, her laugh ringing out
frequently; Mrs. Claude Larpent, with her irresistible touch of Paris,
her fingers gleaming with rings and a queer Oriental stone which might
have been the eye of some skeptical god watching everyone from her hair;
and Mrs. Lester Keene, the very epitome of the Kensington of Thackeray's
time, her nondescript hair, much touched with grey, scrupulously drawn
back from her forehead, her mouse-colored dress lightened by a lace
thing round her shoulders which might easily have been an anti-macassar.
Malcolm Fraser also ran his eye round the table at which he had hitherto
seen the open, healthy faces and square shoulders of Franklin's sporting
friends. He was not at all sure,--perhaps because he was a poet,--that
this new sight was not more pleasant to him than the old one. There
was, however, one question that he asked himself again. "Why Mrs.
Larpent?" He was not in any sense of the word a man of the world. He
believed that all women were chaste and devoid of guile, but there was
something about Mrs. Larpent which made him a little sorry to see her in
the company of Beatrix,--he didn't know why. The portholes were open,
as the night was hot. They framed round patches of a sky pitted with
stars. The steady conscientious pulse of the engines and the slight
swing of the yacht were the only indications of her activity. An
excellent dinner was being served by four expert stewards who had
devoted the most minute care in the decoration of the table in honor of
"Mrs. Franklin." In the gallery a string quartette with piano was
playing _Boheme_, almost to perfection. There was just the slightest
inclination on the part of the pianist to syncopate the music. The poor
wretch had been doomed to a cabaret for two seasons.
Franklin, partly recovered from his shock, was determined to make the
best of things. The sight of Beatrix in all the glory of her youth was
a delight to him. It filled him with joy and pride to see her sitting
in that yacht of his, which he regarded as home. His blood danced every
time that her laugh rang out. She added something to the atmosphere of
the saloon which he had always subconsciously missed and desired.
Nevertheless he told himself, and believed it to be true, that he had
routed out of his mind every thought of making her his wife, even in
name. Her dislike of him, expressed very definitely, and now shown by
the aloof but perfectly courteous way in which she included him in the
conversation, made the mere idea of such a thing impossible and absurd.
She was on board to please herself, to carry out a whim and an impulse
to do something new and different, and she had taken care to surround
herself with a body guard in order to protect her. He saw all that and
shrugged his shoulders. He said, as he had said over and over again,
"She beats me. I can't compete with her. I give it up. She must have
her head. At any rate all this will do something to put York off the
scent, so what's the use of worrying? I bow the knee to autocracy."
That was the mood of the man who had never hitherto allowed himself to
be beaten by men or beasts. Women were not included in this list for the
simple reason that they had never been permitted to interfere with his
way of life.
As for Beatrix, she was not thinking, dissecting or going to the mental
bother of introspection. She was enjoying a new sensation, delighting
in the thrill of a dangerous and what would be to most girls an
inconceivable adventure. She looked upon the whole thing as merely an
episode, an act in the drama of her life, and with enough sense of
excitement to spur her on played her part of Franklin's wife with one
appreciative eye on herself. She believed that York would carry out his
threat, knowing the man as well as she did, and she knew that as soon as
the whole house of cards fell flat, as it was bound to do, her family,
headed by Aunt Honoria, would punish severely. They would spoil her life
at least for a year. She had gone on the cruise because the word
"yacht" had filled her with the desire to smell the sea and try a new
form of amusement. That was all. Franklin, either as a man or an
enemy, or as one who had come to her rescue, counted for nothing. He
meant no more to her than Captain McBean or Mr. Horatio Jones. He was
merely the means of providing her with the antidote against boredom.
She was out to enjoy a new experience at his expense. Hurrah for the
open sea! Sufficient for the day, so long as the day was fine and the
people in it kept her merry.
When it came to Ida Larpent and the way in which she regarded her
totally unexpected presence on the _Galatea_, the mental processes of
her mind were as busily at work as the mechanical appliances of the
ship's engine. This was no mere joy-ride for her. It was a business
trip, the chances of which had been grasped eagerly with all the cunning
of a woman who had lived on her wits and brought individualism to a fine
art. She was going to use every moment to her own ultimate advantage.
The fact that Beatrix had placed her among her favorites was an
admirable step forward. She was clever enough to know that the sunshine
of the beautiful young autocrat's smile might at any moment cloud
over,--that her reign as a favorite was most ephemeral. But she had
already watched things closely and had come to the conclusion that the
marriage which had caused so much rejoicing among the Vanderdykes,
romantic as it seemed, was an empty and hollow affair. She saw very
plainly that the heart of Beatrix was utterly untouched. She had yet to
discover precisely how Franklin had been affected. She was no optimist,
but it seemed to her that Franklin was as cool as Beatrix. He had,
however, a way of hiding his feelings that would make it necessary for
her to put him under her microscope. As things appeared on the surface,
at any rate, everything was in her favor. She measured herself against
Beatrix without egotism. The girl had all the advantage of youth
and,--as her knowledge of men told her,--many of the disadvantages. She
was going to set herself with the utmost calculation to stir up
Franklin's passion. It seemed to her that the propinquity forced upon
them all by living aboard a yacht would make that easy. She had
examined herself in the mirror of her stateroom and come to the
conclusion that she had never looked more beautiful or so completely
feminine. Without any sense of loyalty to Beatrix, to whom she was
indebted for this chance, she had made up her mind to attract Franklin
with all the arts that she possessed. To become his mistress meant
absolute freedom from money troubles, and that would be excellent. To
become his wife,--well, why not? The laws of the country were all in
her favor. Divorce was a hobby, an institution, and Beatrix was a
worshipper at the altar of Something New.
When it came to Malcolm Fraser, whom Beatrix had called the fourth of
the party,--he was usually the fourth of every party,--what was he but
simply a man who could do no more than enjoy the glamour of the
impossible--a sort of star-gazer! His love for Beatrix dominated his
secret life and he knew that he could show it only in one way,--by being
her friend. He had no pain in his heart. He had no right to possess a
heart at all where she was concerned, but no one could prevent him from
placing her in the throne of it and locking her in. And so he just
revelled in her presence and was happy.
There remained little Mrs. Lester Keene, the last member of this strange
ill-assorted party, and she, who took everything seriously, and whose
god was convention, was undergoing very genuine suffering. To be
herself a party to any arrangement so unabashed in its smashing of all
the rules of life was bad enough. Her self-respect, which meant so much
to her, was deeply wounded, and when she thought of the girl who seemed
to her to be a sort of queen and for whose beauty and purity she had the
most intense admiration and regard, her perturbation became painful,
even tragical. She suspected Franklin. Like all women who have gone
through life looking at the truth through a key-hole, herself hidden,
she believed no good of men. They were all wolves in sheep's clothing.
They were the enemies of women. She conceived Franklin to be no
different from those worldly creatures of whom she had read so
frequently in her favorite novels, most of which had been written in the
period of her youth by women. She was, therefore, most unhappy. She
was also dreading sea-sickness. Poor little lady, what a combination of
mental disquiet!
*XIX*
Franklin and Fraser left the dining saloon after a brief talk and joined
the ladies in the little used drawing-room. They found that the
orchestra, which was as much a part of the yacht as the engines and
invariably played Franklin's favorite melodies during and after dinner,
had been dismissed. The Victrola was at work instead and the voluptuous
strains of a more than usually saccharine Viennese waltz filled the
charming room.
Franklin drew up short at the door and put his hand on Fraser's arm.
"Look," he said, quietly.
With absolute lack of self-consciousness and a nymph-like grace, her
lips wearing the smile of a child, Beatrix was dancing and winding her
way between the chairs and little tables. With her white arms
outstretched and her hands moving like the wings of a bird she seemed to
bring the music to life and to give it a sense of youth and beauty that
turned the room into a moon-struck wood of thin trees.
The two men watched her until the tune ran out and in the hearts of both
were love and desire.
Franklin went quickly to the Victrola, wound it up and started the
record again.
"What a pity you don't dance, Malcolm," said Beatrix, panting a little.
"But I do," said Franklin, and took her in his arms. He didn't imagine
himself to be a fine dancer. He had a healthy contempt of the dancing
man breed,--those anaemic creatures who try so hard to look immaculate
and treat all women with a tedious mixture of familiarity and
condescension. He waltzed well, all the same, with a perfectly straight
back, an excellent sense of time and a steady left arm. In fact he
danced like a civilized man who had achieved the art of not being
noticed in a crowd.
From her deep and comfortable chair under the reading lamp Ida Larpent,
with a determined exposure of lace stocking, watched this little scene
with quiet amusement. It seemed to her that those two danced like
people who had been married for years. They said nothing. They didn't
look at each other. They were as much two people as though they were at
opposite ends of the earth. The almost grim expression on Franklin's
face made jealousy impossible. So also did the slight air of social
martyrdom that was all about Beatrix. Anyone less expert as a
psychologist than Ida Larpent could have told that Beatrix merely
performed a duty. It would, however, have taken a quite microscopic eye
to have seen the riotous blaze in Franklin's mind.
To Mrs. Lester Keene's mid-Victorian way of thinking, this "exhibition,"
as she inwardly called it, watching from behind the new number of
_Vogue_, was singularly bad form. If she had known the expressive word
"stunt" she would have applied it with all her British horror of such a
thing.
"And now," said Beatrix, when once more the popular tune arrived at its
inevitable and hackneyed conclusion, "for bridge. Don't you think so?"
Franklin rang for a steward. The blood was in his head. The
intoxication of the girl's fragrance was all about his brain. "Good
God," he said to himself, "how am I going to go through this and come
out sane?"
"Splendid," said Mrs. Larpent, putting down "The Dark Flower." "I'd
love a rubber or two."
"And I," said Fraser,--"that is if you don't want to play, Mrs. Keene."
"Thank you, but I never touch cards." The little lady returned to her
astonished examination of the drawings of wispy girls in freak garments.
She invariably waxed almost hectic over the bi-monthly issues of her
favorite journal, every word of which she read with minute care. It was
to her rather like the thing at which a dog barks consistently and with
a very fever of rage but wouldn't avoid on any account.
A steward appeared. "The card table," said Franklin.
"But before we play," said Beatrix, lighting a cigarette, "perhaps
you'll tell us the geography of the yacht. Pelham, I won't sleep
peacefully unless my curiosity is satisfied. I asked Malcolm at dinner
but he's apparently as much of a landlubber as I am." She knew
instinctively that this was the very best way to please Franklin and she
felt that she owed him something for her unsocial manner in the dining
saloon. She intended to enjoy the cruise and therefore it would be
tactful, to say the least of it, to keep him in a good temper.
Franklin was obviously pleased. The _Galatea_ was his favorite toy. He
picked up a photograph album, laid it open on a table and pointed to an
admirable picture of the yacht lying at anchor in the Biscayne Bay.
Beatrix bent over it. Her dress left very little to the imagination.
"I bought her after the death of her first owner," he said. "He was an
eccentric invalid, as you will see when I explain certain things. She
was built in the Clyde about eight years ago. Her tonnage is sixteen
hundred and seven, length all over three hundred and sixteen feet, beam
thirty-five feet six and she carries a crew of forty, all told. You can
see how beautiful her lines are. To my mind she has nothing of her
class to compete against. It's true that some sailors carp at one thing
in her appearance,--the way her bridge is placed. Do you see? Instead
of being well forward as it usually is, you will notice that it's away
aft,--only a few feet from the funnel."
"Why?" asked Beatrix, not even mildly interested.
"To prevent anyone from walking over the library. A cranky idea of the
old man I told you about. In fact the _Galatea_ was designed to meet
his peculiar notions."
"Why not?" said Beatrix. "He had the money."
"Quite," said Franklin drily. "Well, this, where my finger is, is the
flush deck, running from the bows to the stern, broken here by a well
between the forecastle head and the fore part of the bridge."