"Yes," said Franklin, bringing his hand down hard on the rail, "and now
I begin to fight. You have a cat's eyes and see in the dark. You hear
things that other people don't catch. When I tell you, standing here in
broad daylight, that I believe I'm marked out to make this girl find
herself, that it's for me and no other man to bring her out of her
casing of stucco, you'll know that I'm not talking highfalutin; you'll
understand. In other words,--I'm not much of a hand in using 'em,--I
don't think all this is just an accident. I'm going to try and carry
out my job. D'you see?"
"I see," said Malcolm. "That's why I argued with her to come on the
_Galatea_. Good luck, Pel, and when we meet at Sherry's in Christmas
week--don't forget to let us all know the day--I hope to drink to Mrs.
Franklin." He held out his hand.
"I hope to God you may," said Franklin, taking it.
"I hope so too if you wish it as much as all that."
They both turned. Beatrix had just come up, dressed for the land.
"Don't _I_ shake hands with anybody?" she added whimsically.
"With me," said Franklin.
"And me," said Malcolm.
And she gave them a hand each and divided one of her best smiles between
them.
*XXVI*
At half-past three Captain McLeod stopped the engines of the _Galatea_
and the big launch was lowered. Under the supervision of Mr. Jones the
baggage belonging to Mrs. Larpent, Mrs. Lester Keene, Malcolm Fraser and
the French maid was loaded into her, leaving plenty of room for the
passengers.
Beatrix came on deck to find everyone ready. Franklin met her. He
looked as imperturbable as usual but his heart was going nine to the
dozen. "You're not going with the others, if you don't mind," he said.
"Your things shall be put into the smaller launch. I want to take you
ashore myself."
"Highly honored," said Beatrix gaily. "Will all my baggage get into the
other launch?"
"Easily," said Franklin.
"What a lot there is of it,--enough for a regular honeymoon!"
"Yes. I was thinking so.... Excuse me while I say good-bye to the
ladies." He went over to Mrs. Larpent, giving a quick glance to see
that the first officer was on the watch.
"Good-bye," said Mrs. Larpent, softly. "I hate leaving the
_Galatea_--and you."
"Thanks. I'm awfully sorry too."
"I shall probably go and stay with friends at Southampton but a letter
sent to my apartment will be forwarded if at any time you make up
another party and need a fourth for bridge."
"Oh, that's splendid! Good-bye then."
She held his hand, gave him a look that was intended to convey
everything that she would have said if they had been alone,--and
did,--and then went down, was handed into the launch by Mr. Jones in his
best manner and took her place.
Beatrix leaned on the rail. "I wish I had a kodak," she called out.
"You look like Lady Jane Grey."
Mrs. Larpent smiled up at her. "I feel like the devil, my dear," she
said to herself.
Then Franklin gave his hand to Mrs. Keene. "Good-bye," he said. "I'm
sorry you haven't had a good time."
"I can't honestly say that I have, but you've been extremely kind, Mr.
Franklin. Thank you."
And once more Jones proved his right to be called a lady's man.
"You look more hopeful already, Brownie," laughed Beatrix.
"Well, so long, Malcolm."
"So long, Pel."
"You know where to find me."
"Right."
Malcolm sat next to Mrs. Keene to give her his moral support, and waved
his hand to Beatrix. "You'll find us on the quay," he said.
"All right, Malcolm. Don't wander off till I come."
"Let her go," sang out Mr. Jones and away they went.
And then Beatrix turned to Franklin. "Thanks, once more," she said.
Franklin's heart was up in his throat. "I can bring them back with a
shout."
She shook her head.
"A woman may always alter her mind."
"I'm not a woman yet."
"No, that's true."
She laughed. His set face was as amusing as his naive remark. "Well,
it was very jolly. I've got quite fond of the _Galatea_. I shall miss
the sun coming through the portholes in the morning and all my exercise
in the gym."
Franklin raised his hand high above his head. The first officer did the
same.
"I ought to know where to find you with a letter," said Beatrix.
"Probably mother may want a statement from you as soon as I let the cat
out of the bag. Whew! Won't there be a row!"
She began to wonder why Franklin didn't answer. She saw that he was
standing with his chin up and his shoulders squared and an amazing look
in his eyes. Was it laughter, anger? "Why," she said, "we're moving!
Or is it my imagination?"
"No, on we go again," said Franklin.
"But--what do you mean? On where? The other launch isn't lowered yet,
and my things----"
"Our honeymoon begins to-day," said Franklin.
For one instant Beatrix was unable to understand. She saw her luggage
unmoved, the launch away out of hail, the coast receding, she heard the
strong beat of the engines, looked round at the first officer near the
bridge, the sailors standing about, and Franklin ready to spring at her
if she made a wild attempt to leap overboard. She smothered a cry of
rage, stood for a moment in front of Franklin with blazing eyes and
distended nostrils, and then going off at one of her sudden
tangents,--beckoned to the first officer. She would show these men that
she was game.
"As you see, I've changed my mind about going ashore. Will you please
have my things taken back and tell the stewardess to unpack them.
Thanks, so much."
The first officer saluted and gave orders. Several men moved smartly to
carry them out. From the bridge the Captain watched the launch slide
against the quay, and grinned as he imagined the utter amazement of her
passengers at the sight of his vessel with her dignified nose turned
seaward. A smart breeze, lively water, unclouded sun, a clear
horizon,--what a picture the _Galatea_ must make from the shore, he
thought.
"A contemptible trick," said Beatrix, looking at Franklin as though he
were a leper. Other things came to her lips, savage, unrestrained,
white-hot things,--not another living creature would have dared to treat
her like this, not one,--but the first officer was in ear-shot as well
as some of the crew. Blood and breeding told and so with one of her
most gracious smiles she turned and swung away, singing a little song.
Without a maid, without a companion, without a friend, she was a
prisoner on this yacht-world, at the mercy of the man who had given her
vanity an unhealing wound. Her one hope, her one most eager hope, was
that she would reach the drawing-room before her tears could be seen.
Franklin watched her go. To his tremendous love was added pride and
admiration. She had called him a sportsman, but what could he call her?
"A contemptible trick,--yes," he thought. "But this is my job. Fate
has marked me out to make a splendid woman of this spoiled girl, and
I'll do it."
*XXVII*
Mr. Jones, with half a smile playing round his elastic mouth, and an
irresistible twinkle in his small, blue, nimble eyes, quickly overhauled
the _Galatea_, saw the launch properly hoisted and reported to the first
officer.
"Well, that was a little bit of orl-right," he said, rubbing his
handkerchief round the wet leather-lining of his cap. "Neat, very
neat."
"Did they say anything when they twigged the idea?"
The whole of Mr. Jones' cockney face puckered into a grin. "Yes, I
don't think," he said. "The old hen cackled as if she had lost her pet
chicken. A good little soul. I believe she'd 'ave took a flyin' leap
back into the launch if Mr. Fraser 'adn't 'eld her."
"What about Mrs. Larpent?"
"Ma boy, the siren's langwidge under her breath would 'ave lit a pile of
shavings. Oh, she's 'ot stuff, that Larpy, and no mistake. Personally,
I'm bally sorry she's off. It was better than readin' a novel to watch
'er sittin' about with a social smile on one side of her face and a
Board meetin' on the other. The way she was layin' bird lime for the
Boss! Clever? Nor 'arf,--and, moreover, what a nice leg for a stockin',
eh?"
The first officer nodded sympathetically. "Yes," he said, "you're
right. What about M.F.?"
Mr. Jones mopped his forehead and ran his handkerchief round the inside
of his collar. The afternoon was warm. "I only 'ad time to chuck one
glance at Peter Pan," he said, giving Malcolm the nick-name by which he
was known on board, "somethin' in his eyes puzzled me. I dunno, but he
'ad the look of a little feller who'd 'ad his finger caught in a door
and didn't mean to say anything about it. Well, it broke the bloomin'
monotony, anyway, and the boss 'as my warmest congrats. How did Goldie
take it?"
The first officer rather resented this precocious but good-hearted
person's love of nicknames. "Mrs. Franklin changed her mind," he said,
with some stiffness, "and went along to the drawing-room singing."
"Um," said Mr. Jones, with a disbelieving sniff. "Nevertheless, she can
'ave me. I'd break my neck and die 'appy for one of them heart-twistin'
smiles of hers. All the same I shall miss Frenchy, we were gettin' on
fine. Well, such is life."
The two men separated, the first officer to relieve the Captain, Horatio
Jones to go below for a cup of tea. Both intended to discuss the ins
and outs of the affair in full detail later on. The whole ship's
company was intrigued as to the odd way in which Mr. and Mrs. Franklin
"went on." It was almost the one topic of conversation. For constant
gossip a yacht easily rivals a suburb, an army post or a convent.
Franklin had carried a deck chair into the sun forward a little while
after Beatrix had gone to the drawing-room, and he remained there
reading Nicolls on "Big Game in Bechuanaland" for an hour. He
concentrated grimly on that delightful Irishman's account of his hunting
expeditions, but not one word of several chapters reached his brain.
Beatrix, Beatrix, Beatrix,--all the words became her name, on every page
he could see nothing but her face and her slim, graceful, alluring
figure. Questions as to what he was to do, to say, to think, rose out
of the pages. Finally he shut up the book and, with an empty pipe
between his teeth, sat gazing at the line of horizon which rose and
fell, and built up a dream in which he and she went hand in hand as far
as he could see. He was startled and brought back to the difficult task
to which, like a sort of crusader, he had bound himself, by the voice of
the deck steward. "Mrs. Franklin would like you to come to tea, sir."
Mrs. Franklin! By Jove, he would sacrifice everything he had in the
world if only those words were true. He got up, curious and eager, and
went back amidships on the starboard side. In front of a wicker table
Beatrix was pouring out tea while she talked to Captain McLeod. She had
changed back into appropriate clothes and looked the last word in
smartness in a black straw hat with a black and white ribbon, a suit of
white flannel and white shoes with black toe caps. The reason that there
was no sign of redness round her eyes or of swollen lids was because she
had refused to give Franklin the satisfaction of seeing these things by
shedding tears. No one would ever know the strenuous fight that she had
put up, alone in the drawing-room, to achieve this end.
It gave Franklin a thrill of pleasure to see her sitting there, so
perfectly at home, so completely mistress of herself and the situation,
and the smile of welcome that she gave him made him wonder whether he
was not back in his dream.
"Captain McLeod has condescended to patronize the tea table for once,
Pelham."
McLeod got up and placed a chair for Franklin. "Hardly that," he said,
with her note of invitation in his pocket.
"Good for you, McLeod," said Franklin, tacitly agreeing with Beatrix
that, under the circumstances, the presence of a third person made
things easier.
"Lemon and one lump, isn't it?" She made it so.
Franklin was not surprised that she knew. He had proved the keenness of
her observation.
"Captain McLeod, these are cheese sandwiches,--very nice."
"Thank you." The skipper was not much more a lady's man than his owner,
although he had stumbled twice into matrimony, and he felt
preposterously at a loss for small talk; but if, now that the guests had
gone, the monotony of feeding in the mess was to be broken so pleasantly
sometimes, he was glad. He had confided to the first officer days
before that Mrs. Franklin was "the best-looking thing in girls that he
ever wanted to see."
In the middle of her acting to play hostess to the two men who had
obviously planned the trick that kept her on board and whom she hated
for it, an uncomfortable glimpse of self-analysis told her that she was
rather enjoying the excitement and the stimulation of her effort and
that her love of adventure and new experiences was being fully
gratified. "You weird person," she said to herself, "what are you made
of?" And even then her brain began to work on the germ of an idea that
might lead to her escape. Jones might be bribed. Her blood began to
dance at the thought of it. What joy to do the double on Franklin! "I
don't mean to be unkind," she said, "and of course there can't be any
more bridge unless Captain McLeod can be induced to play a three-some--"
"Indeed, yes, gladly."
"But it is a relief to be without Mrs. Keene, by way of a change, and
the others. You must have the gift of second sight, Pelham."
Franklin said nothing, but he caught her eye and bowed to show her more
eloquently than he knew how to express it in front of the Captain that
he admired her pluck.
Beatrix caught his meaning. There were one or two good points about
this man. But she sailed on and talked and laughed and said several
charming things to the Captain that went well home. If Jones proved
loyal or cowardly perhaps McLeod might be flattered into helping her to
triumph over Franklin. It was as well to make friends, at any rate.
But all the while the coast line was growing more and more faint and the
water between herself and the protection of the two women wider and
wider. Well, her desire to see life had led her to this almost
inconceivable position, and she was certainly continuing to see it.
There was some satisfaction in that.
It was only when the Captain had gone, and the deck steward had taken
away the table, that silence fell. For a little while those two young
people who had come together by accident remained sitting
self-consciously, wondering what to say. Franklin hoped that Beatrix
would re-open the question of his trick so that he could renew the old
argument as to the all-round wisdom of marriage. It was the one burning
subject of his thoughts. Beatrix sensed this and so determined to talk,
if anything at all were said, of a hundred other things. She had no
patience with his eagerness to escape from scandal at such a price. The
silence remained, broken only by the unceasing throb of the engines, the
swish of the sea and the song of the breeze, until finally Beatrix broke
it. "Come over to the rail," she said, "and let's watch the sun go
down."
Franklin followed her, everything in him blazing with love and the ache
to touch.
All the west was draped with red, and the sun, conscious of having given
great joy to the fading day, sank with the indescribable dignity of a
beneficent monarch to his rest. Sky and water paid homage as he went
and the very breeze seemed to hold its breath to watch the passing.
"Isn't it wonderful?" whispered Beatrix, touched with the beauty and
magic of it.
"Yes," said Franklin.
"I often wonder how there can be skeptics in the world with such a proof
as this of the great Father. Don't you?"
"Yes," he said again.
"The sun, the moon, the stars, spring, summer, the fall,--everything so
regular, so honest, so gentle, so awful, so human and spiritual and
divine. Why look at anything but nature for a revelation of God?"
Franklin forgot the sunset and looked at this girl of many sides and
moods. She had surprised him so often that he half-expected to discover
in her expression the self-consciousness of a pose. Instead he saw the
wistful, humble look on her lovely face that he had seen on the faces of
French peasant women who, standing in the fields in which they worked so
hard for a bare living, bowed their heads at the sound of the Angelus,
and once again he was back in his dream with her hand in his, standing
on the threshold of a home, listening with infinite joy to the laughter
of little children.
It was not until the sun had gone and the last redness in the sky had
faded that he heard her sigh, and saw her shiver a little and turn away.
*XXVIII*
The met again at dinner.
The chief steward, after giving the matter very considerable thought,
had taken several leaves out of the table, thus making the happy pair
"more cosy-like" as he put it. Beatrix and Franklin were equally glad
to find that they were not going to sit in solemn state at the opposite
ends of a long and narrow board. It would have added difficulty to a
position already difficult enough.
Franklin had waited outside the dining saloon until Beatrix put in an
appearance. The orchestra, with quite unconscious irony, was playing
the Entrance of the Gods into Valhalla from _Das Rheingold_. The
stewards were in their places. With an irresistible touch of mischief
and her senses alive to the grim humor of it all, Beatrix laid her hand
on Franklin's arm and went into dinner as though the saloon were a
stage, and the curtain had risen on a crowded auditorium. She
deliberately switched her mind into a belief that she was playing the
part of a girl who had been forced by her family into a marriage of
convenience with a man whom she hardly knew and that the scene in which
she was to take part was comedy, one with an underlying note of tragedy
in it. She told herself that she was required to portray a girl of high
courage and spirit who was to convey the impression of being perfectly
at ease although her heart was full of fright. She did this in order to
string herself up to go through an ordeal with pluck and to prevent
Franklin from having the satisfaction of imagining that he was forcing
her to do something that went against the grain. Not for one instant
did she intend to let Franklin see how intensely she resented being
compelled to remain on the yacht or permit him to feel that he was
winning. As to that she had absolutely made up her mind.
Franklin was glad beyond words to fall in with her mood,--as he took it
to be. Not being psychologically inclined he was unable to deduce the
meaning of it. He simply told himself that she was fearless and daring
and added these things to the credit list of her splendid points which
was growing larger and larger. He led her to the table, placed her
chair, sat opposite and looked at her over an arrangement of roses. She
was in a white dress with a string of pearls round her neck,--a dress so
simple and clean in its lines as to prove the hand of a master in its
making. She sat with a straight back, her chin up, her golden hair
shimmering. She reminded Franklin of a daffodil.
He utterly failed to find any answers to his questions as to what he was
to do with her now that he had her alone, how he was to proceed to bring
about the end that obsessed him, or in what way he could persuade or
coerce her out of her supreme and all-controlling individualism. He was
not one of those curious men who, like Micawber, the master of the silly
art of self-deception, drug themselves into a belief that all is well
for the sake of wandering in a temporary paradise to which they have
paid no entrance fee in the way of work and service. He was
fundamentally incapable of indulging in that form of mental delusion
which enables children to turn the floor of a nursery into a battlefield
and slothful people with the artistic temperament to wallow in the
triumph of a great achievement before they have even commenced to lay
the foundations of it. He had the gift of seeing straight. He could
find no point in looking at life through the wrong end of a telescope.
He was, in a word, honest. While, therefore, he delighted in seeing
Beatrix playing the role of his wife so perfectly and enjoyed her almost
affectionate manner and charming smiles he remained coldly truthful to
himself and the position in which they both stood and realized that he
was, if anything, farther away than ever from, the fulfilment of what he
had called his "job."
All through dinner Beatrix talked well and quietly about plays and
books, as to which Franklin had very little to say. So with
uncharacteristic tact she switched off to shooting and fishing and all
was well. She liked hearing him give forth on his own subjects and was
amused to find how much more he knew of the ways and habits of birds and
beasts than those of women. She made up her mind to see what she could
do with Mr. Jones as soon as possible.
The night was warm and windless. When Beatrix rose from the table she
went on deck and sat where she could listen to the orchestra. She asked
the leader to play three pieces for her,--the strange mixture of which
made him smile. They were Brahms' "Minnelied," "I Love a Piano," and
"Lead, Kindly Light." Franklin, believing that she had had enough of
him for the time being, went off to smoke a cigar with McLeod. As soon
as the little band finished playing and went to dinner Beatrix walked
aft to where, about thirty feet from the stern, a heavy canvas screen
ran 'thwartships from one side of the yacht to the other, shutting off
the deck space allotted to the crew. In this a fiddle and a mouth organ
were playing one of those heavily sentimental vaudeville songs about
home and mother, and several voices were harmonizing the air rather
well. The owner of the falsetto with a pronounced tremulo Beatrix
imagined to be a very tall, soft-looking, fat man with a beard which
grew almost up to his eyes. She was right. He was the butt of the crew
until he opened his mouth to sing. Presently the music changed to an
Irish reel and Beatrix saw Horatio Jones with an almost smoked cigarette
in his mouth come out, as though drawn by a magnet, or the reed
instrument of the Pied Piper, and with droll solemnity proceed, all
alone, into an orgy of toe and heel with his back to her.
Seeing her chance Beatrix slipped nearer and stood smiling. "Very
nice," she said, when the dancer wound up with a resounding double
smack.
Mr. Jones was disconcerted, not in being caught in his ecstatic solo,
which he was quite ready to repeat, but because he had his cap on the
wrong way round and was wearing his second-best monkey jacket. Being a
complete lady's man he was naturally a conceited person and nothing put
him out so much as to be taken unprepared. He grinned fatuously and put
his cap on correctly.
"It must have taken a long time to become so proficient," she went on,
giving him a dazzling smile.
"Oh, well, y'see, mam, my mother was a pro-dancer in her young days and
I caught it from 'er, I expect."
"That's very interesting. Tell me about it, Mr. Jones." She began to
pace the deck.
Jones fell in step, surreptitiously mopping his neck with his
handkerchief. This was the moment of his life. During other cruises he
had often had pleasant chats with Franklin and his friends who found him
and his cockney accent rather amusing, but he had never hoped to do more
than pass the time of day with this proud girl. He was on his best
Sunday behavior.
"Me father went down to the sea in ships, the same as all me family," he
said, with what he believed to be a certain amount of style. "At the
time he met mother he was skipper of the _Princess Mary_, carryin'
passengers from London to Margit, a seaside resort on the Kent coast of
the old country."
"I know it," said Beatrix, who remembered without the least pleasure its
ugly pier, stiff promenade, and heterogeneous mass of trippers.
"Is that so, mam? Ah, some little old place! I give you _my_ word.
Well, dad catches sight of mother sunnin' herself on deck and as he use
ter say, she stopped 'is watch, which is slang fer love at first glance.
Bein' skipper and all like that naturally she was a bit bucked up when
he spoke and asked if she was comfortable. That began it and instead of
stayin' at Margit she made the return trip the next day, 'ad a fish
supper along of father at the Anchor Hotel and was spliced up before the
end of the week."
"Very romantic," said Beatrix, "and what then?"
"Well," said Jones, with a little laugh, "then there was me, the first
of nine, and mother give up 'er terpsichorean career, so ter speak."
"But she taught you all to dance?"
"Yes, mam, and the last time I saw the old man was at a concert in aid
of the orphans of seamen at Barking Creek and me and me brothers and
sisters, with mother in the middle, give an exhibition of fancy dancin'
and I wish you could 'ave seen the old man's face. He died shortly
after that."
"I'm sorry," said Beatrix, wondering whether he meant from the effects
of that evening.
"Thank you, mam, but he 'ad the satisfaction of seein' his five sons
well placed at sea and his gals doin' fine business on the 'alls as 'The
Four Delantys,' and very, very 'ot stuff too, I give you _my_ word."
"How splendid. You must be very proud to belong to such a family. I'll
get you to tell me some more about this romantic love match while we're
out."
"Any time, mam, with pleasure," and then with great style the man, who
was as good a sailor as he was a dancer, saluted. Evidently he was to
be dismissed. "Well, as I said before, she can 'ave _me_," he said to
himself as pleased as Punch.
"Have you to be up early in the morning?"
"Yes, mam, five o'clock. We heave to for a couple of hours for me to go
ashore with the mail and pick up the papers and magazines."
Beatrix nearly jumped out of her skin. He was going ashore! Here was
her chance without taking this man into her confidence or bribing him to
disobey possible orders. "I'll be up at five too," she said, trying to
keep her voice steady. "You shall take me with you. Mr. Franklin has a
birthday to-morrow and you solve the problem of how I can get something
for him, as a little surprise."
"Very glad, I'm sure," said Mr. Jones.
"Good night, then. Be sure you don't go without me. I won't keep you
waiting."
She was far too excited to go to sleep and lay for an hour making plans
and already revelling in her triumph over Franklin. She had told the
stewardess to call her at half-past four. It would be easy to telephone
to the town where Brownie and Mrs. Larpent would have to spend the night
and after all she would have her motor tour. She would leave the
baggage on the yacht. What did it matter? Life was very good,--and her
little lie about Franklin's birthday was brilliant!
She heard Franklin striding up and down the deck like a sentry. It made
her feel even more like a prisoner than ever.
Only Franklin and the watching stars knew who was the real prisoner,
sentenced for life to a love that set a hitherto untouched heart into a
great blaze.
The morning was dull and leaden and windless, the sea as flat as the
palm of a hand. Dressed and ready in good time and wearing a most
amazing smile, Beatrix slipped out of her stateroom and over to the port
side. Mr. Jones was waiting in the small launch, talking to one of the
sailors. She was going to escape from her floating jail, yes, escape.
How she would love to be able to see Franklin's face when she didn't
turn up for breakfast.
And then her arm was seized in an iron grip. "No, you don't. Believe
me, no."
It was Franklin, with an overcoat over his dinner jacket. He had
obviously not been to bed.
She drew up and tried to bluff. "I'm only going to ring up Mrs. Keene
and tell her----"
"Go back to your room!"
"But I must give her instructions as to what----"
"Go back to your room, I tell you."
She stamped her foot. This man was unendurable,--and his hand hurt her
arm. "What is all this? Do you suppose that I'm going to take orders
from you?"
"Jones, get off," he shouted, "and don't hold us up longer than you
need."
"Aye, aye, sir," answered the dancing sailor, who wished he could have
heard what had been said.
"As to taking orders from me, yes, from now onwards. Breakfast is at
nine," and he gave her back her arm and turned away.
Beatrix put her hand over her mouth to gag a scream of anger. But she
would make him pay for this, with the other debts. She would indeed.
If Mr. Jones couldn't be worked upon again, there were the first officer
and the Captain,--and they, unlike this cold-blooded bully, were men.
*XXIX*
It had been a queer day for Franklin.
Beginning with anger it gradually led him into a dozen other
emotions,--a reluctant admiration for the cunning way in which Beatrix
had been going to take advantage of Horatio Jones; amusement when she
didn't appear for breakfast and he thought that she was sulking;
loneliness when tea-time came and there was still no sign of her;
finally fright, sheer, honest fright when he discovered at sun-down that
she had not rung for the stewardess during the whole of the day.
He sent for the stewardess. "Why do you suppose Mrs. Franklin hasn't
needed you?" he asked.
"I don't know, I'm sure, sir." The woman was evidently worried too.
She fingered her apron nervously.
"When were you in her room last?"
"At half-past eight, sir."
"Well?"
"Well, sir, I called Mrs. Franklin at four-thirty this morning----"
"Yes, I know."
"And I went in again as usual at half-past eight to see what I could do
to help in any way and Mrs. Franklin had gone back to bed, sir."
"Go on."
"Well, sir, I hung about for a few minutes and then Mrs. Franklin half
woke up and said: 'I'm tired, don't come again until I ring.'"
"You're quite sure she hasn't rung?"
"Yes, sir. I've never left my cabin,--had my meals brought there, sir,
in case----"
"I see. Thank you." He opened the door for the sturdy little woman who
seemed to have caught his anxiety, and then killed the longest half an
hour that he remembered ever to have spent. Was Beatrix in her
stateroom? Had she by any chance got away? That was absurd. How could
she with officers and crew about all day? Naturally she was tired,
having been up so early, but why stay in bed for so many hours? Her
vitality and love of movement, her constant desire to do things and take
exercise, her homogeneous nature which led her to talk to all and sundry
made it impossible for her either to wake or sleep for such a long time.
She must be ill! Yes, that was it. She had fainted or done one of the
queer things that he had heard of women doing. The stewardess must see
her at once. Why? She was no use. For one thing she stood in awe of
this girl who gave such definite orders and saw that they were observed.
For another she was rough and untrained and probably incompetent and
like all her countrywomen sensational. She might scream or
something.... For Heaven's sake what was he to do?
With all his nerves jangling like a bunch of telegraph wires in a gale
he went aft. The sun had gone. It was almost dark. One star had come
up, the outpost of the night. There was, he saw, no light in her suite.
He stood at her door, irresolute, with the hand of fright on his heart.
He was homesick for the sight of her and the sound of her voice, even if
it should be cold and antagonistic, or mocking and scornful. He felt
oddly and strangely young and lonely and worried, afraid of some
intangible thing. Suppose she had done something----
He couldn't bear the thought. He opened her door, shut it and went in
and stood in the dark. It was the sitting-room. On the table in the
middle there was a reading lamp. He groped about and found it and
turned it up. There was a book on the floor, open face down, its leaves
all bent under. It must have been flung there. A soft, black hat was
lying up against the wall. It looked hurt. And everywhere there was
the subtle influence of scent.
He went across to the bedroom door, hesitated, turned the handle and
went in.
By the light from the sitting-room door, he could see the bed. The
blankets had been flung back and under a sheet Beatrix lay, her cheek on
one hand, the other soft and flaccid, palm-up, on the cover. A great
fan of golden hair covered the pillow. She was lying on her side like a
child with her knees drawn up and one bare shoulder gleaming.
The eternal yearning of Nature made Franklin want to cry out at the
sight of her. He stood humble, inarticulate, bewitched. The room
seemed to be filled with the sound of sweet, far-away voices.
He went forward and bent over her, listening to her breathing. It was
agony to be so near and so far away. After a moment she laughed softly
and stirred like a waking flower and drew up her hand and moved it
lazily as if trying to catch the figure of sleep that was turning to go.
He drew back quickly, panting.
"Is that you, Brownie dear? Oh-ho, I've had such a lovely rest. I've
been lying all among buttercups and clover far, far away from the sea.
It's good to be on land again and hear the birds sing and watch the
grasses nod." She turned over and stretched and gave a long sigh and
opened her eyes. Then she looked about astonished and sat up quickly,
startled.
"Who's there?" Her voice was sharp and frightened.
"Me," said Franklin.
"You!" She put her hands over her breasts.
"I'm sorry. I thought you were ill." How tame it sounded!
"Ill? Why?"
"It's late and you haven't rung for the stewardess all day. I wondered
if anything was the matter. So I came in. That's all. Can I do
anything for you?"
"Only--go," she said.
And so he turned and went out and strode forward and stood hatless under
the sky. Other stars had come. The line of horizon had become merged
into the darkness. The breeze left the taste of salt on his parched
lips. The eternal yearning grew in the silence and the call of Nature
seemed to echo through the world. Everything that was true and clean
and honest in him answered to it. All his dreams as a boy and a youth,
vague, unremembered; all the sudden, surprising elations that had swept
over him at the sight, perhaps, of a priceless view of open country, the
misty interior of an old Cathedral, the appeal of a throbbing melody,
took shape and became the lovely body of that sleeping girl. He had
never understood so definitely, so conclusively, so permanently, that in
Beatrix was the epitome of all his hopes.
She dined in her own room that night and had breakfast sent to her in
the morning. Franklin hung about near her stateroom in the hope of
seeing her. He could hear her singing as he passed and talking to the
little Irish woman, but at twelve o'clock there was still no sign of her
on deck. He was just going along to the Captain's room in order to talk
and be talked to when the stewardess came and gave him a note. He took
it and blushed like a school-boy and carried it down to his own room.
It had no conventional beginning. It plunged straight to the point.
"I'm not sulking, which would be human enough, or suffering from shock,
which would be reasonable under the circumstances. I'm thinking and
weighing things up. I've told the stewardess that I've got neuralgia so
that the people of your small kingdom may not run away with the notion
that their rulers have had a wordy argument. I may inflict myself upon
you for lunch if by that time I have found the way out of my mental
maze. If not, you may be alone in all your glory for days,--weeks
perhaps."
It ended as abruptly as it began.
Days,--weeks perhaps!
*XXX*
Having written the note, Beatrix proceeded to dress for lunch.
It was altogether a new thing to be without a maid and a companion.
Never once in all her life, not even at school, had she been permitted
to raise a finger for herself. Helene and Mrs. Lester Keene would have
stood aghast and imagined that the end of the world was at hand if they
could have seen her that morning doing her hair, putting on her shoes
and choosing a frock. She did these things without assistance from the
stewardess, who stood by impotent and uneasy, because she enjoyed the
experience as a deviation from the regular routine of her life and found
plenty to laugh at in her ridiculous inexpertness. It was a game and
after her orgy of sleep she felt so electrically fit and vital as to be
ready to play at anything, especially if it was new.
It was true that she had been thinking. Sitting like a tailor on her
bed, with her hair in a flood about her shoulders, she had gone over the
last two incidents of this queer honeymoon trip with great care. She
was astonished, and even a little uneasy, to find that she was beginning
to look at the whole business from a new angle. She discovered, after
an honest examination, that the mere romantic side of this kidnapping
expedition, as she called it, no longer interested her, nor its
unconventionality, either, although she chuckled to think of the
mistaken complacency of her family in aiding and abetting Franklin to
commit a breach that was without a parallel in the history of American
society: It was enough to make a cat laugh. What it seemed to her to
lack was the element of personal danger which had made the episode in
her bedroom a very real fright. There was, it seemed to her, no red
blood in the business, no flare of sex. Franklin was either the most
cold-blooded man imaginable or a past master of the art of hiding his
feelings.
This was what she wanted to find out. Her thinking led her up to the
fact that her interest and curiosity were centered on this one point.
She was perfectly frank in acknowledging to herself that her vanity was
piqued. All other men, except Malcolm, who, after all, was not so much
a man as a poet, had made it plain that they were men. Her femininity
had triumphed. But with Franklin it was different. Was it possible
that the more he was with her the less he was attracted? Here was
something on which to concentrate and use her wits.
It was, therefore, with the excitement of having found something to do,
a new game to play at, a new chapter to begin, that she dressed for
lunch. The muddle in which she left her stateroom,--skirts that she had
looked at, considered and discarded, stockings and shoes all over the
floor, shirts and ties all chaotic in the drawers,--was a sight to see.
Only a few minutes late, she swung into the dining-saloon, fresh and
sweet, dancing-eyed and vital, ready to seize the first chance of
putting Franklin to a new test.
He had none of the look of a man who had been up all night, tortured by
a desire that had kept him pacing the hours away beneath a supremely
indifferent moon. He had just come in from a swim. His body, having
been exercised, was grateful and in fine fettle. His skin was burned a
deeper brown. He was as hard as nails. He had not expected to see her,
but from force of habit had waited in case she should come.
"Good morning," she said, cheerily.
"Good morning." He was cheery, too.
"You've waited for me, I see."
"Of course. I hoped you'd come."
"You say that as if you meant it."
"I do mean it."
"So bored that you can even put up with me?"
"I'm never bored at sea."
Her laugh rang out. "I gave you a perfect chance to say something
nice," she said.
"I'm not much of a hand at saying nice things."
"I notice that."
Franklin let the challenge go. He had never felt it more necessary to
keep a gag in his mouth. The things that were on the tip of his tongue
to say were too primeval to put into words.
"Have you missed me?"
"We've all missed you."
"I asked if _you'd_ missed me?"
"Yes."
"All right, my friend," she thought, "wait a bit."
She gave a nod and a smile to the stewards and ate with such excellent
appetite that their efforts were well rewarded. The sun was cheerful,
the saloon was cheerful, the stewards quick and willing, and
Franklin,--yes, Franklin was certainly a very good-looking person.
Bother the yacht, and her people and what had happened to Brownie, and
the loss of a maid! Life was full of fun.
"The other day you said something about a fishing trip."
"Yes, I know."
"Tell me about it."
"Well, I'd arranged with McLeod to go off on the big launch for three
days but----"
"But what?"
"It's not much fun going alone."
Here was her first chance. "Take _me_," she cried, leaning forward.
"I'd love to go. I've never fished, but you could teach me."
Franklin looked at her sharply to see if she were joking. But her
expression was that of a child eager for adventure. "But the launch has
no cabin," he said, "and we sleep under a hood hauled over her."
This was wonderful,--a test, indeed. She pressed the point eagerly.
"Why not? I don't mind roughing it. I don't mind anything if it has
compensations. Come out and talk it over."
Franklin followed her. She was leaning against the rail with the breeze
in her hair and the sunlight on her shoulders. What if he fell in with
her impetuous wish? Jones and one of the crew would sleep, as usual, up
in the peak and he and she must lie almost side by side under the awning
in the stern.
"Please don't make difficulties," she said. "Let me have my own way
just for once."
He could have yelled with laughter. Confound it, the girl was having
her own way all the time, except in unessential things.
"There are various degrees of roughing it," he said, cursing his
conscience.
"Yes, but if I don't mind,--if I want to?"
"Have a look at the launch, and then think."
"I'm tired of thinking. Arrange it,--please arrange it." She didn't
want in the least to go, and she knew better than he did how absurd the
idea was. But here was a chance to force him out of inarticulation, to
see his self-composure crumble and break.
"Three days out. Hardly room to swing a cat. Two men with us----"
Beatrix gave an impatient sigh. "I wish to heaven I wasn't a girl," she
said, and waited expectantly.
It was no good. Franklin's hot words were choked back. He didn't know
the Eden game that she was playing and would be hanged before he would
give himself away to be laughed at.
And so the moment passed.
She walked up and down with him for an hour, laughing and talking. He
was amazed to find that she was more friendly and charming than ever
before and that her sleep seemed to have removed from her mind all trace
of resentment. "Let's talk young stuff," she said. "What we believe
in, what we think we might do to solve all the problems of the world and
all that, shall we? It's awfully good to get on a high horse every now
and then and sweep away institutions with a phrase, knock down old laws
with a well-aimed verb, and topple big men out of their places with the
tip of a toe."
And they did so in the old-new way of youth, saying things earnestly,
with the air of prophets, that had been labelled unpractical before they
were born; letting their tongues run away with them as far as they could
before they limped and halted; listening to each other with their eyes
while getting the next outburst ready in their brains. And after
awhile, as usual, they steered into personalities, likes and dislikes
and mutual friends.
"And what do you think of Ida Larpent?" Beatrix asked suddenly.
"Very attractive, but----"
"But better as somebody else's dinner partner?"
"Oh, no," said Franklin. "She made the average dinner bearable. She's
in a class of her own,--beautiful, well-travelled, tremendously all
there, and awfully good fun to take about."
"Take about?" Her eyebrows went up. "Did you take her about? But
perhaps that's rather an indiscreet question?"
"Not a bit. When I was in town some months ago, bored stiff,--all my
pals being away,--she was a real good sort and we did the
rounds,--everything except the Opera--which seemed to be having an orgy
of Wagner, and I can't stand that over-exuberant German. I did a cycle
of him once in London and it seemed to me that if he'd had the sense and
honesty to scrap sixty per cent of his stuff there would have been
enough over for two very decent operas. What do you think?"
She said something to keep the ball going but nothing of what she
thought. So he could own to having been so attracted by Ida Larpent as
to take her about night after night, but when it came to her, Beatrix,
he could remain perfectly normal.
And again she thought: "All right, my friend, wait a bit." If she
couldn't compete with Ida Larpent--good Lord!
But no, even under the rankle of this new thing, and even though she
went to dinner that night in a mood as daring and devil-may-care as her
dress and stood looking out at the star-bespattered sky for a long time
with her arm through his, he remained brotherly. In fact, and in not
seeing it her observation was uncharacteristically out of form,--her new
delightful treatment of him made him very happy and contented. She was
so charming and natural and breezy. She never once laughed at him or
held him up to ridicule. He could almost persuade himself that they were
really on a honeymoon, except when a whiff of scent bewildered his
senses or the gleam of her whiteness made his heart tumble.
And so it went on for several apparently uneventful days,--days full of
sun and health and simple confidences, of wide, gorgeous views of sea
and sky, of all the exquisite coloring of sunrise and sunset, and of the
sweet singing of far-away voices. It was to bed that she took her
growing pique; in the quiet of her own room that she asked herself, like
the spoiled child that she was, what was the matter with this man. Under
normal conditions, if they had been, perhaps, members of a house-party,
she would have liked him extremely. He had greatly improved on
acquaintance. He was something more than a sportsman. He had
imagination, idealism, extraordinary simplicity and even a touch,--odd
as she found it in his type,--of spirituality. It came out in his deep
appreciation of Nature and love of melody. Why didn't he find her
attractive,--even as attractive as Ida Larpent?
Only the nights were permitted by Franklin to see the strength of his
desire, the torture of his passion; and these he killed and wore away by
pacing interminably up and down, throwing himself on his bed finally
tired out mentally and physically.
Very soon the game lost its novelty. Getting nothing to appease her
vanity Beatrix gave it up. Once more the monotony of the sea bored her,
the sensation of being tied by the leg got on her nerves. Franklin said
a rather impatient thing one morning in reply to a sarcastic remark of
hers and before she could stop herself and remember to stick to her pose
of complete indifference she put her hand imploringly on his arm and
burst into an intense and genuine appeal. "Well, let's end it," she
begged. "Nothing can come of all this, nothing at all. You're only
dodging the issue, really you are. Don't let's play the fool any
longer. The more you try to force me to agree to your plan the harder I
shall fight. Don't you know me yet? I'm built like that. I can't help
it. Oh, do be sane about it and come down to facts. We shall both grow
old and grey on this prison ship because I'll never give in, never. It
isn't that I don't think you're right. You are. I'll concede that. We
ought to marry and settle the whole trouble. It's the easiest way. But
I've said I won't, and I won't. I tell you I won't. I know I'm a fool.
I know I'm pig-headed. I know I deserve to be made to pay. But you
can't alter me now. It's too late. So let me off and I'll take my
punishment and the whole thing will blow over. People's memories are
short and every day, every hour other scandals come up, are talked about
and forgotten. Pelham, will you please be good and let me go?"
All this came with a rush. Her voice was soft and winning, her eyes
full of tears, her hand warm and sweet upon his arm. But every word
that she said, every look that she gave him, every touch of appeal that
came into her voice made her more and more valuable as the prize of his
life, and the sight of her tears, especially the sight of her tears,
steeled him to stick to his job to the very end. All her spoiling, all
the falsity of her training, all the grotesque power of the wealth with
which she had always been surrounded, had not completely changed her
from the little girl whom Malcolm had painted in his
never-to-be-forgotten picture, and of whom he had himself seen glimpses.
"No," he said. "I'm as pig-headed as you are. I don't care if we do
grow old and grey on this yacht. You've got to marry me."
Beatrix drew back. She was cold and angry and bitterly annoyed with
herself for having asked once more for mercy. "All right," she said.
"Then the fight goes on, and I give you warning that I shall use any
weapons, fair or unfair, that I can find."
Before she could turn away and hide the marks of her tears, Captain
McLeod came up. She smiled and gave him a cheery word. It was
admirably and characteristically well done.
"McLeod," said Franklin quietly. "Tell Jones to get the big launch
fixed up right away. He's to come with me on the fishing trip."
Beatrix left them to talk over the arrangements. What did she care where
he went? He could go to the devil if he liked. She whistled as she
moved away but her eyes were black with rage. This man who had the
temerity, the impudence not only to stand up to her but to set himself
to bend her to his will should see now of what sort of stuff she was
made. Up to that very moment, in the face of everything that he had
done, she had not cared to believe that this struggle of wills, this
clash of temperaments, was worth taking with real seriousness. She had
dodged it, laid it aside, treated it as half a joke, believed that if
she really exerted herself it could be brought to a quick and definite
end. She had not taken the trouble to rouse herself fully and set her
wits at work to get away from the yacht. The pleasure of playing with
fire was too great. She really had wished to see how far Franklin would
go. But now, having humbled herself again and been turned down, she went
round another mental corner. Her interest and curiosity in the affair
had come suddenly to an end. What did it matter in what way her family
would presently revenge themselves? _This_,--this business,--was
insufferable. To be dictated to, coerced, compelled, driven,--good
Heavens, it was not to be endured. From that moment she would set
herself to outwit him, humiliate him and laugh in his face. The work
that she had begun with Mr. Jones in a half-hearted way would now, of
course, count for nothing. He was going with Franklin. But there
remained Captain McLeod and the first officer, and she would have three
days. Revolutions had been brought about in less time than that, and
she had smiled other men, including Franklin, into her service.
She went to the glass in her stateroom and rubbed away the marks of her
tears with impatience and scorn. Then she stood back so that she could
see the full length of her figure and took stock, measured herself up,
made a cool and keen examination. Finally, having turned this way and
that, she nodded at her reflection with approval. "Fair or
unfair,--we'll see," she said. "There are the Captain and the first
officer."
And then, smiling again and happy in having come at last to a
conclusion, she changed into gym kit and in five minutes was perched up
on the wooden horse, riding hell for leather.
*XXXI*
There, half an hour later, Franklin found her.
The horse was motionless. She was sitting side saddle with one slim leg
crossed over the other, her arms folded over her young breasts. She was
in deep thought but there was a little smile of excitement round her
mouth which, if Franklin had known it as well as Brownie did, would have
put him instantly on his guard. Things happened when Beatrix smiled
like that.
The port-holes were open and several round patches of sunlight made
pools upon the floor. One had fastened upon the blue silk bathrobe
which Beatrix had thrown off. The sea was as smooth as the waters of a
lake and but for the busy song of the engines the yacht might have been
lying against a quay.
Franklin pulled up at the door. He had come up quietly and unnoticed.
He held his breath and stood looking, with a curious mixture of homage
and ire, at this mere kid, as she seemed to him to be, this girl-child
perched up on that toy horse like a fairy on a toadstool, lost in a
day-dream. He asked himself, in amazement, what magic there was all
about her that had swung him out of his course, put a new beat into his
heart, that could turn him hot and cold, churn him into a desire that
was at times almost beyond human endurance,--which had put a reason and
a meaning into life that startled and surprised, laid enchantment upon
him, made him wretched and angry and eager, feel like a king and a clown
in quick succession.
For the first time since he had met her he had caught her unawares,
quiet. It was extraordinary. This was not the young hedgehog, with all
her defenses pointed, the immature woman of complete sophistication,
ready at any moment to smile and answer back, to hide behind a manner,
to dart out with a flash of wit, to mock, to wheedle, to inspire, to
anger. This was Eve in exile, the original woman come upon suddenly
alone in a glade, away from any glistening pool in which she could watch
the reflection of her face and gleaming body, from any Adam upon whom to
try her wiles. This was Beatrix, herself, at last.
Franklin moved to go. He felt like Peeping Tom at the top window of
that house in Coventry from which he gloated upon the beauty of Godiva
"clothed on in Chastity." It was unfair, almost indecent, it seemed to
him, to take advantage of this lovely chameleon in her original color.
And as he moved she heard him and changed.
"Hello, Strong Man," she cried out, slipping from the horse. "What's
the latest?" Her expression was impudent, her friendliness an audacity.
Franklin leaned against the door. He had never supposed that a time
would ever come when he would be obliged to play-act. "I've cut the
fishing trip for to-day," he said, as though he were talking to a young
sister. "Jones has damaged his hand and as he's the only man I care to
take, the thing's off."
"Oh, poor Mr. Jones!"
"You implied just now that you were bored stiff with the yacht."
"Fed up, I meant to say, which is several degrees worse."
"What about coming out on the small launch and having lunch on one of
the islands westward?"
Beatrix picked up her bath-robe and swung it round her shoulders. "It
sounds too good to be true," she said, without enthusiasm. "Thank you."
Franklin blocked the door. She was in his blood. "Good God," he cried,
all out of control, "why don't you smash that damned shell and be
yourself all the time?"
She raised her eyebrows and swung a tassel round and round. "You don't
like my shell, then?"
"I loathe it!"
"Well, nobody asked you to do anything else, you know."
Her iciness and savoir faire, the fearless way in which she stood up to
him, the utter indifference to his opinion one way or the other on any
mortal subject crushed his passion as effectively as a snuffer on the
flame of a candle. He stood aside to let her pass.
But she had seen the sudden blaze in his eyes. It was not to be missed.
She mistook it for the sort of passion that she had unconsciously roused
in Sutherland York and used her wits to quell. There had been none of
this, to her way of thinking, in the kisses that Franklin had snatched.
They were merely to show her that he was owner. She had never conceived
it possible that this inarticulate man could love her. He made it too
obvious that she fell far short of his ideal. But she had now at last
caught the desired glimpse of that side of his character that she had
been working to find. He was not then so supremely self-composed as he
made himself out to be. He had shown her, in a flash,--and she got this
with a great throb of feminine triumph,--that however well he had
believed in the truth of his scornful statement as to the huts on the
desert island when he had made it, he would lie if he repeated it now.
And with this balm to the wound in her vanity, which had never healed,
she passed him. He lived as a man again for the first time since the
bedroom incident,--and she liked him for it. She got this too, as she
went off to her suite, and it came on top of her determination to fight
"fair or unfair," as something of a shock. To begin to like him when
she ought to detest him most!--"Good Lord," she said to herself as she
dressed to go out in the launch, with greater pains than usual, "what a
mass of contradictions you are, my child. What are you _really_, I
wonder?--and how will all this end?"
Franklin went slowly across to the port-side, disheartened and
depressed. "What the devil's the use of me? Every time I open my mouth
it makes everything more hopeless. I'm as bad as a bull in a china
shop. I'd better let her go and chuck the whole blessed thing and,
after all, is there any gold to dig out or has it all turned to brass?
I'll be hanged if I know."
*XXXII*
There was a certain amount of bustle going on. The yacht had found an
anchorage. The small launch had been let down. A steward handed over a
lunch basket to Jones, who was "willing" hard to be taken along. Men
moved at the double in the execution of their duties. The first officer
stood by with a watchful eye. He had made a small bet with Jones that
he would be left behind.
It was midday and very warm. There was not enough wind to tease a curl.
When Beatrix appeared, in the fewest possible clothes, she was followed
by the stewardess carrying a sort of mackintosh bag in which were a
bathing dress, a tin of powder, a brush and comb, and so forth.
"Back about five," said Franklin.
The first officer saluted. "Very good, sir. Keep an eye on the
weather. It looks like a change to me."
"All right."
Franklin got into the launch and handed Beatrix aboard. "You're taking
a coat, aren't you?"
"No," said Beatrix. "Why? It's lovely and warm."
"I'd like you to."
She smiled up at him and shook her head. She held the cards now.
Franklin caught the eye of the precocious Jones and jerked his thumb
towards the yacht. The first officer grinned to see him nip aboard. A
dollar had its uses but it was well worth ten to see Jones squashed.
Away went the launch, the happy pair in the stern, the white silk shirt
and red tie of the girl standing out against the water, the midday sun
beating down from a cloudless sky on the trim and glossy boat. Franklin
turned his head over his shoulder, and waved his left hand at the
Captain. The pit-pit of the motor awoke echoes.
"Owe you a bloomin' dollar," said Jones, with a touch of temper.
The first officer let his laugh go.
The Captain left the bridge, went along to his quarters, took off his
coat, lit a cigar and sat down to write to his wife. It was not his day
for writing, but on his brain there was a very charming picture of a
girl in a white silk shirt and a red tie.
Beatrix crossed her legs and drew in a long breath. "The prisoner goes
for an airing," she said.
The chameleon had changed color again. Franklin caught her sunny mood
with eagerness. "Glad to get off?"
"Oh, goodness, yes! I feel like the man who after living at the Plaza
for a year sneaked into Child's for his meals. Anything for a change.
Which island are you making for?"
Franklin pointed. "That one. It has a natural landing-place, enough
shade----"
"A good place to bathe from?"
"But you're not going to bathe, are you?"
"Oh, yes, I am! There are my things. Have you got yours?"
"Yes, they're in the locker."
"I shall simply adore to swim. If you'd been any sort of a husband
you'd have seen to it before." She shot this out without thinking. Her
spirits were too high to bother about anything that he might say. She
had forgotten for the time being that he was a man.
"Being your sort of husband," he blurted out, "I keep all suggestions to
myself."
She gave one quick look at him. Yes, she held the cards now, all of
them. There would be no more monotony from day to day. This man was
coming through, like a negative in course of development. She would be
able to play with him as a cat plays with a mouse, make him pay over and
over again for having hurt her so deeply, and as soon as it suited her
bring him to the point of being willing and anxious to let her go,
getting nothing from her.
She sat back and smiled. How infinitely satisfactory it was to resume
her place in the world and in her own esteem! It wasn't her fault if
everybody had spoiled her. It was theirs. The point was, was she worth
spoiling? And for Franklin to say yes,--Franklin who had fought so hard
to wear a mask and had played the tyrant with such success,--that was
good hearing!
"What time do you propose having lunch?" she asked, after a long and
happy silence.
"Any time you like."
"Do you mean that?"