REPRISALS--ET CETERA
Jorn Garth considered himself completely justified in shooting Severance
with a pint of iced ginger-beer, and even had his conscience squirmed he
would have committed the act. Knowing that Severance thought of, and
denounced, him as "a bounder," he didn't see why, when worst came to
worst, he shouldn't live up to the reputation.
Worst had come to worst on board the _Britannia_. Things had been bad
enough before, but the climax was reached when the two men found
themselves caged in the same room, neither one willing to play lamb to
the other's lion. Garth hated the proximity as hotly as Severance hated
it; but there was no cabin of any class with a free berth, save one
occupied by a coloured colonel in charge of negro troops going home.
Garth had a deep respect for the dark soldiers, who had distinguished
themselves in the war; but men of white and men of black skin were not
quartered together; and he had never boiled to throttle Severance as he
boiled at the cool proposal that he should join Colonel Dookey.
"Join him yourself," he said.
"I'm not an American," shrugged Severance.
"That's why you and he would get along better than you and me, or he and
me," retorted Garth, careless of grammar.
"I shall remain where I am," Severance gave his ultimatum.
"Same here. You ought to be thankful your earlship has got the lower
berth."
This statement required no answer; and the conversation lapsed.
Garth had not taken his allotted seat at the Captain's table, because he
understood that ladies would be there, friends of Lord Severance. He
could not trust his temper if it were strained by continued public
snubbing in the presence of women. Besides, secretly shy of the
dangerous sex, the man who had won the V.C. shrank like a coward from
the prospect of being "turned down" by aristocratic females. He
preferred to snatch picnic meals in the hot smoke-room or to munch a
sandwich on the wind-swept deck, having this one advantage of the enemy:
he was a good sailor.
Seeing Severance seasick had "given him back a bit of his own," and made
up for a good deal, including close quarters. Because a man can't hit a
foe when he's down, however, Garth had let slip a heaven-sent chance for
revenge. He refrained from jeering aloud at his brother officer's
qualms. But was the said officer grateful for the superhuman sacrifice?
On the contrary! To-day's work on deck was the climax. Garth had heard
and seen Severance sneering at him, as he had sneered before. Sneering
to men was one thing, however; sneering to the most beautiful girl Garth
had ever seen was another.
Severance's attempt to drive Garth from the regiment by rendering the
mess impossible, and by other methods which in contrast made schoolboy
ragging kind, had only stiffened the American's resolve to "stick it."
Failing the stings and pin-pricks inflicted by Severance as ringleader,
and two or three of his followers, Garth would not have desired to stay
in the British Army after the war, although his father had been an
officer in it. As it was, though he hadn't yet settled the future, he
inclined to hold his commission for awhile, if only to "show those chaps
they couldn't phaze him." He had felt bulldoggy rather than wild
bullish. But catching a word or two blown to his ears by the wind on
deck to-day, he had at the same time caught fire. Here was the limit,
and down the other side! He burned to prove this to Severance in some
way slightly more delicate than murder. In such a mood he slammed into
their cabin, and heard a little more. Still flaming, he saw the
ginger-beer bottle (by an irony of fate, Severance's bottle), and then,
almost before he knew what he was doing, the thing was done. A caddish
but a luscious thing! He gloried in it. As he stood at the stateroom
window, the emptied weapon fizzing in his hand, it struck Garth that he
had hit the nail on the head.
"That's it," he said to himself, as he watched Severance furiously sop
his hair. "I've hit the nail on the head!"
Never had he been more pleased with the precision of his aim, for not a
drop had gone wide of the target. He had counted on his skill to make a
bull's-eye or he would not have risked the coup. Of course, Severance's
friends would loathe as well as despise him; but they must admit that
the reprisal was pat, and above all neat. He shut the window and roared.
He hoped the trio outside would hear him, and he yearned to know what
Severance's next step would be.
For this knowledge he had not long to wait; but when it came, it brought
disillusion. Severance arrived promptly, still dripping, to find Garth
at bay, a grin on his face.
"Your beer," said V.C. "I'll pay you for it."
He expected the other to shout "You shall!" and spring at him. Severance
seemed to think, however, that the dignified course was cold silence.
"Registering" scorn too glacial for language or even action, he gazed at
Garth as if the latter were a worm of some new and abominable species
unknown to science and beneath classification. This effect produced, he
turned to the mirror and repaired ravages to his hair with "Honey and
Flowers." The moment he was his well-groomed self again, he went out,
having uttered not one word.
"Well, I'm damned!" remarked Garth aloud. He then laughed, also aloud.
But there was a flat sound in his mirth. He felt like a good hot fire
quenched by a shovelful of snow, and was not sure whether he or
Severance had scored. Vaguely at a loss, like a stray dog, he took a
book to the smoking room, having no ambition to parade the deck
cock-o'-the-walk fashion. It turned out, however, that he could not
read. He could do nothing but think of that girl--that beautiful,
beautiful girl.
Every man grows up with some ideal, bright or dim, of the woman whose
beauty might mean to him all romance: the woman of the horizon, of the
sunrise, of the bright foam of sea-waves. The girl on A deck of the
_Britannia_ was Garth's ideal, his "Princess of Paradise."
He didn't know who she was, but he meant to know. Not that it would do
him any good to find out. She was a friend of Severance, which meant
that there was a high wall round her so far as he, Garth, was concerned.
All the same, he wouldn't let much grass grow--or many waves
break--under his feet before he was in possession of her name. This was
about all he was ever likely to have of hers! But so much he would have,
soon.
Presently a steward brought matches for his pipe. "Can you tell me,"
Garth inquired, "who are the ladies sitting amidships on the port side
of this deck; a young lady in a blue hat, with a grey fur coat, and an
older woman in brown? They look as they'd be someone in particular?"
"They are, sir," replied the man quite eagerly. "You must mean Miss
Sorel and her mother; they're with the Earl of Severance."
"That's right," said Garth. "I wonder, are they the ones at the
Captain's table."
"Certain to be, sir," the steward assured him.
Garth lit his pipe, and let the steward go without further questioning.
He yearned to ask who the Sorels were, and why it was so certain they
would be in the place of honour at the Captain's table--where he might
have been, and was not! But somehow, the thought of pumping a steward
for intimate details about that girl repelled him. He supposed she was
"some swell" in Severance's set. Not since he had enlisted in the
Grenadier Guards, nearly five years ago, had he taken leave in London.
He had been eight times a "casualty," but by luck, or ill-luck, his
wounds had not been "Blighty-wounds." His last leave he had spent in
Paris, and the second--one summer--in Yorkshire and Scotland, because
his father had been a Yorkshireman by birth.
If Garth had ever heard of Marise Sorel's success in New York and
London, the story had gone in at one ear and out at the other. It did
not occur to him that the Radiant Dream might be an actress. But her
face haunted him, got between his eyes and his book and made his pipe go
out, as sunlight is supposed to extinguish a fire.
He had rather prided himself on these old clothes of his, on shipboard.
They were full five years of age, had been bought ready-made at
Albuquerque, Arizona, for twenty dollars, and were damned comfortable.
Now, to his shamed surprise, he found himself wishing he had kept to
khaki, as he had a right to do. Severance had called him a
"clod-hopper," and he knew the word fitted him in that suit, a blamed
sight better than did the suit itself!
Well, it wasn't too late yet. He could doll up in his uniform any
minute; he could even claim his place at the Captain's table, and meet
the Girl. His heart beat at the thought. He made up his mind he would do
just that; and then as quickly he changed it.
No, he might be a bounder, but he wouldn't be a cross between an ass and
a peacock. He'd go on as he'd begun. If there were a laugh anywhere at
present, it was against Severance. He would do nothing to turn it
against Garth.
This resolution he clung to, despite occasional wobblings, for the rest
of the voyage.
* * * * *
Garth had not a "blood relation" on earth, as far as he knew; but he had
an adopted mother, and he had friends. These people lived mostly in the
West. He meant to see a little life in New York before going out there,
but he did not expect a soul in the east to notice his existence. It was
a surprise for him when all the reporters who swarmed on board the
_Britannia_ from the tender made a bee-line for Major Garth, V.C. Each
wanted a "story," and Garth didn't know what to say. He was too glad to
see the shores of his adopted land, and too good-natured to snub the
humblest, but he didn't enjoy being interviewed. He got out of the
scrape as soon as he could; but there was another surprise awaiting him
on deck. He found himself a hero to the Custom House men!
There was no chance of finding out what had become of Miss Sorel, but as
the reporters had rallied round her, and Lord Severance also, Garth was
reasonably sure to read later on who the girl was; where she was going;
whether or no she were engaged to his noble brother officer; and,
indeed, even many more picturesque facts than she knew about herself.
It was after two o'clock when he arrived at the Hotel Belmore, where he
had stayed five years ago on the eve of sailing for England with his
invention. He was hungry, and aimed straight for the restaurant; but it
appeared that the manager had assigned to the only American V.C. a suite
with a private salon as well as bedroom and bath. A special luncheon for
the Major would be served there, with the compliments of the directors.
Garth could only accept with dazed thanks; and feeling like a
newly-awakened "Christopher Sly," he entered a room decorated with
flowers and flags. As he devoured delicious food, the New York evening
papers were handed to him by a smiling waiter who had read the headings.
Yes, there he was, served up hot to the public with sauce piquante! Lord
knew how the fellows had got his photograph! Must be from some snapshot
caught by a _Daily Mirror_ man in London, and sent over to New York for
use to-day. What a great lout he looked!... And--gee! if there wasn't
old Severance in another photo down under his. Wouldn't his earlship be
wild?
Garth chuckled, and then suddenly choked. A gulp of the champagne, in
which he'd been pressed to drink to his own health, had gone the wrong
way. _Her_ picture had caught his eye, in an adjoining column of the
_Evening World_, next to the portrait of Severance. "Our Own Marise
Comes Home," was the legend in big black type above. Oh! She was
American, not English! Must be an heiress if that chap intended to marry
her. Severance was supposed to be poor, for a peer; had been a pauper
till the death of an uncle and three cousins in the war gave him the
title.... What? an actress! Then, it wasn't true about her and
Severance--couldn't be true! That glorious girl was free! And, to judge
from the way New York was treating him, John Garth, V.C., was Somebody,
too. He was put above Miss Sorel's pal Severance in the papers--every
one of the papers!
Eagerly Garth read about "The Spring Song" and "Dolores," the great
emotional part Marise Sorel had created, and was now to revive in New
York. It did not directly interest him that the whole of the old cast
would support the star, but it did matter that this fact reduced the
need for rehearsals to a minimum. The play would open at Belloc's
Theatre next week, and it was announced that for many days the house had
been entirely sold out. There wasn't a seat to be had for love or money.
"But I bet I get one for both!" Garth said to himself. "A seat for every
performance." Also he thought of something else he would do. The thing
might not help him to make Miss Sorel's acquaintance, but it would
satisfy his soul. And it would be worth all his back pay as a British
officer if he could carry out the plan.