THE HIGH SEAS.
"He's done it at last!"
Erskine brandished a letter as he spoke, and then leant back in his
chair with a guffaw that alarmed the Portuguese waiters. The letter was
from Herbert Luttrell, a Cambridge man of one month's standing, of whose
academic outset too little had been heard. His sisters were anxious to
know what it was that he had done at last; they put this question in the
same breath.
"Oh, it might be worse," said Erskine cheerfully. "He has stopped short
of murder!"
"We should like to know how far he got," Tiny said, while Ruth held out
an eager hand for the letter.
"I don't think you must read it, my dear; but the fact is he has at last
filled up somebody's eye!"
Tiny breathed a sigh of relief.
"Is he in prison?" asked Ruth.
"No, not yet; but I am afraid he must be in bad odor, though perhaps not
with everybody."
"Whose was the eye?" Christina wanted to know.
"The proctor's!" suggested Ruth.
"Not yet, again--you must give the poor boy time, my dear. It may be the
proctor's turn next, but at present your little brother has contented
himself with filling the eye of the man who was coaching his college
trials. It's a time-honored privilege of the coach to use free language
to his crew, and it doesn't give offense as a rule; but it seems to have
offended Herbert. Young Australia don't like being sworn at, and Herbert
admits that he swore back from his thwart, and said that he fancied he
was as good a man as the coach, but he hoped to find out when they got
to the boathouse. They did find out; and Herbert has at last filled up
an old country eye; and for my part I don't think the less of him for
doing so."
"The less!" cried Tiny, whose blue eyes were alight. "_I_ think all the
more of him. I'm proud of Herbs! You have too many of those savage old
customs, Erskine; you need Young Australia to come and knock them on the
head!"
"Well, as long as he doesn't knock a proctor on the head, as Ruth seems
to fear! If he does that there's an end of him, so far as Cambridge is
concerned. He tells me the eye was unpopular, otherwise I'm afraid he
would have had a warm time of it; though a quick fist and an arm that's
stronger than it looks are wonderful things for winning the respect of
men, even in these days."
"And mayn't we really see the letter?" Tiny said wistfully.
Erskine shook his head.
"I am very sorry, but I'm afraid I must treat it as private. It's a
verbatim report. I can only tell you that Herbert seems to have been
justified, more or less, though he is perhaps too modest to report
himself as fully as he reports the eye. He says nothing else of any
consequence. He doesn't mention work of any kind; but he's not there
only, or even primarily, to pass exams. On the whole, we mustn't fret
about the eye, so long as the dear boy keeps his hands off the
authorities."
Their hotel was no longer at Cintra, but in Lisbon, where Mr. Holland
was being sadly delayed by the business men of the most unbusinesslike
capital in Europe. Already it was the middle of November. They had left
Cintra as long ago as the 5th of the month, expecting to sail from
Lisbon on the 7th; but out of his experience Erskine ought to have known
better. It is true that on landing in the country he had attended first
to business. The business was connected with the forming of a company
for certain operations on Portuguese territory in the East, the capital
coming from London; a board was necessary in both cities, and very
necessary indeed were certain negotiations between the London directors,
as represented by Erskine Holland, and their colleagues in Lisbon. The
latter had promised to do much while Erskine was at Cintra, and duly did
nothing until he returned; knowing their kind of old, he ought never to
have gone. He quite deserved to have to wait and worry and smoke more
Portuguese cigarettes than were either agreeable or good, with the women
on his hands; with all his knowledge of the country and the people he
might have known very well how it would be--as indeed Erskine was told
in a letter from Lombard Street, where an amusing dispatch of his from
Cintra had rather irritated the senior partners.
Thus Mr. Holland had his own worries throughout this trip, but it is a
pleasure to affirm that his sister-in-law did not add to them after that
first day at Cintra. Thenceforward she had behaved herself as a
perfectly rational and even a contented being. She had appreciated the
other sights of Cintra even more than Pena (which had hardly been given
a fair chance), and most of all that gorgeous garden of Monserrat, where
the trees of the world are grouped together, and among them the gum
trees which were so dear to Christina. She had even been overcome by a
bloodthirsty desire to witness the bullfight on the Sunday; and Erskine
had taken her, because her present frame was not one to discourage; but
it must be confessed that Tiny was disappointed by the tameness of this
sport rather than revolted by its cruelty. Negatively, she had been
behaving better still; the Cintra donkey, the locality of the English
hotel, and other associations of the first day never once perceptibly
affected either her spirits or her temper. She had shown, indeed, so
dead a level of cheerfulness and good sense as to seem almost
uninteresting after the accustomed undulations; but in point of fact she
had never been more interesting to those in her secret. She had promised
to give Lord Manister his answer in a month, and meanwhile she was
displaying all the even temper and equable spirits of settled happiness.
She ate healthily, she declared that she slept well, and otherwise she
was amazingly and consistently serene. That was her perversity, once
more, but on this occasion her perversity admitted of an obvious
explanation. The explanation was that she had never been in doubt about
her decision, that in her heart she was more than satisfied, and that
she had asked for a month's respite chiefly for freedom's sake. The
matter was discussed no more between the sisters, because Tiny refused
to discuss it, declaring that she had dismissed it from her mind till
December. And to Erskine she never once mentioned it while they were in
Portugal, nor had she the least intention of doing so on the homeward
voyage, which they were able ultimately to make within a week of the
arrival of Herbert's letter.
But the voyage was rough, and Tiny happened to be a remarkably good
sailor, which made her very tiresome once more. Holland had his hands
full in attending to his wife in the cabin, while keeping an eye on her
sister, who would remain on deck. Through the worst of the weather the
unreasonable girl clung like a limpet to the rail, staring seaward at
the misty horizon, or downward at the milky wake, until her pale face
was red and rough and sparkling with dried spray.
"I do wish you would come below," Erskine said to her, in a tone of
entreaty, toward dusk on the second day, but by no means for the first
time. "There's not another woman on deck; and you've chosen the one spot
of the whole vessel where there's most motion."
Until he joined her Tiny had indeed been the only soul on the hurricane
deck, where she stood, leaning on the after-rail, with eyes for nothing
but the steamer's track. They were on the hem of the bay and the wind
was ahead, so the boat was pitching; and you must be a good sailor to
enjoy leaning over the after-rail with this motion--but that is what
Christina was. The wind welded her garments to the wire network
underneath, and loosened her hair, and lit lamps in her ears; but it
seemed that she liked it, and that the long, frothy trail had a strong
fascination for her; for when she answered, it was without lifting her
eyes from the sea.
"You see, I like being different from other people; that's what I go in
for! Honestly, though, I love being up here, and I think you might let
me stay. However, that's no reason why you should stay too--if it makes
you feel uncomfortable."
"Thanks, I think I am proof," returned Erskine rather brusquely, for
this is a point on which most men are either vain or sensitive; "but of
course I'll leave you, if you prefer it."
"On the contrary, I should like you to stay," Christina murmured--in
such a lonely little voice that Erskine stayed.
It was difficult to believe in this young lady's sincerity, however. She
not only made no further remark herself, but refused to acknowledge one
of Erskine's. Men do not like that, either. Tiny's eyes had never been
lifted from the endless race of white water, now rising as though to
their feet, now sinking from under them as the steamer labored end on
to the wind. Apparently she had forgotten that Erskine was there, as
also that she had asked him to remain. He was on the point of leaving
her to her reverie when she swung round suddenly, with only one elbow on
the rail, and looked up at him with a pout that turned slowly to a
smile.
"Erskine, you've come and spoilt everything!"
"My dear child, I told you I would go if you liked, you know."
"Ah, that was too late; you'd spoilt it then. It won't come back."
"Do you mean that I have broken some spell? If that's the case I am very
sorry."
"That won't mend it--you can't mend spells," said Tiny, laughing
ruefully. "Perhaps it's as well you can't; and perhaps it's a good thing
you came," she added more briskly. "I had humbugged myself into thinking
I was on my way back to Australia. That was all."
"But if I were to go mightn't you humbug yourself again?"
"I don't think I want to," the girl answered thoughtfully; "at any rate
I don't want you to go. Don't you think it's jolly up here? To me it's
as good as a gallop up the bush--and I think we're taking our fences
splendidly! But it was jollier still thinking that England was over
there," nodding her head at the wake, "and that every five minutes or so
it was a mile further away--instead of the other thing."
"Poor old England!"
"No, Erskine, I meant a mile nearer Australia--that was the jolly
feeling," Tiny made haste to explain. "You know I didn't mean anything
else--you know how I have enjoyed being with you and Ruth. Only I can't
help wishing I was on my way back to Melbourne instead of to Plymouth.
I'd give so much to see Australia again."
"Well, so you will see it again."
Her eyes sped seaward as she shook her head.
"Why on earth shouldn't you?" said Erskine, laughing.
"You know why."
Now he saw her meaning, and held his tongue. This was the subject on
which he understood it to be her desire that they should not speak. To
himself, moreover, it was a highly unattractive topic, and he was
thoroughly glad to have it ignored as it had been; but if she alluded to
the matter herself that was another thing, and he must say something.
So he said:
"Is it really so certain, Tiny?"
"On my part absolutely. I'm only climbing down!"
Erskine was reminded of the pleasant things he had thought of saying to
her at Cintra; they had been by him so long that he found himself saying
them now as though he meant every word.
"My congratulations must keep till the proper time; but when that comes
they may surprise you. My dear girl, I should like you to understand
that you're not the only person whose opinion has changed since we were
at Essingham. If I may say so at this stage of the proceedings, and if
it is any satisfaction to you to hear it, I for one am going to be very
glad about this thing, I think him such a first-rate fellow, Tiny!"
For a moment Christina gazed acutely at her brother-in-law. "I wonder if
that's sincere?" she said reflectively. Then her eyes hurried back to
the sea.
"I think he's a very good fellow indeed," said Erskine with emphasis.
The girl gave a little laugh. "Oh, he's all that; the question is
whether that's enough."
"It is, if he really loves you--as I think he must."
"Oh, if it's enough for him to be in love!"
There followed a great pause, during which the thought of pleasant
things to say was thrown overboard and left far astern.
"I only hope," Erskine said at last, with an earnest ring in his voice
which was new to Christina, "that you are not going to make the greatest
mistake of your life!"
"I hope not also."
"Ah, don't make light of it!" he cried impetuously. "If you marry
without love you'll ruin your life, I don't care who it is you marry! To
marry for affection, or for esteem, or for money--they're all equally
bad; there is no distinction. Take affection--for a time you might be as
happy as if it were something more; but remember that any day you might
see somebody that you could really love. Then you would know the
difference, and it would embitter your whole existence with a quiet,
private, unsuspected bitterness, of which you can have no conception.
And so much the worse if you have married somebody who is honestly and
sufficiently fond of you. His love would cut you to the heart--because
you could only pretend to return it--because your whole existence would
be a living lie!"
He was extremely unlike himself. His voice trembled, and in the dying
light his face was gray. These things made his words impressive, but the
girl did not seem particularly impressed. Had she remembered the one
previous occasion when a similar conversation had taken place between
them, the strangeness of his manner must have been driven home to her by
contrast; but the contrast was a double one, and her own share in it
kept her from thinking of the time when she had been serious and he had
not, and now, when he was more serious than she had ever known him, she
met him with a frivolous laugh.
"Well, really, Erskine, I've never heard you so terribly in earnest
before! I think I had better not tell Ruth what you have said; my dear
man, you speak as though you'd been there!"
It was some time before he laughed.
"If only you yourself would be more in earnest, Tiny! You may say this
comes badly from me. I know there has been more jest than earnest
between me and you. But if I was never serious in my life before I am
now, and I want you, too, to take yourself seriously for once. You see,
Tiny, I am not only an old married man by this time, but I am your
European parent as well. I am entitled to play the heavy father, and to
give you a lecture when I think you need one. My dear child, I have been
in the world about twice as long as you have, and I know men and have
heard of women who have poisoned their whole lives by marrying with love
on the other side only; and the greater their worldly goods, the greater
has been their misery! And rather than see you do as they have done----"
The sentence snapped. "You shan't do it!" he exclaimed sharply. "You're
far too good to spoil yourself as others have done and are doing every
day."
"Who told you I was good?" inquired Christina, with a touch of the
coquetry which even with him she could not entirely repress. "You never
had it from me, most certainly. Let me tell you, Erskine, that I'm
bad--bad--bad! And if I haven't shocked you sufficiently already it is
evidently time that I did; so you'll please to understand that if I
marry Lord Manister it is partly because I think I owe it to him;
otherwise it's for the main chance purely. And I think it's very unkind
of you to make me confess all this," she added fretfully. "I never meant
to speak to you about it at all. Only I can't bear you to think me
better than I am."
Erskine shook his head sadly.
"At least you have a better side than this, Tiny--this is not you at
all! You love and admire all that is honest and noble, and fresh and
free; you should give that love and admiration a chance. But I'm not
going to say any more to worry you. If you really, with your eyes open,
are going to marry a man whom you do not love, I can only tell you that
you will be doing at best a very cynical thing. And yet--I can
understand it." This he added more to himself than to the girl.
He was turning away, but she laid a restraining hand upon his arm.
"Don't go," she exclaimed impulsively. "I can't let you go when--when
you understand me better than anyone else ever did--and when I am never,
never going to speak to you like this again."
"If only I could help you!"
"You cannot!" Tiny cried out. "I'm too far gone to be helped. I feel
hopelessly bad and hard, and nobody can mend that. But if there's one
grain of goodness in my composition that wasn't there when I came over
to England, you may know, Erskine, if you care to know it, that it's
you, and you alone, who have put it there!"
"Nonsense," he said; "what good have I done you?"
"You have talked sense to me, as only one other man ever did--and he
wasn't as clever as you are. You've given me books to read, and they're
the first good books I ever read in my life; you have dug a sort of
oyster knife into my miserable ignorance! You have been a real good pal
to me, Erskine, and you must never turn your back on me, whatever I do.
I know you never will. I believe in you as I believe in very few people
on this footstool; but there's one thing you can do for me now that will
be even kinder than anything that you have ever done yet."
"There's nothing that I wouldn't do for you, Tiny," said Erskine
tenderly. "What is it?"
The corners of her mouth twitched--her eyes twinkled.
"It's not to say another serious word to me this month! I know I began
it this time; I won't do so again. I'm trying to be happy in my own way,
if you'll only let me. I'm trying to make the most of my time. When I'm
really engaged I shall need all the help and advice you can give me; for
I mean to be very good to him, Erskine; I do indeed! Then of course I
shall need to cultivate the finest manners; but until it actually comes
off I'm trying to forget about it--don't you see? I'm doing my level
best to forget!"
What Erskine saw was the tears in her eyes, but he saw them only for an
instant; instead of his leaving Christina on the deck it was she who
left him; and there he stood, between the high seas and the gathering
shades of night, until both were black.
It was their last conversation of the kind.
One more night was spent at sea; the next they were all back in
Kensington. Here they were greeted with a pleasant surprise: Herbert was
in the house to meet them. Cambridge seemed already to have done him
good; he was singularly polite and subdued, though a little
uncommunicative. They, however, had much to tell him, so this was not
noticed immediately. His sisters supposed that he was in London for the
night only, as he said he had come down from Cambridge that day. It was
not until later that they knew that he had been sent down. Erskine broke
the news to them.
"I'm afraid," he added, "that they've sent him down for good and all.
The fact is, Ruth, your fears have been realized. He has done his best
to fill another eye; and this time the proctor's! He says he shall go
back to Melbourne immediately."
"Never!" cried Ruth; and she went straight to her brother, who was
smoking viciously in another room.
"Yes, by ghost!" drawled Herbert through his hooked nose. "I'm going to
clear out. I'm full up of England, Ruth, and I guess England's full up
of me. The best thing I can do is to go back, and turn boundary rider or
whim driver. That's about all I'm fit for, and it's what I'm going to
do. The _Ballaarat_ sails on the 2d--I've been to the office and taken
my berth already. My oath, I drove there straight from Liverpool Street
this afternoon!"
Nor was there any moving him from his purpose, though Ruth tried for
half an hour there and then. Twice that time Herbert spent afterward in
Tiny's room; but it was not known whether Tiny also had attempted to
dissuade him. When he left her the girl stood for five minutes with a
foot on the fender and an elbow on the mantelpiece. Then she sought Ruth
in haste.
Ruth had just gone upstairs. Erskine was surprised to see her back in
his study almost immediately, and startled by her mode of entrance,
which suggested sudden illness in the house.
"What in the world has happened?" he said, sitting upright in his chair.
"Happened?" cried Ruth bitterly. "It is the last straw! I give her up. I
wash my hands of her. I wish she had never come over!"
"Tiny? Why, what has she been doing now?"
"It isn't what she has been doing--it is what she says she's going to
do. You may be able to bring her to reason, but I never shall. I won't
try--I wash my hands of her. I will say no more to her. But it is simply
disgraceful! She is far worse than Herbert!"
"Has she unmade her mind," Holland asked eagerly.
"No, no, no! But worse, I call it. O Erskine, if you knew what she
says----"
"I am waiting to hear."
"You'll never guess!"
"No, I give it up."
"So must Tiny--I never heard a madder idea in my life!"
"Than _what_, my dear?"
"Her going out with Herbert in the _Ballaarat_!"