Ned planned to rise early, but sleep was heavy upon him when he tried to
waken. It was after ten when he had finished breakfast and was ready to
begin active preparations for the excursion. His first work, of course,
was to see about hiring a launch.
Ten minutes’ ride took him to the office of his friend, Rex Nard,
vice-president of a great marine-outfitting establishment, and five
minutes’ conversation with this gentleman told him all he wanted to
know. Yes, as it happened Nard knew of a corking craft that was at that
moment in need of a charterer, possibly just the thing that Cornet
wanted. The only difficulty, Nard explained, was that it was probably a
much better schooner than was needed for casual excursions into northern
waters.
“This particular craft was built for a scientific expedition sent out by
one of the great museums,” Nard explained. “It isn’t just a fisherman’s
scow. She has a nifty galley and a snug little dining saloon, and two
foxy little staterooms for extra toney passengers. Quite an up-stage
little boat. Comfortable as any yacht you ever saw.”
“Staunch and seaworthy?”
“Man, this big-spectacled outfit that had it built took it clear into
the Arctic Sea—after walrus and polar bear and narwhal and musk ox; and
she’s built right. I’d cross the Pacific in her any day. Her present
owners bought her with the idea of putting her into coastal service,
both passengers and freight, between various of the little far northern
towns, but the general exodus out of portions of Alaska has left her
temporarily without a job.”
“How about cargo space?”
“I don’t know exactly—but it was big enough for several tons of walrus
and musk ox skeletons, so it ought to suit you.”
“What do you think I could get her for?”
“I don’t think—I know. I was talking to her owner yesterday noon. You
can get her for ninety days for five thousand dollars—seventy-five per
for a shorter time. That includes the services of four men, licensed
pilot, first and second engineer, and a nigger cook; and gas and oil for
the motor.”
Ned stood up, his black eyes sparkling with elation, and put on his hat.
“Where do I find her?”
“Hunt up Ole Knutsen, at this address.” Nard wrote an instant on a strip
of paper. “The name of the craft is the _Charon_.”
“The _Charon_! My heavens, wasn’t he the old boy who piloted the lost
souls across the river Styx? If I were a bit superstitious——”
“You’d be afraid you were headed straight for the infernal regions, eh?
It does seem to be tempting providence to ride in a boat with such a
name. Fortunately the average man Knutsen hires for his crew doesn’t
know Charon from Adam. Seamen, my boy, are the most superstitious crowd
on earth. No one can follow the sea and not be superstitious—don’t ask
me why. It gets to them, some way, inside.”
“Sorry I can’t stay to hear a lecture on the subject.” Ned turned toward
the door. “Now for Mr. Knutsen.”
Ned drove to the designated address, found the owner of the craft, and
executed a charter after ten minutes of conversation. Knutsen was a big,
good-natured man with a goodly share of Norse blood that had paled his
eyes and hair. Together they drew up the list of supplies.
“Of course, we might put in some of dis stuff at nordern ports,” Knutsen
told him in the unmistakable accent of the Norse. “You’d save money,
though, by getting it here.”
“All except one item—last but not least,” Ned assured him. “I’ve got to
stop at Vancouver.”
“Canadian territory, eh——?”
“Canadian whisky. Six cases of imperial quarts. We’ll be gone a long
time, and a sailor needs his grog.”
At which the only comment was made after the door had closed and the
aristocratic fur trader had gone his way. The Norseman sat a long time
looking into the ashes of his pipe. “Six cases—by Yiminy!” he
commented, with good cheer. “If his Pop want to make money out of dis
deal he better go himself!”
* * * * *
There was really very little else for Ned to do. The silk gowns and
wraps that were to be his principal article of trade would not be
received for a few days at least; and seemingly he had arranged for
everything. He started leisurely back toward his father’s office.
But yes, there was one thing more. His father had said that his staff
must include a fitter,—a woman who could ply the needle and make minor
alterations in the gowns. For a moment he mused on the pleasant
possibility that Lenore and her mother could hold up that end of the
undertaking. It would give them something to do, an interest in the
venture; it would save the cost of hiring a seamstress. But at once he
laughed at himself for the thought. He could imagine the frigid,
caste-proud Mrs. Hardenworth in the rôle of seamstress! In the first
place she likely didn’t know one end of a needle from another. If in
some humble days agone she had known how to sew, she was not the type
that would care to admit it now. He had to recognize this fact, even
though she were his sweetheart’s mother. Nor would she be likely to take
kindly to the suggestion. The belligerence with which she had always
found it necessary to support her assumption of caste would manifest
itself only too promptly should he suggest that she become a
needlewoman, even on a lark. Such larks appealed to neither Mrs.
Hardenworth nor her daughter. And neither of them would care for such
intimate relations with the squaws, native of far northern villages. The
two passengers could scarcely be induced to speak to such as these, much
less fit their dresses. No, he might as well plan on taking one of his
father’s fitters.
And at this point in his thoughts he paused, startled. Later, when the
idea that had come to him had lost its novelty, he still wondered about
that strange little start that seemed to go all over him. It was some
time before he could convince himself of the real explanation—that,
though seamstress she was, on a plane as far different from his own
Lenore as night was from day, the friendliness and particularly the good
sportsmanship of his last night’s victim had wakened real gratitude and
friendship for her. He felt really gracious toward her, and since it was
necessary that the expedition include a seamstress, it would not be bad
at all to have her along. She had shown the best of taste on the way
home after the accident, and certainly she would offend Lenore’s and his
own sensibilities less than the average of his father’s employees.
He knew where he could procure some one to do the fitting. Had not Bess
Gilbert, when he had left her at her door the previous evening, told him
that she knew all manner of needlecraft? Her well-modeled, athletic,
though slender form could endure such hardships as the work involved;
and she had the temperament exactly needed: adventurous, uncomplaining,
courageous. He turned at once out Madison where Bess lived.
She was at work at that hour, a gray, sweet-faced woman told him, but he
was given directions where he might find her. Ten minutes later he was
talking to the young lady herself.
Wholly without warmth, just like the matter of business that it was, he
told her his plan and offered her the position. It was for ninety days,
he said, and owing to the nature of the work, irregular hours and more
or less hardship, her pay would be twice that which she received in the
city. Would she care to go?
She looked up at him with blue eyes smiling,—a smile that crept down to
her lips for all that she tried to repel it. She looked straight into
Ned’s eyes as she answered him simply, candidly, quite like a social
equal instead of a lowly employee. And there was a lilt in her voice
that caught Ned’s attention in spite of himself.
“I haven’t had many opportunities for ocean travel,” she told him—and
whether or not she was laughing at him Ned Cornet couldn’t have sworn!
Her tone was certainly suspiciously merry. “Mr. Cornet, I’ll be glad
enough to accompany your party, any time you say.”
V
It was a jesting, hilarious crowd that gathered one sunlit morning to
watch the departure of the _Charon_. Rodney Coburn was there, and Rex
Nard, various matrons who were members of Mrs. Hardenworth’s bridge
club, and an outer and inner ring of satellites that gyrated around such
social suns as Ned and Lenore. Every one was very happy, and no one
seemed to take the expedition seriously. The idea of Ned Cornet, he of
the curly brown hair, in the rôle of fur trader in the frozen wastes of
the North appealed to his friends as being irresistibly comic. The
nearest approach to seriousness was Coburn’s envy.
“I’d like to be in your shoes,” he told Ned. “Just think—a chance to
take a tundra caribou, a Kodiac bear, and maybe a polar bear and a
walrus—all in one swoop! I’ll have to hand over my laurels as a
big-game hunter when you get back, old boy!”
“Lewis and Clark, Godspeed!” Ted Wynham, known among certain
disillusioned newspaper men as “the court jester”, announced
melodramatically from a snubbing block. “In token of our esteem and good
wishes, we wish to present you with this magic key to success and
happiness.” He held out a small bundle, the size of a jack-knife,
carefully wrapped. “You are going North, my children! You, Marco
Polo”—he bowed handsomely to Ned—“and you, our lady of the
snows,”—addressing Lenore—“and last but not least, the
chaperone”—bowing still lower to Mrs. Hardenworth, a big, handsome
woman with iron-gray hair and large, even features—“will find full use
for the enclosed magic key in the wintry, barbarous, but blessed lands
of the North. Gentleman and ladies, you are not venturing into a desert.
Indeed, it is a land flowing with milk and honey. And this little watch
charm, first aid to all explorers, the friend of all dauntless travelers
such as yourselves, explorers’ delight, in fact, will come in mighty
handy! Accept it, with our compliments!”
He handed the package to Ned, and a great laugh went up when he revealed
its contents. It contained a gold-mounted silver cork-screw!
Both Lenore and her mother seemed in a wonderful mood. The ninety-day
journey on those far-stretching sunlit waters seemed to promise only
happiness for them. Mrs. Hardenworth was getting her sea trip, and under
the most pleasant conditions. There would also, it seemed, be certain
chances for material advantages, none of which she intended to overlook.
In her trunk she had various of her own gowns—some of them slightly
worn, it was true; some of them stained and a trifle musty—yet suddenly
immensely valuable in her eyes. She had intended to give them to the
first charity that would condescend to accept them, but now she didn’t
even trust her own daughter with them. Somewhere in those lost and
desolate islands of the North she intended trading them for silver fox!
Ned had chest upon chest of gowns to trade; surely she would get a
chance to work in her own. Her daughter looked forward to the same
profitable enterprise, and besides, she had the anticipation of three
wonderful, happy months’ companionship with the man of her choice.
They had dressed according to their idea of the occasion. Lenore wore a
beautifully tailored middy suit that was highly appropriate for summer
seas, but was nothing like the garb that Esquimo women wear in the fall
journeys in the Oomiacs. Mrs. Hardenworth had a smart tailored suit of
small black and white check, a small hat and a beautiful gray veil. Both
of them carried winter coats, and both were fitted out with binoculars,
cameras, and suchlike oceanic paraphernalia. Knutsen, of course,
supposed that their really heavy clothes, great mackinaws and slickers
and leather-lined woolens, such as are sometimes needed on Bering Sea,
were in the trunks he had helped to stow below. In this regard the blond
seaman, helmsman and owner of the craft, had made a slight mistake. In a
desire for a wealth of silver fox to wear home both trunks had been
filled with discarded gowns to the exclusion of almost everything else.
Ned, in a smart yachting costume, had done rather better by himself. He
had talked with Coburn in regard to the outfit, and his duffle bag
contained most of the essentials for such a journey. And Bess’s big,
plain bag was packed full of the warmest clothes she possessed.
Bess did not stand among the happy circle of Ned’s friends. Her mother
and sister had come down to the dock to bid her good-by, and they seemed
to be having a very happy little time among themselves. Bess herself was
childishly happy in the anticipation of the adventure. Hard would blow
the wind that could chill her, and mighty the wilderness power that
could break her spirit!
The captain was almost ready to start the launch. McNab, the chief
engineer, was testing his engines; Forest, his assistant, stood on the
deck; and the negro cook stood grinning at the window of the galley. But
presently there was an abrupt cessation of the babble of voices in the
group surrounding Ned.
Only Ted Wynham’s voice was left, trailing on at the high pitch he
invariably used in trying to make himself heard in a noisy crowd. It
sounded oddly loud, now that the laughter had ceased. Ted paused in the
middle of a word, startled by the silence, and a secret sense of vague
embarrassment swept all his listeners. A tall man was pushing through
the crowd, politely asking right of way, his black eyes peering under
silver brows. For some inexplicable reason the sound of frolic died
before his penetrating gaze.
But the groups caught themselves at once. They must not show fear of
this stalwart, aged man with his prophet’s eyes. They spoke to him,
wishing him good day, and he returned their bows with faultless
courtesy. An instant later he stood before his son.
“Mother couldn’t get down,” Godfrey Cornet said simply. “She sent her
love and good wishes. A good trip, Ned—but not too good a trip.”
“Why not—too good a trip?”
“A little snow, a little cold—maybe a charging Kodiac bear—fine
medicine for the spirit, Ned. Good luck!”
He gave his hand, then turned to extend good wishes to Mrs. Hardenworth
and Lenore. He seemed to have a queer, hesitant manner when he addressed
the latter, as if he had planned to give some further, more personal
message, but now was reconsidering it. Then the little group about him
suddenly saw his face grow vivid.
“Where’s Miss Gilbert——?”
The group looked from one to another. As always, they were paying the
keenest attention to his every word; but they could not remember hearing
this name before. “Miss Gilbert?” his son echoed blankly. “Oh, you mean
the seamstress——”
“Of course—the other member of your party.”
“She’s right there, talking to her mother.”
A battery of eyes was suddenly turned on the girl. Seemingly she had
been merely part of the landscape before, unnoticed except by such
clandestine gaze as Ted Wynham bent upon her; but in an instant, because
Godfrey Cornet had known her name, she became a personage of at least
some small measure of importance. Without knowing why she did it, Mrs.
Hardenworth drew herself up to her full height.
Cornet walked courteously to the girl’s side and extended his hand.
“Good luck to you, and a pleasant journey,” he said, smiling down on
her. “And, Miss Gilbert, I wonder if I could give you a charge——”
“I’ll do my best—anything you ask——”
“I want you to look after my son Ned. He’s never been away from the
comforts of civilization before—and if a button came off, he’d never
know how to put it on. Don’t let him come to grief, Miss Gilbert. I’m
wholly serious—I know what the North is. Don’t let him take too great a
risk. Watch out for his health. There’s nothing in this world like a
woman’s care.”
There was no ring of laughter behind him. No one liked to take the
chance that he was jesting, and no one could get away from the
uncomfortable feeling that he might be in earnest. Bess’s reply was
entirely grave.
“I’ll remember all you told me,” she told him simply.
“Thank you—and a pleasant voyage.”
Even now the adventurers were getting aboard. Mrs. Hardenworth was
handing her bag to Knutsen—she had mistaken him for a cabin boy—with
instructions to carry it carefully and put it in her stateroom; Lenore
was bidding a joyous farewell to some of her more intimate friends. The
engine roared, the water churned beneath the propeller, the pilot called
some order in a strident voice. The boat moved easily from the dock.
Swiftly it sped out into the Sound. A great shout was raised from the
dock, hands waved, farewell words blew over the sunlit waters. But there
was one of the four seafarers on the deck who seemed neither to hear nor
to see. He stood silent, a profundity of thought upon him never
experienced before.
He was wondering at the reality of the clamor on the shore. How many
were there in the farewell party who after a few weeks would even
remember his existence? If the blond man at the wheel were in reality
Charon, piloting him to some fabled underworld from which he could never
return, how quickly he would be forgotten, how soon they would fail to
speak his name! He felt peculiarly depressed, inwardly baffled, deeply
perplexed.
Were all his associations this same fraud? Was there nothing real or
genuine in all the fabric of his life? As he stood erect, gazing out
over the shimmering waters, Lenore suddenly gazed at him in amazement.
For the moment there was a striking resemblance to his father about his
lips and in the unfathomable blackness of his eyes. Her own reaction was
a violent start, a swift feeling of apprehension that she could not
analyze or explain. Her instincts were sure and true: she must not let
this side of him gain the ascendency. Her very being seemed to depend on
that.
But swiftly she called him from his preoccupation. She had something to
show him, she said,—a parting gift that Ted Wynham had left in her
stateroom. It was a dark bottle of a famous whisky, and it would suffice
their needs, he had said, until they should reach Vancouver.