In Which We View, and Even Mingle Slightly with, the Upper Classes
It is astonishing--the ease with which the human mind can accustom
itself to the unfamiliar and hitherto strange. Nothing could have been
more unfamiliar or strange to Hephzibah and me than an ocean voyage and
the “Plutonia.” And yet before three days of that voyage were at an end
we were accustomed to both--to a degree. We had learned to do certain
things and not to do others. Some pet illusions had been shattered,
and new and, at first, surprising items of information had lost their
newness and come to be accepted as everyday facts.
For example, we learned that people in real life actually wore monocles,
something, which I, of course, had known to be true but which had seemed
nevertheless an unreality, part of a stage play, a “dress-up” game for
children and amateur actors. The “English swell” in the performances of
the Bayport Dramatic Society always wore a single eyeglass, but he also
wore Dundreary whiskers and clothes which would have won him admittance
to the Home for Feeble-Minded Youth without the formality of an
examination. His “English accent” was a combination of the East Bayport
twang and an Irish brogue and he was a blithering idiot in appearance
and behavior. No one in his senses could have accepted him as anything
human and the eyeglass had been but a part of his unreal absurdity.
And yet, here on the “Plutonia,” were at least a dozen men, men of
dignity and manner, who sported monocles and acted as if they were
used to them. The first evening before we left port, one or two were in
evidence; the next afternoon, in the Lounge, there were more. The
fact that they were on an English ship, bound for England, brought the
monocles out of their concealment, as Hephzy said, “like hoptoads after
the first spring thaw.” Her amazed comments were unique.
“But what good are they, Hosy?” she demanded. “Can they see with 'em?”
“I suppose they can,” I answered. “You can see better with your
spectacles than you can without them.”
“Humph! I can see better with two eyes than I can with one, as far as
that goes. I don't believe they wear 'em for seein' at all. Take that
man there,” pointing to a long, lank Canadian in a yellow ulster,
whom the irreverent smoking-room had already christened “The Duke
of Labrador.” “Look at him! He didn't wear a sign of one until this
mornin'. If he needed it to see with he'd have worn it before, wouldn't
he? Don't tell me! He wears it because he wants people to think he's a
regular boarder at Windsor Castle. And he isn't; he comes from Toronto,
and that's only a few miles from the United States. Ugh! You foolish
thing!” as the “Duke of Labrador” strutted by our deck-chairs; “I
suppose you think you're pretty, don't you? Well, you're not. You look
for all the world like a lighthouse with one window in it and the lamp
out.”
I laughed. “Hephzy,” said I, “every nation has its peculiarities and the
monocle is an English national institution, like--well, like tea, for
instance.”
“Institution! Don't talk to me about institutions! I know the
institution I'd put HIM in.”
She didn't fancy the “Duke of Labrador.” Neither did she fancy tea at
breakfast and coffee at dinner. But she learned to accept the first. Two
sessions with the “Plutonia's” breakfast coffee completed her education.
“Bring me tea,” she said to our table steward on the third morning.
“I've tried most every kind of coffee and lived through it, but I'm
gettin' too old to keep on experimentin' with my health. Bring me tea
and I'll try to forget what time it is.”
We had tea at breakfast, therefore, and tea at four in the afternoon.
Hephzibah and I learned to take it with the rest. She watched her
fellow-passengers, however, and as usual had something to say concerning
their behavior.
“Did you hear that, Hosy?” she whispered, as we sat together in the
“Lounge,” sipping tea and nibbling thin bread and butter and the
inevitable plum cake. “Did you hear what that woman said about her
husband?”
I had not heard, and said so.
“Well, judgin' by her actions, I thought her husband was lost and she
was sure he had been washed overboard. 'Where is Edward?' she kept
askin'. 'Poor Edward! What WILL he do? Where is he?' I was gettin' real
anxious, and then it turned out that she was afraid that, if he didn't
come soon, he'd miss his tea. My soul! Hosy, I've been thinkin' and do
you know the conclusion I've come to?”
“No,” I replied. “What is it?”
“Well, it sounds awfully irreverent, but I've come to the conclusion
that the first part of the Genesis in the English scriptures must be
different than ours. I'm sure they think that the earth was created in
six days and, on the seventh, Adam and Eve had tea. I believe it for an
absolute fact.”
The pet illusion, the loss of which caused her the most severe shock,
was that concerning the nobility. On the morning of our first day afloat
the passenger lists were distributed. Hephzibah was early on deck.
Fortunately neither she nor I were in the least discomfited by the
motion of the ship, then or at any time. We proved to be good sailors;
Hephzibah declared it was in the blood.
“For a Knowles or a Cahoon to be seasick,” she announced, “would be a
disgrace. Our men folks for four generations would turn over in their
graves.”
She was early on deck that first morning and, at breakfast she and I had
the table to ourselves. She had the passenger list propped against the
sugar bowl and was reading the names.
“My gracious, Hosy!” she exclaimed. “What, do you think! There are five
'Sirs' on board and one 'Lord'! Just think of it! Where do you suppose
they are?”
“In their berths, probably, at this hour,” I answered.
“Then I'm goin' to stay right here till they come out. I'm goin' to see
'em and know what they look like if I sit at this table all day.”
I smiled. “I wouldn't do that, Hephzy,” said I. “We can see them at
lunch.”
“Oh! O--Oh! And there's a Princess here! Princess
B-e-r-g-e-n-s-t-e-i-n--Bergenstein. Princess Bergenstein. What do you
suppose she's Princess of?”
“Princess of Jerusalem, I should imagine,” I answered. “Oh, I see!
You've skipped a line, Hephzy. Bergenstein belongs to another person.
The Princess's name is Berkovitchky. Russian or Polish, perhaps.”
“I don't care if she's Chinese; I mean to see her. I never expected to
look at a live Princess in MY life.”
We stopped in the hall at the entrance to the dining-saloon to examine
the table chart. Hephzibah made careful notes of the tables at which the
knights and the lord and the Princess were seated and their locations.
At lunch she consulted the notes.
“The lord sits right behind us at that little table there,” she said,
excitedly. “That table for two is marked 'Lord and Lady Erkskine.' Now
we must watch when they come in.”
A few minutes later a gray-haired little man, accompanied by a
middle-aged woman entered the saloon and were seated at the small table
by an obsequious steward. Hephzy gasped.
“Why--why, Hosy!” she exclaimed. “That isn't the lord, is it? THAT?”
“I suppose it must be,” I answered. When our own Steward came I asked
him.
“Yes, sir,” he answered, with unction. “Yes, sir, that is Lord and Lady
Erkskine, sir, thank you, sir.”
Hephzy stared at Lord and Lady Erkskine. I gave our luncheon order,
and the steward departed. Then her indignant disgust and disappointment
burst forth.
“Well! well!” she exclaimed. “And that is a real live lord! That is!
Why, Hosy, he's the livin' image of Asaph Tidditt back in Bayport. If
Ase could afford clothes like that he might be his twin brother. Well! I
guess that's enough. I don't want to see that Princess any more. Just as
like as not she'd look like Susanna Wixon.”
Her criticisms were not confined to passengers of other nationalities.
Some of our own came in for comment quite as severe.
“Look at those girls at that table over there,” she whispered. “The two
in red, I mean. One of 'em has got a little flag pinned on her dress.
What do you suppose that is for?”
I looked at the young ladies in red. They were vivacious damsels and
their conversation and laughter were by no means subdued. A middle-aged
man and woman and two young fellows were their table-mates and the group
attracted a great deal of attention.
“What has she got that flag pinned on her for?” repeated Hephzy.
“She wishes everyone to know she's an American exportation, I suppose,”
I answered. “She is evidently proud of her country.”
“Humph! Her country wouldn't be proud of her, if it had to listen to
her the way we do. There's some exports it doesn't pay to advertise, I
guess, and she and her sister are that kind. Every time they laugh I
can see that Lady Erkskine shrivel up like a sensitive plant. I hope she
don't think all American girls are like those two.”
“She probably does.”
“Well, IF she does she's makin' a big mistake. I might as well believe
all Englishmen were like this specimen comin' now, and I don't believe
that, even if I do hail from Bayport.”
The specimen was the “Duke of Labrador,” who sauntered by, monocle in
eye, hands in pockets and an elaborate affection of the “Oxford stoop”
which he must have spent time and effort in acquiring. Hephzibah shook
her head.
“I wish Toronto was further from home than it is,” she declared. “But
there! I shan't worry about him. I'll leave him for Lord Erkskine and
his wife to be ashamed of. He's their countryman, or he hopes he is.
I've got enough to do bein' ashamed of those two American girls.”
It may be gathered from these conversations that Hephzy and I had been
so fortunate as to obtain a table by ourselves. This was not the case.
There were four seats at our table and, according to the chart of the
dining-saloon, one of them should be occupied by a “Miss Rutledge of New
York” and the other by “A. Carleton Heathcroft of London.” Miss Rutledge
we had not seen at all. Our table steward informed us that the lady was
“hindisposed” and confined to her room. She was an actress, he added.
Hephzy, whose New England training had imbued her with the conviction
that all people connected with the stage must be highly undesirable
as acquaintances, was quite satisfied. “Of course I'm sorry she isn't
well,” she confided to me “but I'm awfully glad she won't be at our
table. I shouldn't want to hurt her feelin's, but I couldn't talk to her
as I would to an ordinary person. I COULDN'T! All I should be able to
think of was what she wore, or didn't wear, when she was actin' her
parts. I expect I'm old-fashioned, but when I think of those girls
in the pictures outside that theater--the one we didn't go
to--I--well--mercy!”
The “pictures” were the posters advertising a popular musical comedy
which Campbell had at first suggested our witnessing the afternoon of
our stay in New York. Hephzibah's shocked expression and my whispered
advice had brought about a change of plans. We saw a perfectly
respectable, though thrilling, melodrama instead. I might have
relieved my relative's mind by assuring her that all actresses were not
necessarily attired as “merry villagers,” but the probable result of my
assurance seemed scarcely worth the effort.
A. Carleton Heathcroft, Esquire, was not acquainted with the stage, in
a professional way, at any rate. He was a slim and elegant gentleman,
dressed with elaborate care, who appeared profoundly bored with life
in general and our society in particular. He sported one of Hephzibah's
detestations, a monocle, and spoke, when he spoke at all, with a languid
drawl and what I learned later was a Piccadilly accent. He favored us
with his company during our first day afloat; after that we saw him
amid the select group at that much sought--by some--center of shipboard
prominence, “the Captain's table.”
Oddly enough Hephzibah did not resent the Heathcroft condescension and
single eyeglass as much as I had expected. She explained her feeling in
this way.
“I know he's dreadfully high and mighty and all that,” she said. “And
the way he said 'Really?' when you and I spoke to him was enough to
squelch even an Angelina Phinney. But I didn't care so much. Anybody,
even a body as green as I am, can see that he actually IS somebody when
he's at home, not a make-believe, like that Toronto man. And I'm glad
for our waiter's sake that he's gone somewhere else. The poor thing
bowed so low when he came in and was so terribly humble every time Mr.
Heathcroft spoke to him. I should hate to feel I must say 'Thank you'
when I was told that the food was 'rotten bad.' I never thought 'rotten'
was a nice word, but all these English folks say it. I heard that pretty
English girl over there tell her father that it was a 'jolly rotten
mornin',' and she's as nice and sweet as she can be. Well, I'm
learnin' fast, Hosy. I can see a woman smoke a cigarette now and not
shiver--much. Old Bridget Doyle up in West Bayport, used to smoke a
pipe and the whole town talked about it. She'd be right at home in that
sittin'-room they call a 'Lounge' after dinner, wouldn't she?”
My acquaintance with A. Carleton Heathcroft, which appeared to have
ended almost as soon as it began, was renewed in an odd way. I was in
the “Smoke-Room” after dinner the third evening out, enjoying a cigar
and idly listening to the bidding for pools on the ship's run, that
time-honored custom which helps the traveling gentleman of sporting
proclivities to kill time and lose money. On board the “Plutonia,” with
its unusually large quota of millionaires and personages, the bidding
was lively and the prices paid for favored numbers high. Needless to say
I was not one of the bidders. My interest was merely casual.
The auctioneer that evening was a famous comedian with an international
reputation and his chatter, as he urged his hearers to higher bids, was
clever and amusing. I was listening to it and smiling at the jokes when
a voice at my elbow said:
“Five pounds.”
I turned and saw that the speaker was Heathcroft. His monocle was in his
eye, a cigarette was between his fingers and he looked as if he had
been newly washed and ironed and pressed from head to foot. He nodded
carelessly and I bowed in return.
“Five pounds,” repeated Mr. Heathcroft.
The auctioneer acknowledged the bid and proceeded to urge his audience
on to higher flights. The flights were made and my companion capped each
with one more lofty. Eight, nine, ten pounds were bid. Heathcroft bid
eleven. Someone at the opposite side of the room bid twelve. It seemed
ridiculous to me. Possibly my face expressed my feeling; at any rate
something caused the immaculate gentleman in the next chair to address
me instead of the auctioneer.
“I say,” he said, “that's running a bit high, isn't it?”
“It seems so to me,” I replied. “The number is five hundred and
eighty-six and I think we shall do better than that.”
“Oh, do you! Really! And why do you think so, may I ask?”
“Because we are having a remarkably smooth sea and a favorable wind.”
“Oh, but you forget the fog. There's quite a bit of fog about us now,
isn't there.”
I wish I could describe the Heathcroft manner of saying “Isn't there.” I
can't, however; there is no use trying.
“It will amount to nothing,” I answered. “The glass is high and there
is no indication of bad weather. Our run this noon was five hundred and
ninety-one, you remember.”
“Yes. But we did have extraordinarily good weather for that.”
“Why, not particularly good. We slowed down about midnight. There was
a real fog then and the glass was low. The second officer told me it
dropped very suddenly and there was a heavy sea running. For an hour
between twelve and one we were making not much more than half our usual
speed.”
“Really! That's interesting. May I ask if you and the second officer are
friends?”
“Scarcely that. He and I exchanged a few words on deck this morning,
that's all.”
“But he told you about the fog and the--what is it--the glass, and all
that. Fancy! that's extremely odd. I'm acquainted with the captain in
a trifling sort of way; I sit at his table, I mean to say. And I assure
you he doesn't tell us a word. And, by Jove, we cross-question him, too!
Rather!”
I smiled. I could imagine the cross-questioning.
“I suppose the captain is obliged to be non-committal,” I observed.
“That's part of his job. The second officer meant to be, I have no
doubt, but perhaps my remarks showed that I was really interested in
ships and the sea. My father and grandfather, too, for that matter were
seafaring men, both captains. That may have made the second officer more
communicative. Not that he said anything of importance, of course.”
Mr. Heathcroft seemed very interested. He actually removed his eyeglass.
“Oh!” he exclaimed. “You know something about it, then. I thought it was
extraordinary, but now I see. And you think our run will be better than
five hundred and eighty?”
“It should be, unless there is a remarkable change. This ship makes over
six hundred, day after day, in good weather. She should do at least six
hundred by to-morrow noon, unless there is a sudden change, as I said.”
“But six hundred would be--it would be the high field, by Jove!”
“Anything over five hundred and ninety-four would be that. The numbers
are very low to-night. Far too low, I should say.”
Heathcroft was silent. The auctioneer, having forced the bid on number
five hundred and eighty-six up to thirteen pounds ten, was imploring his
hearers not to permit a certain winner to be sacrificed at this absurd
figure.
“Fourteen pounds, gentlemen,” he begged. “For the sake of the wife
and children, for the honor of the star spangled banner and the union
jack,--DON'T hesitate--don't even stammer--below fourteen pounds.”
He looked in our direction as he said it. Mr. Heathcroft made no sign.
He produced a gold cigarette box and extended it in my direction.
“Will you?” he inquired.
“No, thank you,” I replied. “I will smoke a cigar, if you don't mind.”
He did not appear to mind. He lighted his cigarette, readjusted his
monocle, and stared stonily at the gesticulating auctioneer.
The bidding went on. One by one the numbers were sold until all were
gone. Then the auctioneer announced that bids for the “high field,” that
is, any number above five hundred and ninety-four, were in order. My
companion suddenly came to life.
“Ten pounds,” he called.
I started. “For mercy sake, Mr. Heathcroft,” I protested, “don't let
anything I have said influence your bidding. I may be entirely wrong.”
He turned and surveyed me through the eyeglass.
“You may wish to bid yourself,” he drawled. “Careless of me. So sorry.
Shall I withdraw the bid?”
“No, no. I'm not going to bid. I only--”
“Eleven pounds I am offered, gentlemen,” shouted the auctioneer. “Eleven
pounds! It would be like robbing an orphan asylum. Do I hear twelve?”
He heard twelve immediately--from Mr. Heathcroft.
Thirteen pounds were bid. Evidently others shared my opinion concerning
the value of the “high field.” Heathcroft promptly raised it to
fourteen. I ventured another protest. So far as effect was concerned I
might as well have been talking to one of the smoke-stacks. The bidding
was lively and lengthy. At last the “high field” went to Mr. A. Carleton
Heathcroft for twenty-one pounds, approximately one hundred and five
dollars. I thought it time for me to make my escape. I was wondering
where I should hide next day, when the run was announced.
“Greatly obliged to you, I'm sure,” drawled the fortunate bidder. “Won't
you join me in a whisky and soda or something?”
I declined the whisky and soda.
“Sorry,” said Mr. Heathcroft. “Jolly grateful for putting me right,
Mr.--er--”
“Knowles is my name,” I said. He might have remembered it; I remembered
his perfectly.
“Of course--Knowles. Thank you so much, Knowles. Thank you and the
second officer. Nothing like having professional information--eh, what?
Rather!”
There seemed to be no doubt in his mind that he was going to win. There
was more than a doubt in mine. I told Hephzy of my experience when I
joined her in the Lounge. My attempts to say “Really” and “Isn't it” and
“Rather” in the Heathcroft manner and with the Heathcroft accent pleased
her very much. As to the result of my unpremeditated “tip” she was quite
indifferent.
“If he loses it will serve him good and right,” she declared. “Gamblin's
poor business and I sha'n't care if he does lose.”
“I shall,” I observed. “I feel responsible in a way and I shall be
sorry.”
“'SO sorry,' you mean, Hosy. That's what that blunderin' steward said
when he stepped on my skirt and tore the gatherin' all loose. I told him
he wasn't half as sorry as I was.”
But at noon next day, when the observation was taken and the run posted
on the bulletin board the figure was six hundred and two. My “tip”
had been a good one after all and A. Carleton Heathcroft, Esquire,
was richer by some seven hundred dollars, even after the expenses of
treating the “smoke-room” and feeing the smoke-room steward had been
deducted. I did not visit the smoke-room to share in the treat. I feared
I might be expected to furnish more professional information. But that
evening a bottle of vintage champagne was produced by our obsequious
table steward. “With Mr. 'Eathcroft's compliments, sir, thank you, sir,”
announced the latter.
Hephzibah looked at the gilt-topped bottle.
“WHAT in the world will we do with it, Hosy?” she demanded.
“Why, drink it, I suppose,” I answered. “It is the only thing we can do.
We can't send it back.”
“But you can't drink the whole of it, and I'm sure I sha'n't start in to
be a drunkard at my age. I'll take the least little bit of a drop, just
to see what it tastes like. I've read about champagne, just as I've read
about lords and ladies, all my life, but I never expected to see either
of 'em. Well there!” after a very small sip from the glass, “there's
another pet idea gone to smash. A lord looks like Ase Tidditt, and
champagne tastes like vinegar and soda. Tut! tut! tut! if I had to drink
that sour stuff all my life I'd probably look like Asaph, too. No wonder
that Erkskine man is such a shriveled-up thing.”
I glanced toward the captain's table. Mr. Heathcroft raised his glass.
I bowed and raised mine. The group at that table, the captain included,
were looking in my direction. I judged that my smoke-room acquaintance
had told them of my wonderful “tip.” I imagined I could see the
sarcastic smile upon the captain's face. I did not care for that kind of
celebrity.
But the affair had one quite unexpected result. The next forenoon as
Hephzibah and I were reclining in our deck-chairs the captain himself,
florid-faced, gray-bearded, gold-laced and grand, halted before us.
“I believe your name is Knowles, sir,” he said, raising his cap.
“It is,” I replied. I wondered what in the world was coming next. Was he
going to take me to task for talking with his second officer?
“Your home is in Bayport, Massachusetts, I see by the passenger list,”
he went on. “Is that Bayport on Cape Cod, may I ask?”
“Yes,” I replied, more puzzled than ever.
“I once knew a Knowles from your town, sir. He was a seafaring man
like myself. His name was Philander Knowles, and when I knew him he was
commander of the bark 'Ranger.'”
“He was my father,” I said.
Captain Stone extended his hand.
“Mr. Knowles,” he declared, “this is a great pleasure, sir. I knew
your father years ago when I was a young man, mate of one of our ships
engaged in the Italian fruit trade. He was very kind to me at that time.
I have never forgotten it. May I sit down?”
The chair next to ours happened to be unoccupied at the moment and
he took it. I introduced Hephzibah and we chatted for some time. The
captain appeared delighted to meet the son of his old acquaintance.
Father and he had met in Messina--Father's ship was in the fruit trade
also at that time--and something or other he had done to help young
Stone had made a great impression on the latter. I don't know what the
something was, whether it was monetary help or assistance in getting out
of a serious scrape; Stone did not tell me and I didn't ask. But, at any
rate, the pair had become very friendly there and at subsequent meetings
in the Mediterranean ports. The captain asked all sorts of questions
about Father, his life, his family and his death aboard the sinking
“Monarch of the Seas.” Hephzibah furnished most of the particulars. She
remembered them well.
Captain Stone nodded solemnly.
“That is the way the master of a ship should die,” he declared. “Your
father, Mr. Knowles, was a man and he died like one. He was my first
American acquaintance and he gave me a new idea of Yankees--if you'll
excuse my calling them that, sir.”
Hephzy had a comment to make.
“There are SOME pretty fair Yankees,” she observed, drily. “ALL the good
folks haven't moved back to England yet.”
The captain solemnly assured her that he was certain of it.
“Though two of the best are on their way,” I added, with a wink at
Hephzy. This attempt at humor was entirely lost. Our companion said he
presumed I referred to Mr. and Mrs. Van Hook, who sat next him at table.
“And that leads me to ask if Miss Cahoon and yourself will not join us,”
he went on. “I could easily arrange for two places.”
I looked at Hephzy. Her face expressed decided disapproval and she shook
her head.
“Thank you, Captain Stone,” I said; “but we have a table to ourselves
and are very comfortable. We should not think of troubling you to that
extent.”
He assured us it would not be a trouble, but a pleasure. We were firm in
our refusal, however, and he ceased to urge. He declared his intention
of seeing that our quarters were adequate, offered to accompany us
through the engine-rooms and the working portions of the ship whenever
we wished, ordered the deck steward, who was all but standing on his
head in obsequious desire to oblige, to take good care of us, shook
hands once more, and went away. Hephzibah drew a long breath.
“My goodness!” she exclaimed; “sit at HIS table! I guess not! There's
another lord and his wife there, to say nothin' of the Van Hooks. I'd
look pretty, in my Cape Cod clothes, perched up there, wouldn't I! A hen
is all right in her place, but she don't belong in a peacock cage. And
they drink champagne ALL the time there; I've watched 'em. No thank you,
I'll stay in the henyard along with the everyday fowls.”
“Odd that he should have known Father,” I observed. “Well, I suppose the
proper remark to make, under the circumstances, is that this is a small
world. That is what nine-tenths of Bayport would say.”
“It's what I say, too,” declared Hephzy, with emphasis. “Well, it's
awful encouraging for us, isn't it.”
“Encouraging? What do you mean?”
“Why, I mean about Little Frank. It makes me feel surer than ever that
we shall run across him.”
I suppressed a groan. “Hephzy,” said I, “why on earth should the fact
that Captain Stone knew my father encourage you to believe that we shall
meet a person we never knew at all?”
“Hosy, how you do talk! If you and I, just cruisin' this way across
the broadside of creation, run across a man that knew Cousin Philander
thirty-nine years ago, isn't it just as reasonable to suppose we'll meet
a child who was born twenty-one years ago? I should say 'twas! Hosy,
I've had a presentiment about this cruise of ours: We're SENT on it;
that's what I think--we're sent. Oh, you can laugh! You'll see by and
by. THEN you won't laugh.”
“No, Hephzy,” I admitted, resignedly, “I won't laugh then, I promise
you. If _I_ ever reach the stage where I see a Little Frank I promise
you I sha'n't laugh. I'll believe diseases of the brain are contagious,
like the measles, and I'll send for a doctor.”
The captain met us again in the dining-room that evening. He came
over to our table and chatted for some time. His visit caused quite a
sensation. Shipboard society is a little world by itself and the ship's
captain is the head of it. Persons who would, very likely, have passed
Captain Stone on Fifth Avenue or Piccadilly without recognizing him now
toadied to him as if he were a Czar, which, in a way, I suppose he is
when afloat. His familiarity with us shed a sort of reflected glory upon
Hephzy and me. Several of our fellow-passengers spoke to us that evening
for the first time.
A. Carleton Heathcroft, Esquire, was not among the Lounge habitues; the
smoke-room was his accustomed haunt. But the next forenoon as I leaned
over the rail of the after promenade deck watching the antics of the
“Stokers' Band” which was performing for the benefit of the second-class
with an eye toward pennies and small silver from all classes, Heathcroft
sauntered up and leaned beside me. We exchanged good-mornings. I thanked
him for the wine.
“Quite unnecessary, Knowles,” he said. “Least I could do, it seems to
me. I pulled quite a tidy bit from that inside information of yours;
I did really. Awfully obliged, and all that. You seem to have a wide
acquaintance among the officers. That captain chap tells us he knew your
father--the sailor one you told me of, you understand.”
Having had but one father I understood perfectly. We chatted in a
inconsequential way for a short time. In the course of our conversation
I happened to mention that I wrote, professionally. To my surprise
Heathcroft was impressed.
“Do you, really!” he exclaimed. “That's interesting, isn't it now! I
have a cousin who writes. Don't know why she does it; she doesn't get
her writings printed, but she keeps on. It is a habit of hers. Curious
dissipation--eh, what? Does that--er--Miss--that companion of yours,
write also?”
I laughed and informed him that writing was not one of Hephzibah's bad
habits.
“Extraordinary woman, isn't she,” he said. “I met her just now, walking
about, and I happened to mention that I was taking the air. She said she
wouldn't quarrel with me because of that. The more I took the better
she would like it; she could spare about a gale and a quarter and not
feel--What did she call it? Oh yes, 'scrimped.' What is 'scrimped,' may
I ask?”
I explained the meaning of “scrimped.” Heathcroft was much amused.
“It WAS blowing a bit strong up forward there,” he declared. “That was a
clever way of putting it, wasn't it?”
“She is a clever woman,” I said, shortly.
Heathcroft did not enthuse.
“Oh,” he said dubiously. “A relative of yours, I suppose.”
“A cousin, that's all.”
“One's relatives, particularly the feminine relatives, incline toward
eccentricity as they grow older, don't you think. I have an aunt down in
Sussex, who is queer. A good sort, too, no end of money, a big place
and all that, but odd. She and I get on well together--I am her pet, I
suppose I may say--but, by Jove, she has quarreled with everyone else in
the family. I let her have her own way and it has convinced her that I
am the only rational Heathcroft in existence. Do you golf, Knowles?”
“I attempt something in that line. I doubt if my efforts should be
called golf.”
“It is a rotten game when one is off form, isn't it. If you are down
in Sussex and I chance to be there I should be glad to have you play an
eighteen with me. Burglestone Bogs is the village. Anyone will direct
you to the Manor. If I'm not there, introduce yourself to my aunt. Lady
Kent Carey is the name. She'll be jolly glad to welcome you if you
tell her you know me. I'm her sole interest in life, the greenhouses
excepted, of course. Cultivating roses and rearing me are her hobbies.”
I thought it improbable that the golfers of Burglestone Bogs would ever
be put to shame by the brilliancy of my game. I thanked him, however.
I was surprised at the invitation. I had been under the impression,
derived from my reading, that the average Englishman required an
acquaintance of several months before proffering hospitality. No doubt
Mr. Heathcroft was not an average Englishman.
“Will you be in London long?” he asked. “I suppose not. You're probably
off on a hurricane jaunt from one end of the Continent to the other. Two
hours at Stratford, bowing before Shakespeare's tomb, a Derby through
the cathedral towns, and then the Channel boat, eh? That's the American
way, isn't it?”
“It is not our way,” I replied. “We have no itinerary. I don't know
where we may go or how long we shall stay.”
Evidently I rose again in his estimation.
“Have you picked your hotel in London?” he inquired.
“No. I shall be glad of any help you may be kind enough to give along
that line.”
He reflected. “There's a decent little hotel in Mayfair,” he said, after
a moment. “A private sort of shop. I don't use it myself; generally put
up at the club, I mean to say. But my aunt and my sisters do. They're
quite mad about it. It is--Ah--Bancroft's--that's it, Bancroft's Hotel.
I'll give you the address before I leave.”
I thanked him again. He was certainly trying to be kind. No doubt the
kindness was due to his sense of obligation engendered by what he called
my “professional information,” but it was kindness all the same.
The first bugle for luncheon sounded. Mr. Heathcroft turned to go.
“I'll see you again, Knowles,” he said, “and give you the hotel street
and number and all that. Hope you'll like it. If you shouldn't the
Langham is not bad--quiet and old-fashioned, but really very fair.
And if you care for something more public and--Ah--American, there are
always the Savoy and the Cecil. Here is my card. If I can be of any
service to you while you are in town drop me a line at my clubs, either
of them. I must be toddling. By, by.”
He “toddled” and I sought my room to prepare for luncheon.
Two days more and our voyage was at an end. We saw more of our friend
the captain during those days and of Heathcroft as well. The former
fulfilled his promise of showing us through the ship, and Hephzy and I,
descending greasy iron stairways and twisting through narrow passages,
saw great rooms full of mighty machinery, and a cavern where perspiring,
grimy men, looking but half-human in the red light from the furnace
mouths, toiled ceaselessly with pokers and shovels.
We stood at the forward end of the promenade deck at night, looking out
into the blackness, and heard the clang of four bells from the shadows
at the bow, the answering clang from the crow's-nest on the foremast,
and the weird cry of “All's well” from the lookouts. This experience
made a great impression on us both. Hephzy expressed my feeling exactly
when she said in a hushed whisper:
“There, Hosy! for the first time I feel as if I really was on board a
ship at sea. My father and your father and all our men-folks for ever
so far back have heard that 'All's well'--yes, and called it, too,
when they first went as sailors. Just think of it! Why Father was only
sixteen when he shipped; just a boy, that's all. I've heard him say
'All's well' over and over again; 'twas a kind of byword with him. This
whole thing seems like somethin' callin' to me out of the past and gone.
Don't you feel it?”
I felt it, as she did. The black night, the quiet, the loneliness, the
salt spray on our faces and the wash of the waves alongside, the high
singsong wail from lookout to lookout--it WAS a voice from the past, the
call of generations of sea-beaten, weather-worn, brave old Cape Codders
to their descendants, reminding the latter of a dead and gone profession
and of thousands of fine, old ships which had plowed the ocean in the
days when “Plutonias” were unknown.
We attended the concert in the Lounge, and the ball on the promenade
deck which followed. Mr. Heathcroft, who seemed to have made the
acquaintance of most of the pretty girls on board, informed us in the
intervals between a two-step and a tango, that he had been “dancing
madly.”
“You Americans are extraordinary people,” he added. “Your dances are
as extraordinary as your food. That Mrs. Van Hook, who sits near me
at table, was indulging in--what do you call them?--oh, yes, griddle
cakes--this morning. Begged me to try them. I declined. Horrid things
they were. Round, like a--like a washing-flannel, and swimming in
treacle. Frightful!”
“And that man,” commented Hephzy, “eats cold toast and strawberry
preserves for breakfast and washes 'em down with three cups of tea. And
he calls nice hot pancakes frightful!”
At ten o'clock in the morning of the sixth day we sighted the Irish
coast through the dripping haze which shrouded it and at four we dropped
anchor abreast the breakwater of the little Welsh village which was to
be our landing place. The sun was shining dimly by this time and the
rounded hills and the mountains beyond them, the green slopes dotted
with farms and checkered with hedges and stone walls, the gray stone
fort with its white-washed barrack buildings, the spires and chimneys
of the village in the hollow--all these combined to make a picture which
was homelike and yet not like home, foreign and yet strangely familiar.
We leaned over the rail and watched the trunks and boxes and bags and
bundles shoot down the slide into the baggage and mail-boat which lay
alongside. Hephzy was nervous.
“They'll smash everything to pieces--they surely will!” she declared.
“Either that or smash themselves, I don't know which is liable to happen
first. Mercy on us! Did you see that? That box hit the man right in the
back!”
“It didn't hurt him,” I said, reassuringly. “It was nothing but a
hat-box.”
“Hurt HIM--no! But I guess likely it didn't do the hat much good. I
thought baggage smashin' was an American institution, but they've got
some experts over here. Oh, my soul and body! there goes MY trunk--end
over end, of course. Well, I'm glad there's no eggs in it, anyway.
Josiah Dimick always used to carry two dozen eggs to his daughter-in-law
every time he went to Boston. He had 'em in a box once and put the box
on the seat alongside of him and a big fat woman came and sat--Oh! that
was your trunk, Hosy! Did you hear it hit? I expect every one of those
'English Poets' went from top to bottom then, right through all your
clothes. Never mind, I suppose it's all part of travelin'.”
Mr. Heathcroft, looking more English than ever in his natty top coat,
and hat at the back of his head, sauntered up. He was, for him, almost
enthusiastic.
“Looking at the water, were you?” he queried. “Glorious color, isn't it.
One never sees a sea like that or a sky like that anywhere but here at
home.”
Hephzy looked at the sea and sky. It was plain that she wished to
admire, for his sake, but her admiration was qualified.
“Don't you think if they were a little brighter and bluer they'd be
prettier?” she asked.
Heathcroft stared at her through his monocle.
“Bluer?” he repeated. “My dear woman, there are no skies as blue as the
English skies. They are quite celebrated--really.”
He sauntered on again, evidently disgusted at our lack of appreciation.
“He must be color-blind,” I observed. Hephzy was more charitable.
“I guess likely everybody's home things are best,” she said. “I suppose
this green-streaked water and those gray clouds do look bright and blue
to him. We must make allowances, Hosy. He never saw an August mornin' at
Bayport, with a northwest wind blowin' and the bay white and blue to the
edge of all creation. That's been denied him. He means well, poor thing;
he don't know any better.”
An hour later we landed from the passenger tender at a stone pier
covered with substantial stone buildings. Uniformed custom officers and
uniformed policemen stood in line as we came up the gang-plank. Behind
them, funny little locomotives attached to queer cars which appeared to
be all doors, puffed and panted.
Hephzibah looked about her.
“Yes,” she said, with conviction. “I'm believin' it more and more all
the time. It is England, just like the pictures. How many times I've
seen engines like that in pictures, and cars like that, too. I never
thought I'd ride in 'em. My goodness me? Hephzibah Jane Cahoon, you're
in England--YOU are! You needn't be afraid to turn over for fear of
wakin' up, either. You're awake and alive and in England! Hosy,” with a
sudden burst of exuberance, “hold on to me tight. I'm just as likely to
wave my hat and hurrah as I am to do anything. Hold on to me--tight.”
We got through the perfunctory customs examination without trouble. Our
tickets provided by Campbell, included those for the railway journey to
London. I secured a first-class compartment at the booking-office and
a guard conducted us to it and closed the door. Another short delay and
then, with a whistle as queer and unfamiliar as its own appearance, the
little locomotive began to pull our train out of the station.
Hephzy leaned back against the cushions with a sigh of supreme content.
“And now,” said I, “for London. London! think of it, Hephzy!”
Hephzy shook her head.
“I'm thinkin' of it,” she said. “London--the biggest city in the world!
Who knows, Hosy? France is such a little ways off; probably Little Frank
has been to London a hundred times. He may even be there now. Who knows?
I shouldn't be surprised if we met him right in London. I sha'n't be
surprised at anything anymore. I'm in England and on my way to London;
that's surprise enough. NOTHIN' could be more wonderful than that.”