It was the fourth morning of the voyage. Of course, when this story is
done in the movies they won't be satisfied with a bald statement like
that; they will have a Spoken Title or a Cut-Back Sub-Caption or
whatever they call the thing in the low dens where motion-picture
scenario-lizards do their dark work, which will run:--
AND SO, CALM AND GOLDEN, THE DAYS WENT
BY, EACH FRAUGHT WITH HOPE AND YOUTH
AND SWEETNESS, LINKING TWO YOUNG
HEARTS IN SILKEN FETTERS FORGED BY THE
LAUGHING LOVE-GOD.
and the males in the audience will shift their chewing gum to the other
cheek and take a firmer grip of their companions' hands and the man at
the piano will play "Everybody wants a key to my cellar" or something
equally appropriate, very soulfully and slowly, with a wistful eye on
the half-smoked cigarette which he has parked on the lowest octave and
intends finishing as soon as the picture is over. But I prefer the
plain frank statement that it was the fourth day of the voyage. That is
my story and I mean to stick to it.
Samuel Marlowe, muffled in a bathrobe, came back to the stateroom from
his tub. His manner had the offensive jauntiness of the man who has had
a cold bath when he might just as easily have had a hot one. He looked
out of the porthole at the shimmering sea. He felt strong and happy and
exuberant.
It was not merely the spiritual pride induced by a cold bath that was
uplifting this young man. The fact was that, as he towelled his glowing
back, he had suddenly come to the decision that this very day he would
propose to Wilhelmina Bennett. Yes, he would put his fortune to the
test, to win or lose it all. True, he had only known her for four days,
but what of that?
Nothing in the way of modern progress is more remarkable than the
manner in which the attitude of your lover has changed concerning
proposals of marriage. When Samuel Marlowe's grandfather had convinced
himself, after about a year and a half of respectful aloofness, that the
emotion which he felt towards Samuel Marlowe's grandmother-to-be was
love, the fashion of the period compelled him to approach the matter in a
roundabout way. First, he spent an evening or two singing sentimental
ballads, she accompanying him on the piano and the rest of the family
sitting on the side-lines to see that no rough stuff was pulled. Having
noted that she drooped her eyelashes and turned faintly pink when he came
to the "Thee--only thee!" bit, he felt a mild sense of encouragement,
strong enough to justify him in taking her sister aside next day and
asking if the object of his affections ever happened to mention his name
in the course of conversation. Further _pour-parlers_ having passed
with her aunt, two more sisters, and her little brother, he felt that the
moment had arrived when he might send her a volume of Shelley, with
some of the passages marked in pencil. A few weeks later, he
interviewed her father and obtained his consent to the paying of his
addresses. And finally, after writing her a letter which began "Madam!
you will not have been insensible to the fact that for some time past
you have inspired in my bosom feelings deeper than those of ordinary
friendship...." he waylaid her in the rose-garden and brought the thing
off.
How different is the behaviour of the modern young man. His courtship
can hardly be called a courtship at all. His methods are those of Sir
W. S. Gilbert's Alphonso.
"Alphonso, who for cool assurance all creation licks,
He up and said to Emily who has cheek enough for six:
'Miss Emily, I love you. Will you marry? Say the word!'
And Emily said: 'Certainly, Alphonso, like a bird!'"
Sam Marlowe was a warm supporter of the Alphonso method. He was a
bright young man and did not require a year to make up his mind that
Wilhelmina Bennett had been set apart by Fate from the beginning of
time to be his bride. He had known it from the moment he saw her on the
dock, and all the subsequent strolling, reading, talking, soup-drinking,
tea-drinking, and shuffle-board-playing which they had done together
had merely solidified his original impression. He loved this girl with
all the force of a fiery nature--the fiery nature of the Marlowes was a
byword in Bruton Street, Berkeley Square--and something seemed to
whisper that she loved him. At any rate she wanted somebody like Sir
Galahad, and, without wishing to hurl bouquets at himself, he could not
see where she could possibly get anyone liker Sir Galahad than himself.
So, wind and weather permitting, Samuel Marlowe intended to propose to
Wilhelmina Bennett this very day.
He let down the trick basin which hung beneath the mirror and,
collecting his shaving materials, began to lather his face.
"I am the Bandolero!" sang Sam blithely through the soap, "I am, I am
the Bandolero! Yes, yes, I am the Bandolero!"
The untidy heap of bedclothes in the lower berth stirred restlessly.
"Oh, God!" said Eustace Hignett thrusting out a tousled head.
Sam regarded his cousin with commiseration. Horrid things had been
happening to Eustace during the last few days, and it was quite a
pleasant surprise each morning to find that he was still alive.
"Feeling bad again, old man?"
"I was feeling all right," replied Hignett churlishly, "until you began
the farmyard imitations. What sort of a day is it?"
"Glorious! The sea...."
"Don't talk about the sea!"
"Sorry! The sun is shining brighter than it has ever shone in the
history of the race. Why don't you get up?"
"Nothing will induce me to get up."
"Well, go a regular buster and have an egg for breakfast."
Eustace Hignett shuddered.
"Do you think I am an ostrich?" He eyed Sam sourly. "You seem devilish
pleased with yourself this morning!"
Sam dried the razor carefully and put it away. He hesitated. Then the
desire to confide in somebody got the better of him.
"The fact is," he said apologetically, "I'm in love!"
"In love!" Eustace Hignett sat up and bumped his head sharply against
the berth above him. "Has this been going on long?"
"Ever since the voyage started."
"I think you might have told me," said Eustace reproachfully. "I told
you my troubles. Why did you not let me know that this awful thing had
come upon you?"
"Well, as a matter of fact, old man, during these last few days I had a
notion that your mind was, so to speak, occupied elsewhere."
"Who is she?"
"Oh, a girl I met on board."
"Don't do it!" said Eustace Hignett solemnly. "As a friend I entreat
you not to do it! Take my advice, as a man who knows women, and don't
do it!"
"Don't do what?"
"Propose to her. I can tell by the glitter in your eye that you are
intending to propose to this girl--probably this morning. Don't do it.
Women are the devil, whether they marry you or jilt you. Do you realise
that women wear black evening dresses that have to be hooked up in a
hurry when you are late for the theatre, and that, out of sheer wanton
malignity, the hooks and eyes on those dresses are also made black? Do
you realise...?"
"Oh, I've thought it all out."
"And take the matter of children. How would you like to become the
father--and a mere glance around you will show you that the chances are
enormously in favour of such a thing happening--of a boy with
spectacles and protruding front teeth who asks questions all the time?
Out of six small boys whom I saw when I came on board, four wore
spectacles and had teeth like rabbits. The other two were equally
revolting in different styles. How would you like to become the
father...?"
"There is no need to be indelicate," said Sam stiffly. "A man must take
these chances."
"Give her the miss in baulk," pleaded Hignett. "Stay down here for the
rest of the voyage. You can easily dodge her when you get to
Southampton. And, if she sends messages, say you're ill and can't be
disturbed."
Sam gazed at him, revolted. More than ever he began to understand how
it was that a girl with ideals had broken off her engagement with this
man. He finished dressing, and, after a satisfying breakfast, went on
deck.
* * * * *
It was, as he had said, a glorious morning. The sample which he had had
through the porthole had not prepared him for the magic of it. The ship
swam in a vast bowl of the purest blue on an azure carpet flecked with
silver. It was a morning which impelled a man to great deeds, a morning
which shouted to him to chuck his chest out and be romantic. The sight
of Billie Bennett, trim and gleaming in a pale green sweater and a
white skirt had the effect of causing Marlowe to alter the programme
which he had sketched out. Proposing to this girl was not a thing to be
put off till after lunch. It was a thing to be done now and at once. The
finest efforts of the finest cooks in the world could not put him in
better form than he felt at present.
"Good morning, Miss Bennett."
"Good morning, Mr. Marlowe."
"Isn't it a perfect day?"
"Wonderful!"
"It makes all the difference on board ship if the weather is fine."
"Yes, doesn't it?"
"Shall we walk round?" said Billie.
Sam glanced about him. It was the time of day when the promenade deck
was always full. Passengers in cocoons of rugs lay on chairs, waiting
in a dull trance till the steward should arrive with the eleven o'clock
soup. Others, more energetic, strode up and down. From the point of
view of a man who wished to reveal his most sacred feelings to a
beautiful girl, the place was practically Fifth Avenue and Forty-second
Street.
"It's so crowded," he said. "Let's go on to the upper deck."
"All right. You can read to me. Go and fetch your Tennyson."
Sam felt that fortune was playing into his hands. His four-days'
acquaintance with the bard had been sufficient to show him that the man
was there forty ways when it came to writing about love. You could open
his collected works almost anywhere and shut your eyes and dab down
your finger on some red-hot passage. A proposal of marriage is a thing
which it is rather difficult to bring neatly into the ordinary run of
conversation. It wants leading up to. But, if you once start reading
poetry, especially Tennyson's, almost anything is apt to give you your
cue. He bounded light-heartedly into the state-room, waking Eustace
Hignett from an uneasy dose.
"Now what?" said Eustace.
"Where's that copy of Tennyson you gave me? I left it--ah, here it is.
Well, see you later!"
"Wait! What are you going to do?"
"Oh, that girl I told you about," said Sam making for the door. "She
wants me to read Tennyson to her on the upper deck."
"Tennyson?"
"Yes."
"On the upper deck?"
"That's the spot."
"This is the end," said Eustace Hignett, turning his face to the wall.
Sam raced up the companion-way as far as it went; then, going out on
deck, climbed a flight of steps and found himself in the only part of
the ship which was ever even comparatively private. The main herd of
passengers preferred the promenade deck, two layers below.
He threaded his way through a maze of boats, ropes, and curious-shaped
steel structures which the architect of the ship seemed to have tacked
on at the last moment in a spirit of sheer exuberance. Above him
towered one of the funnels, before him a long, slender mast. He hurried
on, and presently came upon Billie sitting on a garden seat, backed by
the white roof of the smoke-room; beside this was a small deck which
seemed to have lost its way and strayed up here all by itself. It was
the deck on which one could occasionally see the patients playing an
odd game with long sticks and bits of wood--not shuffleboard but
something even lower in the mental scale. This morning, however, the
devotees of this pastime were apparently under proper restraint, for
the deck was empty.
"This is jolly," he said, sitting down beside the girl and drawing a
deep breath of satisfaction.
"Yes, I love this deck. It's so peaceful."
"It's the only part of the ship where you can be reasonably sure of not
meeting stout men in flannels and nautical caps. An ocean voyage always
makes me wish that I had a private yacht."
"It would be nice."
"A private yacht," repeated Sam sliding a trifle closer. "We would sail
about, visiting desert islands which lay like jewels in the heart of
tropic seas."
"We?"
"Most certainly we. It wouldn't be any fun if you were not there."
"That's very complimentary."
"Well, it wouldn't. I'm not fond of girls as a rule...."
"Oh, aren't you?"
"No!" said Sam decidedly. It was a point which he wished to make clear
at the outset. "Not at all fond. My friends have often remarked upon
it. A palmist once told me that I had one of those rare spiritual
natures which cannot be satisfied with substitutes but must seek and
seek till they find their soul-mate. When other men all round me were
frittering away their emotions in idle flirtations which did not touch
their deeper natures, I was ... I was ... well, I wasn't, if you see what I
mean."
"Oh, you wasn't ... weren't--?"
"No. Some day I knew I should meet the only girl I could possibly love,
and then I would pour out upon her the stored-up devotion of a
lifetime, lay an unblemished heart at her feet, fold her in my arms and
say 'At last!'"
"How jolly for her. Like having a circus all to oneself."
"Well, yes," said Sam after a momentary pause.
"When I was a child I always thought that that would be the most
wonderful thing in the world."
"The most wonderful thing in the world is love, a pure and consuming
love, a love which...."
"Oh, hello!" said a voice.
All through this scene, right from the very beginning of it, Sam had
not been able to rid himself of a feeling that there was something
missing. The time and the place and the girl--they were all present and
correct; nevertheless there was something missing, some familiar object
which seemed to leave a gap. He now perceived that what had caused the
feeling was the complete absence of Bream Mortimer. He was absent no
longer. He was standing in front of them with one leg, his head lowered
as if he were waiting for someone to scratch it. Sam's primary impulse
was to offer him a nut.
"Oh, hello, Bream!" said Billie.
"Hullo!" said Sam.
"Hullo!" said Bream Mortimer. "Here you are!"
There was a pause.
"I thought you might be here," said Bream.
"Yes, here we are," said Billie.
"Yes, we're here," said Sam.
There was another pause.
"Mind if I join you?" said Bream.
"N-no," said Billie.
"N-no," said Sam.
"No," said Billie again. "No ... that is to say ... oh no, not at all."
There was a third pause.
"On second thoughts," said Bream, "I believe I'll take a stroll on the
promenade deck, if you don't mind."
They said they did not mind. Bream Mortimer, having bumped his head
twice against overhanging steel ropes, melted away.
"Who is that fellow?" demanded Sam wrathfully.
"He's the son of father's best friend."
Sam started. Somehow this girl had always been so individual to him that
he had never thought of her having a father.
"We have known each other all our lives," continued Billie. "Father
thinks a tremendous lot of Bream. I suppose it was because Bream was
sailing by her that father insisted on my coming over on this boat. I'm
in disgrace, you know. I was cabled for and had to sail at a few days'
notice. I...."
"Oh, hello!"
"Why, Bream!" said Billie, looking at him as he stood on the old spot
in the same familiar attitude with rather less affection than the son
of her father's best friend might have expected. "I thought you said
you were going down to the Promenade Deck."
"I did go down to the promenade deck. And I'd hardly got there when a
fellow who's getting up the ship's concert to-morrow night nobbled me
to do a couple of songs. He wanted to know if I knew anyone else who
would help. I came up to ask you," he said to Sam, "if you would do
something."
"No," said Sam. "I won't."
"He's got a man who's going to lecture on deep-sea fish and a couple of
women who both want to sing 'The Rosary' but he's still an act or two
short. Sure you won't rally round?"
"Quite sure."
"Oh, all right." Bream Mortimer hovered wistfully above them. "It's a
great morning, isn't it?"
"Yes," said Sam.
"Oh, Bream!" said Billie.
"Hello?"
"Do be a pet and go and talk to Jane Hubbard. I'm sure she must be
feeling lonely. I left her all by herself down on the next deck."
A look of alarm spread itself over Bream's face.
"Jane Hubbard! Oh, say, have a heart!"
"She's a very nice girl."
"She's so darned dynamic. She looks at you as if you were a giraffe or
something and she would like to take a pot at you with a rifle."
"Nonsense! Run along. Get her to tell you some of her big-game hunting
experiences. They are most interesting."
Bream drifted sadly away.
"I don't blame Miss Hubbard," said Sam.
"What do you mean?"
"Looking at him as if she wanted to pot at him with a rifle. I should
like to do it myself. What were you saying when he came up?"
"Oh, don't let's talk about me. Read me some Tennyson."
Sam opened the book very willingly. Infernal Bream Mortimer had
absolutely shot to pieces the spell which had begun to fall on them at
the beginning of their conversation. Only by reading poetry, it seemed
to him, could it be recovered. And when he saw the passage at which the
volume had opened he realised that his luck was in. Good old Tennyson!
He was all right. He had the stuff. You could send him to hit in a
pinch every time with the comfortable knowledge that he would not
strike out.
He cleared his throat.
"'Oh let the solid ground
Not fail beneath my feet
Before my life has found
What some have found so sweet;
Then let come what come may,
What matter if I go mad,
I shall have had my day.
Let the sweet heavens endure,
Not close and darken above me
Before I am quite quite sure
That there is one to love me....'"
This was absolutely topping. It was like diving off a spring-board. He
could see the girl sitting with a soft smile on her face, her eyes, big
and dreamy, gazing out over the sunlit sea. He laid down the book and
took her hand.
"There is something," he began in a low voice, "which I have been
trying to say ever since we met, something which I think you must have
read in my eyes."
Her head was bent. She did not withdraw her hand.
"Until this voyage began," he went on, "I did not know what life meant.
And then I saw you! It was like the gate of heaven opening. You're the
dearest girl I ever met, and you can bet I'll never forget...." He
stopped. "I'm not trying to make it rhyme," he said apologetically.
"Billie, don't think me silly ... I mean ... if you had the merest notion,
dearest ... I don't know what's the matter with me ... Billie, darling, you
are the only girl in the world! I have been looking for you for years
and years and I have found you at last, my soul-mate. Surely this does
not come as a surprise to you? That is, I mean, you must have seen that
I've been keen ... There's that damned Walt Mason stuff again!" His eyes
fell on the volume beside him and he uttered an exclamation of
enlightenment. "It's those poems!" he cried. "I've been boning them up
to such an extent that they've got me doing it too. What I'm trying to
say is, Will you marry me?"
She was drooping towards him. Her face was very sweet and tender, her
eyes misty. He slid an arm about her waist. She raised her lips to his.
* * * * *
Suddenly she drew herself away, a cloud on her face.
"Darling," she said, "I've a confession to make."
"A confession? You? Nonsense!"
"I can't get rid of a horrible thought. I was wondering if this will
last."
"Our love? Don't be afraid that it will fade ... I mean ... why, it's so
vast, it's bound to last ... that is to say, of course, it will."
She traced a pattern on the deck with her shoe.
"I'm afraid of myself. You see, once before--and it was not so very
long ago,--I thought I had met my ideal, but...."
Sam laughed heartily.
"Are you worrying about that absurd business of poor old Eustace
Hignett?"
She started violently.
"You know!"
"Of course! He told me himself."
"Do you know him? Where did you meet him?"
"I've known him all my life. He's my cousin. As a matter of fact, we
are sharing a stateroom on board now."
"Eustace is on board! Oh, this is awful! What shall I do when I meet
him?"
"Oh, pass it off with a light laugh and a genial quip. Just say: 'Oh,
here you are!' or something. You know the sort of thing."
"It will be terrible."
"Not a bit of it. Why should you feel embarrassed? He must have
realised by now that you acted in the only possible way. It was absurd
his ever expecting you to marry him. I mean to say, just look at it
dispassionately ... Eustace ... poor old Eustace ... and _you_! The
Princess and the Swineherd!"
"Does Mr. Hignett keep pigs?" she asked, surprised.
"I mean that poor old Eustace is so far below you, darling, that, with
the most charitable intentions, one can only look on his asking you to
marry him in the light of a record exhibition of pure nerve. A dear,
good fellow, of course, but hopeless where the sterner realities of
life are concerned. A man who can't even stop a dog-fight! In a world
which is practically one seething mass of fighting dogs, how could you
trust yourself to such a one? Nobody is fonder of Eustace Hignett than
I am, but ... well, I mean to say!"
"I see what you mean. He really wasn't my ideal."
"Not by a mile."
She mused, her chin in her hand.
"Of course, he was quite a dear in a lot of ways."
"Oh, a splendid chap," said Sam tolerantly.
"Have you ever heard him sing? I think what first attracted me to him
was his beautiful voice. He really sings extraordinarily well."
A slight but definite spasm of jealousy afflicted Sam. He had no
objection to praising poor old Eustace within decent limits, but the
conversation seemed to him to be confining itself too exclusively to
one subject.
"Yes?" he said. "Oh yes, I've heard him sing. Not lately. He does
drawing-room ballads and all that sort of thing still, I suppose?"
"Have you ever heard him sing 'My love is like a glowing tulip that in
an old-world garden grows'?"
"I have not had that advantage," replied Sam stiffly. "But anyone can
sing a drawing-room ballad. Now something funny, something that will
make people laugh, something that really needs putting across ... that's
a different thing altogether."
"Do you sing that sort of thing?"
"People have been good enough to say...."
"Then," said Billie decidedly, "you must certainly do something at the
ship's concert to-morrow! The idea of your trying to hide your light
under a bushel! I will tell Bream to count on you. He is an excellent
accompanist. He can accompany you."
"Yes, but ... well, I don't know," said Sam doubtfully. He could not help
remembering that the last time he had sung in public had been at a
house-supper at school, seven years before, and that on that occasion
somebody whom it was a lasting grief to him that he had been unable to
identify had thrown a pat of butter at him.
"Of course you must sing," said Billie. "I'll tell Bream when I go down
to lunch. What will you sing?"
"Well--er--"
"Well, I'm sure it will be wonderful whatever it is. You are so
wonderful in every way. You remind me of one of the heroes of old!"
Sam's discomposure vanished. In the first place, this was much more the
sort of conversation which he felt the situation indicated. In the
second place he had remembered that there was no need for him to sing
at all. He could do that imitation of Frank Tinney which had been such
a hit at the Trinity smoker. He was on safe ground there. He knew he
was good. He clasped the girl to him and kissed her sixteen times.
Suddenly, as he released her, the cloud came back into her face.
"My angel," he asked solicitously, "what's the matter?"
"I was thinking of father," she said.
The glowing splendour of the morning took on a touch of chill for Sam.
"Father!" he said thoughtfully. "Yes, I see what you mean! He will
think that we have been a little precipitate, eh? He will require a
little time in order to learn to love me, you think?"
"He is sure to be pretty angry at first," agreed Billie. "You see I
know he has always hoped that I would marry Bream."
"Bream! Bream Mortimer! What a silly thing to hope!"
"Well, you see, I told you that Mr. Mortimer was father's best friend.
They are both over in England now, and are trying to get a house in the
country for the summer which we can all share. I rather think the idea
is to bring me and Bream closer together."
"How the deuce could that fellow be brought any closer to you? He's
like a burr as it is."
"Well, that was the idea, I'm sure. Of course, I could never look at
Bream now."
"I hate looking at him myself," said Sam feelingly.
A group of afflicted persons, bent upon playing with long sticks and
bits of wood, now invaded the upper deck. Their weak-minded cries
filled the air. Sam and the girl rose.
"Touching on your father once more," he said as they made their way
below, "is he a very formidable sort of man?"
"He can be a dear. But he's rather quick-tempered. You must be very
ingratiating."
"I will practise it in front of the glass every morning for the rest of
the voyage," said Sam.
He went down to the stateroom in a mixed mood of elation and
apprehension. He was engaged to the most wonderful girl in the world,
but over the horizon loomed the menacing figure of Father. He wished he
could induce Billie to allow him to waive the formality of thawing
Father. Eustace Hignett had apparently been able to do so. But that
experience had presumably engendered a certain caution in her. The
Hignett fiasco had spoiled her for runaway marriages. Well, if it had
to be done, it must be done, and that was all there was to it.