As she sat on the deck, reclining indolently in her steamer-chair,
propped up with soft cushions, gazing dreamily on the splendid panorama
that unfolded slowly before her--the endless procession of majestic,
foam-tipped waves, fleecy clouds drifting lazily in a sky of turquoise
blue, the sails of a distant vessel whitened by the sun--Grace felt
exuberant with the joy of life.
The latest novel was on her lap, yet she made no attempt to read. Mrs.
Stuart, stretched out on a chair alongside, had vainly endeavored to
engage her in conversation. But she did not care to talk, and she found
it impossible to center her attention on a book, preferring to just lay
still, her eyes semi-closed, rocked gently by the steamer's gradual
motion, her senses gently thrilled by the sensuous sounds of ship and
sea.
The promenade-deck presented the picture of comfort and peace usually to
be seen, any fine morning on a liner in mid-ocean--the passengers of
both sexes laid out in rows, mummylike, on steamer-chairs, each covered
with a rug different from his neighbor's and of bizarre design and
color, some reading, some sleeping, some conversing in subdued tones,
some sipping cups of bouillon brought on trays by nimble stewards; the
decks scrubbed an immaculate white, the brasses highly polished; a
neatly uniformed quartermaster standing at a gangway, patiently splicing
a rope; two officers on the bridge sweeping the horizon with their
glasses or pacing up and down with monotonous precision. With no noises
to irritate the ear, a sea voyage has no equal as a rest cure. One heard
nothing but the purring of the wind, the gentle flapping of canvas, the
splash of the waves, the regular throb of the ship's propeller.
Conditions were ideal for day-dreams, and Grace was thinking.
As she idly watched the foaming water rush past the rail she thought how
pleasantly fate had planned her life. She might have been born poor and
compelled to work in a store for miserable wages, standing on her feet
behind a counter ten long and weary hours a day, forbidden to sit down
on pain of dismissal, bullied by arrogant employers, insulted by
inconsiderate customers. This she knew was the lot of thousands of girls
whose pale, tired faces had frequently aroused her sympathy when
shopping. She belonged to the small, lucky minority--the ruling
class--which by the power of its great wealth is able to enslave
nine-tenths of the human race. The world, she ruminated, was full of
unfortunates whose only fault was that they were born poor. Her mind
reverted to the handsome stoker whom they had dragged on board with such
little ceremony the day the ship sailed from New York. She wondered what
his life had been to force him to take to such an occupation, and what
had become of him. Perhaps at that very moment, while she sat there
surrounded by every luxury, he was suffering the agonies of the damned.
She reproached herself for not making inquiries after him. When she next
saw the captain she would certainly do so.
How different was her own life! Sailing along on this splendid ship,
with perfect weather and ideal surroundings, the world seemed to exist
only to afford her pleasure. If the sun shone brightly, it was only to
give her joy; if the soft winds blew, it was only to caress her cheek.
It seemed unjust. Things were not equal. At times she was sorry that her
father was so rich. Had he been poor, she would have had an incentive to
work hard and do something. Although she had everything she desired, she
was not really happy. She felt there was something wanting, and she
thought it was because her life lacked a definite aim. Other girls did
things--they painted pictures, wrote books, went on the stage. If her
father became bankrupt to-morrow, where would she be? A perfectly
useless member of society, ornamental, possibly, but quite useless. Only
two alternatives would be open to her--either to seek some humble
employment or throw herself in the arms of a rich man. She would not be
the first victim of the plutocracy which closes the doors of the liberal
professions to its daughters, only to throw them, in the hour of
adversity, into the palsied arms of the roue and the voluptuary.
Like most American girls, Grace had little to learn in regard to life's
fundamentals. She had read all the decadent novelists, from D'Aununzio
to Eleanor Glyn, and the daily newspapers, coupled with whispered
conversations over five-o'clock teas, had speedily shattered what other
illusions had been left over from her school-days. The low moral
standard of the set in which she moved had made her cynical in her
attitude toward the men who courted her. She had a horror of
fortune-hunters, and most of the men who had paid her attention, Prince
Sergius and the rest, she suspected of being after her money. Yet she
must marry some day. She must find a husband, even if she were not to
love him. A married woman is able to take a place in society that is
denied the single woman. Marry she must, but whom? The men she knew
either bored her or disgusted her. He need not be a rich man, for she
had enough for both, yet if a poor man presented himself, she would
certainly put him in the fortune-hunting class. As she had told her
friend, Mrs. Stuart, a man with a proud title would suit her best. There
would be no question of love, of course, only self-interest on both
sides. He would furnish the coronet, she the dollars. It would be the
_mariage de convenance_, with its hypocrisies, its lies, its miseries.
She wondered if her attitude toward life were wrong, if really there
were not a man somewhere whom a woman could respect and admire for his
strength, his bravery, his nobility of character. The old-fashioned
authors--the Dumas, the Scotts, the Bulwer Lyttons, the
Elliots--presented such men as their heroes. Were there no such men left
in the world to-day? Or were the writers of modern fiction right when
they depicted the men of to-day as fortune-hunters, egotistical
coxcombs, conscienceless libertines, deliberate destroyers of women's
virtue? Cynical as the reading of unwholesome books and witnessing
salacious plays had made her, Grace had still a little of the romantic
left in her. She was still healthy-minded enough to find romance more
satisfying than the vulgar realism of the modern risque novel. And as
she lay there in her chair, basking in the warm sunshine, her eyes half
closed, she abandoned herself momentarily to the sensuousness of the
moment.
In her imagination gradually took form the ideal hero her heart craved
for. She was resting on a country road, and a man was approaching. He
was tall, with dark, wavy hair and smooth face, and the clean-cut
features of a Greek god. He knew she was rich, but he cared not, for he
despised mere wealth, and he was about to pass by unheeding, when he
chanced to notice her face, which pleased his sense of beauty. He
stopped wondering, and, chatting with her, marveled at the liquid
splendor of her eyes. This was the woman he had sought, the woman for
whom he would toil and fight. He took her hand, and at his touch her
heart leaped ecstatically. A strange thrill stirred her as he gazed
hungrily into her eyes and gently drew her to him. Timidly she yielded
to his ardent embrace, and as he clasped her soft form roughly to his
strong breast and his warm lips met hers in a deep, lingering kiss that
seemed to aspire her very soul, a sensation she had never known before
invaded her entire being. She felt as though she would swoon.
"Aren't you getting hungry, Grace? Whatever are you so engrossed about?"
said Mrs. Stuart petulantly.
The interruption was so sudden and abrupt that Grace was startled, and
it was with some confusion that she replied:
"Just thinking--that's all! This weather actually makes one foolish."
"Good morning, ladies!"
A shadow suddenly shut out the glare of the sun. Grace and Mrs. Stuart
looked up. It was Captain Summers, who was walking the deck with
Professor Hanson. The _Atlanta_'s commander was a typical sea-dog, big,
broad-shouldered, with a deep bass voice and a face tanned by exposure
to all sorts of weather. Contrasted with Professor Hanson, a nervous
little man, with a bald, domelike cranium, he looked like a giant. Like
most Englishmen, he was frigid in manner and not too amiable in his
intercourse with the passengers. But Grace, Mrs. Stuart, and the
professor happened to sit at his table, which made a difference. For
them he condescended to unbend. He was not blind to the fact that Grace
was an uncommonly good-looking girl, and Mrs. Stuart amused him.
Touching his cap, he sank into the empty seat on the other side of
Grace, while Professor Hanson drew up another chair.
"How long can we expect this glorious weather to last, captain?" asked
Mrs. Stuart, greeting the commander's salute with a gracious smile.
"It's hard to say," he replied pleasantly, after a quick glance at the
sky. "The barometer's steady enough now, but in these latitudes one may
expect anything at any time. The Indian Ocean is as capricious in its
moods as a woman. I've seen it as quiet as this at noon, yet by
nightfall we'd run into such a storm that you'd think the ship would be
blown out of the water."
"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Stuart, with a little nervous laugh. "I hope
we shan't have any such experience. I'd die of fright."
"Don't worry, m'm," replied the captain reassuringly. "There's no sign
of a change." Gallantly he added: "I wouldn't hear of you ladies being
put to the slightest inconvenience. I'll see that this weather continues
until we arrive at Bombay."
"When do we get in, captain?" demanded Grace languidly.
"You're not getting tired of us, I hope," replied the commander, with a
laugh.
"Oh, no. I only want to know when I must begin to pack my trunks. You
know, we're going on a motor tour inland."
"Next Saturday we shall have the captain's dinner, with the dance
afterward," interrupted Mrs. Stuart. "So I suppose they expect to land
us Monday."
"How about that, captain?" demanded the professor.
Captain Summers looked at all three in an amused sort of way, and for a
moment made no answer. Then gruffly he said:
"A sailor of experience never ventures to make predictions. We are due
at Bombay next Monday. If all goes well, I expect to land my passengers
on that day. As Mrs. Stuart says, we shall entertain you at dinner and
give you a dance on deck next Saturday, in honor of our arrival. But if
anything delays us, don't be disappointed. We might run on a rock and go
to the bottom. Or we might break our propellers. If that happened, we
should be completely helpless. We might drift out of our course for
weeks before help could reach us."
"Oh, wouldn't that be awful!" cried Mrs. Stuart.
"How could we summon assistance?" asked Grace eagerly.
"By wireless, of course," broke in the professor, who assumed the air of
superior knowledge on every subject broached. "The invention of wireless
telegraphy has practically reduced the perils of seagoing to a
negligible minimum."
"Thank Heaven, we've got the wireless!" gasped Mrs. Stuart. "I could hug
the man who invented it--Macaroni--what's his name?"
"You mean Marconi, my dear madam," interposed the professor solemnly.
"The wireless is all right as far as it goes," said the captain grimly.
"Certainly its invention is a great step forward, but two things are
essential for its success in a critical situation. Firstly, it must be
in working order. In bad weather the aerial wires are apt to be put out
of commission. Secondly, there must be a Marconi station or receiver
within a few hundred miles of where you happen to be. If these
conditions are not present, you might as well whistle!"
Mrs. Stuart looked so depressed at this discouraging opinion that Grace
could not repress a smile. Professor Hanson, never sorry of an
opportunity to air his fund of information, went on pompously:
"Captain, you spoke just now of running on a rock. Is it not a fact that
in this ocean there are rocks and small islands not shown on the
nautical charts, and that for this reason navigation in these waters is
more dangerous than elsewhere?"
For all reply, the commander gave vent to a loud guffaw and, with a side
glance at Mrs. Stuart, winked slyly at Grace.
"If we keep up this kind of talk, Mrs. Stuart will think we're doomed to
come to grief of some kind. Let's be more cheerful."
"Am I right or wrong, captain?" persisted the professor. "My information
came from a naval man."
The commander's face became set and stern, as it usually did when he was
serious. Removing his cigar, he said slowly:
"Your informant was right. For some reason or other, there is no such
thing as an absolutely accurate chart of the Indian Ocean. They have
talked for years of making a new chart, but, so far, nothing has been
done. Yet we sailors who regularly navigate these waters know from
experience that there are hereabouts currents strong enough to divert a
vessel from her true course, and a number of small islands no mention of
which is made on the existing charts. The Admiralty and Lloyds are well
aware of the existence Of these dangers to navigation, but you all know
what red tape is."
"How delightfully romantic!" cried Grace, with enthusiasm. "Unexplored
islands inhabited by savages who never saw white people, and who trade
in beads and go naked!"
"Cannibals, no doubt," suggested Mrs. Stuart, with an affected shudder.
"Where are these islands?" inquired Grace.
"A long way out of our course, I hope," laughed the captain. "Yet I've
passed quite close to some of them. They seem quite deserted. So far as
we could make out, there is not even animal life on them. But, being in
the direct steamer lane to India, they constitute a menace to shipping
that should be removed."
"Most decidedly--most decidedly!" said the professor emphatically.
Captain Summers arose to go.
"It's very delightful chatting here," he said, with a smile; "but I must
go up on the bridge and attend to my duties. Otherwise, we may bump
right on to one of those islands."
"By the way, captain," said Grace. "What has become of that poor fireman
who made such a disturbance the day we sailed from New York?"
The captain frowned.
"Oh, he's down where he belongs--shoveling coal." Then he added: "Don't
waste any sympathy on him. He's about as hard a character as you could
find. Stokers are all troublesome as a class, but this Armitage fellow
is quite unmanageable. I shall be glad to get rid of him. We had to put
him on bread and water the first ten days out. It wasn't until he was
nearly dead from starvation that he consented to go to work."
"Stoking down in that pit in that terrific heat must be fearful!"
exclaimed the professor.
"Yes," growled the captain. "It is pretty bad. Most of them don't mind
it, though. They aren't good for anything else. They're tough,
coarse-fibered creatures, scarcely superior in instincts to the savage.
They'd think nothing of running a knife into you, and that Armitage chap
is worse than the worst of them. We've had trouble with him all along."
"Still, after all," mused the professor, "we mustn't forget that it is
they who make the ship go. We couldn't do without them. Every man has
his place in the world's economy."
"It must be very interesting to see them at work," remarked Grace. "I'd
like to see what the stoke-hold looks like. Mr. Fitzhugh said he would
take me down." Looking down the deck, she added: "Here he comes now.
I'll ask him."
"There's no time like the present," said the captain. "See Mr.
Wetherbee, the chief engineer. He'll take you down."
"Yes," said the professor pedantically. "The spectacle will be a good
object lesson for you--a pampered daughter of the plutocracy. With a
little imagination, you can see in the stoke-hold social conditions as
they actually are in the world to-day. In the stokers you have the
laborers, the mill-hands, the sweat-shop workers, the common people who
toil painfully for pitiful wages, for their daily bread. We others up
here, lolling in our luxurious steamer-chairs, living on the fat of the
land--or, rather, sea, to be more correct--are the masters, the
capitalists. It is the slave system of ancient Rome under another name,
that's all. It's all wrong. Man's injustice to man is the great crime of
the centuries. Why should I be here enjoying every comfort and those
unfortunate men down there condemned to tortures as cruel as those
devised by the merciless Inquisition."
Captain Summers shrugged his massive shoulders, and, as he turned to go,
said laughingly:
"Mind you don't talk that way in the stoke-hold, or they might take you
at your word and keep you down there."
"No danger of that, captain," laughed Mrs. Stuart. "The professor's
only theorizing, you know. It costs nothing to expound theory. He has no
idea of exchanging places with the stokers."
The commander guffawed loudly, and, with a parting salute to the ladies,
turned on his heel and disappeared up the companionway. At that moment
the Hon. Percy Fitzhugh came up, the inevitable monocle in his eye.
"Oh, I say, Miss Harmon," he began, with his affected English drawl. "Be
my partner at shuffleboard, eh, what?"
Mrs. Stuart, irritated at an invitation which ignored her, answered for
her ward:
"Miss Harmon has more serious things to attend to. Don't come disturbing
us with your idiotic games. We are intellectual here--talking socialism,
cannibals, wireless, stoke-holds, and such things. If you can't be
intellectual, keep away."
"Mr. Fitzhugh," said Grace, laughing, "you promised to take me down to
the stoke-hold. Suppose we all go now?"
Mr. Fitzhugh beamed. The beautiful one had actually deigned to ask him
a favor. Overcome with emotion, he stuttered his reply:
"Delighted, of course. It'll be jolly good sport to see the beggars hard
at work down there. I'll let the shuffleboard go hang. Come, we'll go
and see the chief engineer, eh, what?"
He assisted Grace and Mrs. Stuart to their feet, and, followed by the
professor, they all made their way to Mr. Wetherbee's cabin.