THE CALL OF THE UNKNOWN
The sea breeze had fallen, and the air was hot and still. A full moon
rested low in the eastern sky, and against its light the tops of the
royal palms cut in feathery silhouette. Evelyn was sitting in the hotel
garden with Reginald Gore. A dusky rose arbor hid them from the veranda,
where a number of the guests had gathered, but Evelyn imagined that one
or two of the women knew where she was and envied her. This once would
have afforded her some satisfaction, but it did not matter now, and
although the spot seemed made for confidential talk, she listened
quietly to the rollers breaking on the beach. The roar of the surf had a
disturbing effect; she felt that it called, urging her to follow her
star and launch out on the deep. Her companion was silent, and she
wondered what he was thinking about, or if, as seemed more likely, his
mind was vacant. She found him irritating to-night.
Gore was the finished product of a luxurious age: well-bred,
well-taught, and tastefully dressed. His father had made a fortune out
of railroad stock, and although Reginald had not the ability to increase
it, he spent it with prudence. He had a good figure, and a pleasant
face, but Evelyn suspected that his highest ambition was to lounge
through life gracefully.
Evelyn knew her mother's plans regarding him, and had, to some extent,
fallen in with them. Reggie had much that she valued to offer, but she
now and then found him tiresome. He stood for the luxurious, but, in a
sense, artificial life, with which she was growing dissatisfied. She
felt that she wanted stirring, and must get into touch with the real
things.
"You're not talkative," she remarked, watching the lights of the
_Enchantress_ that swung and blinked with the tossing swell.
"No," he agreed good-humoredly. "Doesn't seem to be much to talk about."
There was silence for a few moments; then Evelyn put into words a train
of thoughts that was forming indistinctly in her mind.
"You have never done anything very strenuous in life. You have had all
the pleasure money can provide one. Are you content?"
"On the whole, yes. Aren't you?"
"No," said Evelyn thoughtfully. "I believe I haven't really been content
for a long time, but I didn't know it. The mind can be doped, but the
effect wears off and you feel rather startled when you come to
yourself."
Gore nodded.
"I know! Doesn't last, but it's disturbing. When I feel like that, I
take a soothing drink."
Evelyn laughed, for his answer was characteristic. He understood, to
some extent, but she did not expect him to sympathize with the
restlessness that had seized her. Reggie would never do anything rash or
unconventional. Hitherto she had approved his caution. She had enjoyed
the comfortable security of her station, had shared her mother's
ambitions, and looked upon marriage as a means of rising in the social
scale. Her adventurous temperament had found some scope in exciting
sports and in an occasional flirtation that she did not carry far; but
she was now beginning to feel that life had strange and wonderful things
to offer those who had the courage to seize them. She had never
experienced passion--perhaps because her training had taught her to
dread it; but her imagination was now awake.
Her visit to the _Enchantress_ had perhaps had something to do with
these disturbing feelings, but not, she argued, because she was
sentimentally attracted by her rescuer. It was the mystery in which
Grahame's plans were wrapped that was interesting. He was obviously the
leader of the party and about to engage in some rash adventure on seas
the buccaneers had sailed. This, of course, was nothing to her; but
thinking of him led her to wonder whether she might not miss much by
clinging too cautiously to what she knew was safe.
With a soft laugh she turned to Gore.
"Tell me about the dance they're getting up. I hear you are one of the
stewards," she said.
It was a congenial topic, and as she listened to her companion's talk
Evelyn felt that she was being drawn back to secure, familiar ground.
Cliffe, in the meanwhile, had come out in search of her and, seeing how
she was engaged, had strolled into the hotel bar. A tall, big-boned man,
dressed in blue serge with brass buttons on his jacket, was talking at
large, and Cliffe, stopping to listen, thought the tales he told with
dry Scottish humor were good.
"You are the engineer who mended the gaff of my daughter's boat," Cliffe
said. "I must thank you for that; it was a first-rate job."
"It might have been worse," Macallister modestly replied. "Are ye a
mechanic then?"
"No; but I know good work when I see it."
"I'm thinking that's a gift, though ye may not use it much. It's no'
good work the world's looking for."
"True," agreed Cliffe; "perhaps we're too keen on what will pay."
"Ye mean what will pay the first user. An honest job is bound to pay
somebody in the end."
"Well, I guess that's so. You're a philosopher."
Macallister grinned.
"I have been called worse names, and maybe with some cause. Consistency
gets monotonous. It's better to be a bit of everything, as the humor
takes ye."
"What kind of engines has your boat?" Cliffe asked. He was more at home
when talking practical matters.
"As fine a set o' triples as I've clapped my eyes upon, though they have
been shamefully neglectit."
"And what speed can you get out of her?"
"A matter o' coal," Macallister answered with a twinkle. "A seven-knot
bat will suit our purse best."
Cliffe saw that further questions on this point would be injudicious,
but the man interested him, and he noted the flag on his buttons.
"Well," he said, "the _Enchantress_ must be a change from the liners you
have sailed in."
"I find that. But there's aye some compensation. I have tools a man can
work with, and oil that will keep her running smooth. Ye'll maybe ken
there's a difference in engine stores."
"I've heard my manufacturing friends say something of the kind."
Cliffe ordered refreshment, and quietly studied his companion. The man
had not the reserve he associated with the Scot, but a dash and a
reckless humor, which are, nevertheless, essentially Scottish too.
Cliffe wondered curiously what enterprise he and his companions were
engaged upon, but he did not think Macallister would tell him. If the
others were like this fellow, he imagined that they would carry out
their plans, for he read resolution as well as daring in the Scot's
character; besides, he had been favorably impressed by Grahame.
After some further talk, Macallister left, and Cliffe joined his wife
and daughter.
The next morning, Evelyn, getting up before most of the other guests,
went out on the balcony in front of her room and looked across the bay.
The sun was not yet hot, and a fresh breeze flecked the blue water with
feathery streaks of white, while the wet beach glistened dazzlingly.
There was a refreshing, salty smell, and for a few minutes the girl
enjoyed the grateful coolness; then she felt that something was missing
from the scene, and noticed that the _Enchantress_ had vanished. The
adventurers had sailed in the night. On the whole she was conscious of
relief. They had gone and she could now get rid of the restlessness that
their presence had caused. After all, there was peril in the longing for
change; it was wiser to be satisfied with the security and solid comfort
which surrounded her.
Looking down at a footstep, she saw Gore strolling about the lawn,
faultlessly dressed in light flannel, with a Panama hat. There was not
a crease in his clothes that was out of place; the color scheme was
excellent--even his necktie was exactly the right shade. He stood for
all her mother had taught her to value: wealth, leisure, and cultivated
taste. Reggie was a man of her own kind; she had nothing in common with
the bronzed, tar-stained Grahame, whose hawk-like look had for the
moment stirred her imagination.
"You look like the morning," Gore called up to her. "Won't you come down
and walk to the beach? The sun and breeze are delightful, and we'll have
them all to ourselves."
Evelyn noticed the hint of intimacy, but it did not jar upon her mood,
and she smiled as she answered that she would join him.
A few minutes later, they walked along the hard, white sand, breathing
the keen freshness of the spray.
"What made you get up so soon?" Evelyn asked.
"It's not hard to guess. I was waiting for my opportunity. You're in the
habit of rising in good time."
"Well," she said with a bantering air, "I think waiting for
opportunities is a habit of yours. Of course, you have some excuse for
this."
Gore looked puzzled for a moment and then laughed.
"I see what you mean. As a rule, the opportunities come to me."
"Don't they? I wonder whether you're much happier than the men who have
to make, or look for, them."
"I can't say, because I haven't tried that plan. I can't see why I
should look for anything, when I don't have to. Anyway, I guess I'm a
pretty cheerful person and easy to get on with. It's the strivers
who're always getting after something out of reach that give you jars."
"You're certainly not a striver," Evelyn agreed. "However, you seem to
have all a man could want."
"Not quite," he answered. "I'll confess that I'm not satisfied yet, but
I try to make the most of the good things that come along--and I'm glad
I got up early. It's a glorious morning!"
Evelyn understood. Reggie was not precipitate and feared a rebuff. She
believed that she could have him when she liked, but he would look for
some tactful sign of her approval before venturing too far. The trouble
was that she did not know if she wanted him.
She changed the subject, and they paced the beach, engaged in
good-humored banter, until the breakfast gong called them back to the
hotel.
In the afternoon, however, Evelyn's mood changed again. The breeze died
away and it was very hot. Everybody was languid, and she found her
friends dull. Although Gore tried to be amusing, his conversation was
unsatisfactory; and the girls about the hotel seemed more frivolous and
shallow than usual. None of these people ever did anything really worth
while! Evelyn did not know what she wished to do, but she felt that the
life she led was unbearably stale.
When dark fell and the deep rumble of the surf filled the air, she sat
with her father in a quiet corner of the garden.
"Didn't you say you might make a short business trip to the West
Indies?" she asked him.
"Yes; I may have to spend a week in Havana."
"Then I wish you would take me."
"It might be arranged," said Cliffe. He seldom refused her anything.
"Your mother wouldn't come, but she has plenty of engagements at home.
Why do you want to go?"
Evelyn found this hard to answer, but she tried to formulate her
thoughts.
"Cuba is, of course, a new country to me, and I suppose we all feel a
mysterious attraction toward what is strange. Had you never a longing
for something different, something out of the usual run?"
"I had when I was young."
"But you don't feel it now?"
"One learns to keep such fancies in their place when business demands
it," Cliffe answered with a dry smile. "I can remember times when I
wanted to go off camping in the Canadian Rockies and join a canoe trip
on Labrador rivers. Now and then in the hot weather the traffic in the
markets and the dusty offices make me tired. I'll confess that I've felt
the snow-peaks and the rapids call."
"We went to Banff once," said Evelyn. "It was very nice."
"But not the real thing! You saw the high peaks from the hotel garden
and the passes from an observation car. Then we made one or two
excursions with pack-horses, guides, and people like ourselves, where it
was quite safe to go. That was as much as your mother could stand for.
She'd no sympathy with my hankering after the lone trail."
Evelyn could see his face in the moonlight, and she gave him a quick
look. Her father, it seemed, had feelings she had never suspected in
him.
"But if you like the mountains, couldn't you enjoy them now?"
"No," he said, rather grimly. "The grip of my business grows tighter all
the time. It costs a good deal to live as we do, and I must keep to the
beaten tracks that lead to places where money is made."
"I sometimes think we are too extravagant and perhaps more ostentatious
than we need be," Evelyn said in a diffident tone.
"We do what our friends expect and your mother has been accustomed to.
Then it's my pleasure to give my daughter every advantage I can and,
when the time for her to leave us comes, to see she starts fair."
Evelyn was silent for a few moments, feeling touched. She had formed a
new conception of her father, who, she had thought, loved the making of
money for its own sake. Now it was rather startling to find that in
order to give her mother and herself all they could desire, he had held
one side of his nature in subjection and cheerfully borne a life of
monotonous toil.
"I don't want to leave you," she said in a gentle voice.
He looked at her keenly, and she saw that her mother had been speaking
to him about Gore.
"Well," he responded, "I want to keep you as long as possible, but when
you want to go I must face my loss and make the best of it. In the
meanwhile, we'll go to Cuba if your mother consents."
Evelyn put her hand affectionately on his arm.
"Whatever happens," she said softly, "you won't fail me. I'm often
frivolous and selfish, but it's nice to know I have somebody I can
trust."