ON BOARD THE YACHT.
Mr. Egerton sat in the smoking-room of the steam-yacht _Flora_ and
reflected--it was the first day the sea had favored reflection--on his
plans.
They had given him more trouble than anything for sixteen years, but
this very elaboration of detail pleased the man. He was a very cruel
person, and a very cautious one, or he might have solved all his
difficulties more easily and inexpensively. But wonderful as his luck
had been lately, he was not out of the wood yet. He took up a tumbler
of whisky and soda, and watched the mounting bubbles as if he were
watching the workings of his own mind.
“First,” he mused, “there was getting out of the power of that woman
in the convent. She can never threaten me now, to any effect; or turn
on me. I know nothing of any girl. She cannot say there ever was one.
She never could have, really. Second, there were those letters. Raimond
is an ass, but if it hadn’t been for him I never should have stayed
at Erceldonne, or come across that girl with the lamplighter. That
saved me from having to scorn all England and from having to trust
detectives--who retire and write books. And the ‘Mrs. Fuller’ comedy
was lucky; it prevented my appearing in any way. And ‘Mrs. Fuller,’
having played her part, will never bother her head about what happened
to her charge. If she did, she would never connect ‘Mr. Egerton,’ the
governess, and his ward, with Lord Erceldonne’s queer ‘fancy.’” He
laughed aloud. And then he thought of that diplomatic epistle of Mother
Felicitas’, that had been so futile a lie.
“She could dictate to me while she had the girl, but not when there is
no girl for her to produce. Third,” he resumed his counting, “there was
my coming on that woman in the registry-office. The minute I saw her I
knew she had a history, was at the end of her tether and in despair. No
troublesome questions from a woman like that! She swallowed everything
I told her because, forsooth, I had taken her without references. A
woman who had no references and was dressed like a duchess was a fitter
woman for my purpose than all the Mrs. Grundys in England. She stood
being hustled on board and hurried off without a sight of her charge
like a lamb, just because she didn’t care a straw what happened to her.
I could see it in her face. And it’s just as well she doesn’t!” His own
face contracted a little as at something slightly, yet unavoidably,
unpleasant. “Well, no one will inquire about either of the ladies if
their absence is prolonged!
“I didn’t tell her that obstinate little devil down-stairs wouldn’t see
her, wouldn’t hear of her. She’ll find out soon enough what a handful
she has before her, while it lasts. But whatever happens, no one will
be able to root out dangerous tales of me and my tawny-eyed young
friend. Mr. Egerton and his ward and governess having disappeared into
space will not trouble Erceldonne.
“It was lucky Raimond was out of the way; it would have suited him
to rout out things he would be a fool to know. He might even have
fancied the girl. I wonder what set his mind on an old story! But it
doesn’t matter. The affair will be nothing but a lying rumor soon; an
absolutely absurd canard.”
He drank down the whisky and soda with small enjoyment, for it was
flat, and the only troublesome reflection of the afternoon came to him.
“Damn that fool who put Beryl Corselas and her adventures in the
papers,” he thought angrily. “The name might have set people thinking.
But I don’t think so. I stayed long enough in London to be sure there
was no revival of stale talk. Anyhow, if there were, it doesn’t matter.
She’s disappeared, and by ---- this time she’ll stay disappeared!”
He rose and looked out of the window.
It was a deck cabin, and almost within reach of his arm sat the
governess looking vaguely out over a sea that was blue for the first
time in the six days since they had left England.
It was rough still, but the rollers had purple hollows instead of
gray ones, and curled over blue and clear. But the governess was not
thinking of them, and her employer knew it. He rang the bell.
“Take this to Miss Holbeach,” he ordered, penciling a note, and then
buried himself in a French novel as one who is luckily far away from
an unpleasant business. That little tiger-cat had fought hard. First,
against the departure of “Mrs. Fuller,” to whom she had taken a fancy;
and then against the installation of a governess. To “Mr. Egerton”
himself she maintained a stony sulkiness; she did not like him, and
took no pains to hide it. She had openly accused him of tricking her
about Mrs. Fuller, and would not listen to his plausible tale of
explanation.
“I don’t know why you bother about me!” she had said, staring at him.
“But I don’t seem able to get away from you. I don’t suppose you and
the governess can be any worse than Mother Felicitas! Yes, I know
you’ve been good to me, but----” She had stopped, afraid to go on. Only
anger with this strange man who had carried her off from Mrs. Fuller
had made her so outspoken, and as he looked at her, she dared not go
on. She had turned and fairly run to her cabin, where she had stayed
ever since, too seasick even to wonder at the strange turn her life had
taken.
Andria took the little note the steward handed her. He was an Italian,
as were all the ship’s company, even to the stewardess. None of them
could speak a word of English, and she knew no Italian. It had come to
her oddly that one of the few questions Mr. Egerton had asked her was
whether she knew Italian. But she resolutely assured herself that the
two things had no connection. The note was just a line.
“Would Miss Holbeach kindly go and see Mr. Egerton’s ward in her cabin.”
The writer, to be truthful, had wanted the meeting over between the
two. The die was cast now; neither could get away from the other,
and if they had sense they would make friends. They would need to be
friendly! And he grinned over his novel, wondering if the headstrong
child would try to scratch the governess’ eyes out. If faces meant
anything, this Holbeach woman had managed men in her day.
Andria was half-way down the companionway as he thought it; and stood
presently at a closed door. She knocked, and the stewardess came out.
For a moment the governess was silent. She did not know the name of her
pupil, had never heard it all this time; she did not know who to ask
for. Then she laughed, for the Italian woman would not have understood
her in any case. At the sudden lifting of the lowered blue eyes the
maid moved aside. Andria, without waiting, went into the cabin.
It was full of fresh air from an open port-hole, but in the berth,
heedless of air or sun, lay a huddled figure with its face to the wall.
Nothing could be seen of the girl but a pale averted cheek, and a wild
mass of dusky hair neither black nor brown. Why did the years roll
back at the sight of that hair, dark and lusterless, a color without a
name? Andria was weary and unstrung, body and soul; she started at the
uncanny, waveless hair.
“Are you better?” she said, and her voice was oddly troubled. “I hope
you are.”
“Go away! I don’t want you,” said an angry, stifled voice from the
pillows.
At the sound of it Andria honestly gasped. Was she dreaming that she
was back in the convent again, or--did she know it?
With the quick gentleness that was of convent learning, she shut the
door on the waiting stewardess.
“Beryl!” she cried, under her breath. “Beryl, is it you?”
The figure in the berth started up, sweeping aside its veil of hair
with a hand and arm as thin as a goblin’s. The strangest yellow eyes
in the world stared from a white face at the intruder.
“Yes, it’s I,” said the indifferent, insolent voice of long ago. “I
suppose you’re his governess?”
“Don’t you know me?” Andria was trembling with nameless joy. Could it
be true that her pupil was no stranger, but the child she had loved
long ago?
“No!” said Beryl Corselas, with the old vacancy in her face.
“Unless----” she paused and looked straight in Andria’s eyes. The
next instant she was out of bed, taller than Andria in her long white
night-dress. “Andria!” she cried; “Andria,” and flung her thin young
arms around the woman in her black Redfern gown. “How did you come
here? Where have you been all this time? Did he find you for me?”
“I don’t know,” said Andria helplessly. “How are you his ward, and when
did you leave the convent?” She held the girl off and looked at her.
It was Beryl Corselas, indeed, but the five years that had passed must
have dealt hardly with her to have made her into a girl like this. A
quick pang shot through Andria at the sullen hopelessness of those
yellow-brown eyes.
“Tell me,” she said quickly, “did you never get my letters? Did Mother
Benedicta never speak of me?”
“Mother Benedicta died the week you left,” the girl answered simply.
“Sister Felicitas is reverend mother now.”
“But you--how are you here?”
The girl told her, leaving out nothing. And if Andria had been
distrustful before, she was frightened now.
Mr. Egerton, whoever he was, had no right to Beryl Corselas. There was
more in his adoption of her than appeared. Andria saw quite well why he
had dispensed with references in engaging a governess; he did not want
any one with a good character as a trustworthy person.
“Beryl,” she said slowly, “don’t tell him you know me. Let me tell him
myself.”
“I never tell him anything. I don’t like him,” she said calmly. “But
doesn’t he know? Didn’t he get you on purpose?”
“No. He never even told me what your name was. And oh! I----” she
stammered, “my name’s Holbeach now, don’t forget and say Heathcote!”
“Are you married? And----” she stopped, looking at Andria’s black gown
awkwardly.
“Don’t!” said Andria sharply. “I’ll tell you by and by,” for some one
had knocked at the door. It was the stewardess, and she pointed to the
open port-hole.
“We shall be there to-morrow. We are arrived,” she said. The words
Andria did not understand, but the gesture was plain enough, and the
governess looked out of the open port.
Something like a blue cloud was visible as the yacht rose and fell.
Andria ran on deck. There it stood on the port bow, a high, blue coast,
mountainous against the sunset. As she stood leaning over the rail she
saw Egerton at her elbow.
“What is that land?” she said quickly. “I did not know we passed any
after Madeira!”
“Neither we do. This is Bermuda,” he said carelessly. Not a muscle
moved in the governess’ face. No yacht could go from Southampton to
Bermuda in six days; even a big liner could not do it.
“Already?” she said slowly.
“The boat is fast,” he answered, but he turned away quite satisfied,
for there had been no hidden meaning in her voice.
Andria, left alone, never stirred.
Where this man was taking her and Beryl, or for what mysterious reason,
she did not know; but that high land that towered against the sunset
was certainly not Bermuda.
The governess’ nerves tightened sharply.
What could this mystery round Beryl Corselas be? And of what evil was
that lie about Bermuda the beginning?