MARTIA'S SECRET
Martia had a terrible secret; a secret known only to her mother and
herself; a secret only half-guessed by Behrens.
In the war, whilst she had been driving an ambulance, the disaster had
occurred which still overshadowed her life.
There are disasters that finish themselves and everything round them,
like a bursting shell, in a moment of time, and there are disasters
that, having done their work, go on living like horrible reptiles,
ruining the lives of their victims, ay, and of their victims' children
and grandchildren.
The Hares, before the war, had been very well-to-do, drawing some six
thousand a year from a business in Birmingham that seemed solid as the
town-hall itself. It tottered under the new condition of things, fell,
and went to smithereens, leaving Richard Hare dead amidst the ruins
with a pistol bullet in his heart; leaving also his wife, Martia, and
his youngest daughter, Violet, almost unprovided for.
Mrs. Hare had a hundred and fifty pounds a year of her own, Violet
obtained the post of companion to a woman of means, and Martia joined
with Miss Beaman as working partner in the agency. The money she made
was just sufficient to maintain herself whilst helping her mother, and
in making it she had nearly ruined her health. For several years she
had not taken a proper holiday. And on top of everything was the fact
of Isaac Behrens' death.
It was old Jacob Behrens who had forced her hand, made her see that
work without health was impossible, promised to keep an eye on her
mother should any accident happen to the expedition, and by pure will
power made her accept a hundred pounds for an outfit and expenses, to
be repaid--some day.
"Should the affair be successful, there will be much money in it," said
Jacob. "It is a business affair pure and simple. Leaving everything
else aside, I wish you to go as a person who has a knowledge of
business, and common-sense. I trust Mr. Lestrange completely, but he is
younger than his years and has not seen much of the world. I have great
faith, too, in a woman's intuition. I owed much of my early success to
my wife Sarah. She, with her clear sight, often saved me from rogues
and from my own stupidity. So, you see, you will be killing all sorts
of birds with the one stone; getting back your health, establishing the
business, helping to look after old Jacob's affairs and helping him to
make money, of which you shall have your share. Also, Isaac would have
wished it. Also, I believe you will bring luck."
He came on the evening of her departure to see her off by the
six-thirty train from Waterloo, buying her a first-class ticket and
entrusting her with the ship's money, some eight hundred pounds, to
hand to Bobby.
Then, as the train glided out of the station and she sat in the corner
of the comfortable first-class carriage she had to herself, a sense of
relief and release came to her such as she had never before experienced.
Gone were the cares of the office and the weariness and worries of
life; Fleet Street and White Lion Court, journeys in omnibuses to
save shillings, and all the petty and mean details that make up the
life of the poor--not the poor of the slums, but the poor of the
middle-classes, who have to keep up an appearance on insufficient means.
She was free, free as a bird. To-morrow she would not awake to
breakfast in a hurry and catch the train from Hampstead to the City,
there to spend the day wrestling with other people's affairs, returning
at night wearied out or going to a theatre she would be too tired to
enjoy.
All that was over, for the present at least. Life had turned over
for her an entirely fresh page, all the more charming because it was
unwritten upon.
Martia had no illusions about Jacob Behrens. She knew him to be a good
man; but she knew that he was also a trader, whose business followed
him everywhere, and whose business it was to make money. She knew that
he was really in earnest in urging her to take up this affair for the
benefit of her health, knowing as he did that what she wanted was not
only change of air but excitement and an absolutely new environment.
But she also knew that his keenness in this matter had been whetted
by his estimate of Bobby as a person excellent in every way but as a
business man.
So this new blank page that life had turned over for her had the
additional attraction that the writing on it would be partly hers in
the success or failure of the expedition which it would record.
The express drew into Poole Station at eight minutes past nine, and the
first person she saw on the lamp-lit platform was Bobby.
He helped her to get her small luggage from the carriage and her trunk
from the van, then, followed by a porter wheeling the lot, they started
on foot for the inn.
"Is everything all right?" she asked.
"Everything. The crew's on board; stores, water, and everything. We
swung her to-day to test the compass, and we are due out at sunrise.
I've got a room for you at the inn for to-night, and they'll wake you
up in time to-morrow morning, so that you can settle down and get your
gear stowed before we start. Hackett is coming along as skipper."
"Oh!"
"He's the best man we could possibly have, and he's coming just for the
fun of the thing."
"Are you sure he is responsible?"
"Quite."
Here was a relief. Evidently she had no objection to Sam, whatever she
may have known of him before this.
As he led the way into the coffee-room of the _Anchor_, they met
Hackett, who was just coming out. He had shaved off his beard, and
looked like the old Sam again. Bobby introduced him to the girl, and
watched as they shook hands.
Yes, without any manner of doubt these two had met before. He could
tell by their manner, by their faces, by the way they shook hands. Yet
not one word did they say in confirmation of the evident fact. Then,
after a few commonplace remarks about the weather and the time of
starting in the morning, Sam went off to the boat, where, having seen
the girl comfortably settled at the inn, Bobby followed him, found him
on deck, and, unable to restrain his curiosity, asked him the question
right out.
"Sam," said Bobby, "have you met that girl before?"
"Yes," replied Sam. "And, if it's all the same to you, I'd rather not
talk about it."
"I don't want to talk about it or pry into your affairs. It's only just
this: when you asked me her other name, I told you the nickname she
was known by as a child. I did so because--well, it doesn't matter.
But I've only just thought that if there has been any unpleasantness
between you and her, I was maybe wrong, and----"
"There has been no unpleasantness," cut in the other. "And if it's all
the same to you, we'll say no more on the subject."
"All right," said Bobby. "We'll leave it at that."
He went below and turned in, and lay awake for an hour revolving
in his mind the problem of it all. What in the name of common-sense
could have happened between these two to make them--having known each
other--meet like strangers? Sam had evidently done nothing wrong, or
Martia would have refused to sail with him. And Martia _couldn't_ have
done anything wrong. Had they cared for one another in the past and
quarrelled? No, their manner did not point to that, and Martia, when he
told her that Sam was coming along with them, had shown little surprise
and no sign of hesitation.