II

It was fully a year before Frank saw her again; a long year to

him, soberly passed in his shipboard duties, with recurring weeks

ashore at New York and Buenos Ayres. He had grown more reserved

and silent than before; fonder of his books; keener in his taste

for abstract science. He avoided his old friends and made no new

ones. The world seemed to be passing him while he stood still. He

wondered how others could laugh when his own heart was so heavy,

and he preferred to go his own way, solitary and unnoticed, taking

an increasing pleasure in his isolation. He continued to write to

Bridgeport, for there were a few old friends whom he could not

disregard altogether, though he made his letters as infrequent as

he could and as short. In return he was kept informed of

Florence's movements; of the sensation she made everywhere; of the

great people who had taken her under their wing; of her rumoured

engagements; of her triumphs in Paris and London; of her yachts

and horses and splendour and beauty. His correspondents showed an

artless pride in the recital. It was becoming their only claim to

consideration that they knew Florence Fenacre. Her dazzling life

reflected a sort of glory upon themselves, and their letters ran

endlessly on the same theme. It was all a modern fairy tale, and

they fairly bubbled with satisfaction to think that they knew the

fairy princess!

Frank read it all with exasperation. It tormented him to even hear

her name; to be reminded of her in any way; to realise that she

was as much alive as he himself, and not the phantom he would have

preferred to keep her in his memory. Yet he was inconsistent

enough to rage when a letter came that brought no news of her. He

would tear it into pieces and throw it out of his cabin window.

The fools, why couldn't they tell him what he wanted to know! He

would carry his ill-humour into the engine-room and revenge

himself on fate and the loss of the woman he loved by a harsh

criticism of his subordinates. A defective pump or a troublesome

valve would set his temper flaming; and then, overcome at his own

injustice, he would go to the other extreme; and, roundly blaming

himself, would slap some sullen artificer on the back and tell him

that it was all a joke. His men, amongst themselves, called him a

wild cracked devil, and it was the tattle of the ship that he

drank hard in secret. They knew something was wrong with him, and

fastened on the likeliest cause. Others said out boldly that the

chief engineer was going crazy.

One morning as they were running up the Sound, homeward-bound,

they passed a large steam yacht at anchor. Frank happened to be on

deck at the time, and he joined with the rest in the little chorus

of admiration that went up at the sight of her.

"That's the Minnehaha," said the second mate. "She belongs to the

beautiful heiress, Miss Fenacre!"

"Ready for a Mediterranean cruise," said the purser, who had been

reading one of the newspapers the pilot had brought aboard.

Frank heard these two remarks in silence. The sun, to him, seemed

to stop shining. The morning that had been so bright and pleasant

all at once overcame him with disgust. The might-have-been took

him by the throat. He descended into the engine-room to hide his

dejected face in the heated oily atmosphere below; and seating

himself on a tool-chest he watched, with hardly seeing eyes, the

ponderous movement of his machinery.

It was the anodyne for his troubles, to feel the vibration of the

engines and hear the rumble and hiss of the jacketed cylinders. It

always comforted him; he found companionship in the mighty thing

he controlled; he looked at the trembling needle in the gauge, and

instinctively noted the pressure as he thought of the trim smart

vessel at anchor and of his dear one on the eve of parting. He

wondered whether they would ever pass again, he and she, in all

the years to come.

The thought of the yacht haunted him all that day. He took a

sudden revulsion against the grinding routine of his own life. It

came over him like a new discovery, that he was tired of South

America, tired of his ship, tired of everything. He contrasted his

own voyages in and out, from the same place to the same place, up

and down, up and down, as regular as the swing of a pendulum with

that gay wanderer of the raking masts who was free to roam the

world. It came over him with an insistence that he, too, would

like to roam the world, and see strange places and old marble

palaces with steps descending into the blue sea water, and islands

with precipices and beaches and palm trees.

Almost awed at his own presumption he sat down and wrote to Miss

Fenacre.

It was a short note, formally addressed, begging her for a

position in the engine-room staff. He knew, he said, that the

quota was probably made up, and that he could not hope for an

important place. But if she would take him as a first-class

artificer he would be more than grateful, and ventured on the

little pleasantry that even if he had to be squeezed in as a

supernumerary he was confident he could save her his pay and keep

a good many times over.

He got an answer a couple of days later, addressed from a

fashionable New York hotel and granting him an interview. She

called him "dear Frank," and signed herself "ever yours," and said

that of course she would give him anything he wanted, only that

she would prefer to talk it over first.

He put on his best clothes and went to see her, being shown into a

large suite on the second floor, where he had to wait an hour in a

lofty anteroom with no other company but a statue of Pocahontas.

He was oppressed by the gorgeousness of the surroundings--by the

frowning pictures, the gilt furniture, the onyx-topped tables, the

vases, the mirrors, the ornate clocks. He was in a fever of

expectation, and could not fight down his growing timidity. He had

not seen Florence for a year, and his heart would have been as

much in his mouth had the meeting been set in the old brick house

at Bridgeport. At least he said so to himself, not caring to

confess that he was daunted by the magnificence of the apartment.

At length the door opened and she came in. She stood for a moment

with her hand on the knob and looked at him; then she came over to

him with a little rush and took his outstretched hand. He had

forgotten how beautiful she was, or probably he had never really

known, as he had never beheld her before in one of those wonderful

French creations that cost each one a fortune. He stumbled over

his words of greeting, and his hand trembled as he held hers.

"Oh, Frank," she said, noticing his agitation. "Are you still

silly enough to care?"

"I am afraid I do, Florence," he said, blushing like a boy at her

unexpected question. "What's the good of asking me that?"

"You are looking handsome, Frank," she ran on. "I am proud of you.

You have the nicest hair of any man I know!"

"I daren't say how stunning you look, Florence," he returned.

"Frank," she said, slowly, fixing her lustrous eyes on his face,

"you usen't to be so grave. ... I don't think you have smiled much

lately ... you are changed."

He bore her scrutiny with silence.

"Poor boy!" she exclaimed, impulsively taking his hand. "I'm the

most heartless creature in the whole world. Do you know, Frank,

though I look so nice and girlish, I am really a brute; and when I

die I am sure to go to hell."

"I hope not," he said, smiling.

"Oh, but I know!" she cried. "All I ever do is to make people

miserable."

"Perhaps it's the people's fault, for--for loving you, Florence,"

he said.

"It's awfully exciting to see you again," she went on. "You came

within an ace of being my husband. I might have belonged to you

and counted your washing. It's queer, isn't it? Thrilling!"

"Why do you bring all that up, Florence?" he said. "It's done.

It's over. I--I would rather not speak of it."

"But it was such an awfully near thing, Frank," she persisted. "I

had made up my mind to take you, you know. I had even looked over

my poor little clothes and had drawn a hundred dollars out of the

savings bank!"

"You don't take much account of a hundred dollars now," he

returned, trying to smile.

"I know you don't want to talk about it," she said, "but I do. I

love to play with emotions. I suppose it's a habit, like any

other," she continued, "and it grows on one like opium or

morphine. That's why I'll go to hell, Frank. It wasn't that way at

all when you used to know me. I think I must have been nice then,

and really worth loving!"

"Oh, yes!" he returned miserably. "Oh, yes!"

"I have a whole series of the most complicated emotions about

you," she said, "only a lot of them are unexploded, like fire

crackers before they are touched off. If I lost all my money I'd

be in a panic till you came and took me; but as long as I have it

I don't think of you more than once a week. Yet, do you know,

Frank, if you got a sweetheart, I believe I'd scratch her eyes

out. It's rather fine of me to tell you all that," she went on,

with a smile, "for I'm giving you the key of the combination, and

you might take advantage of it!"

"Florence," he said, "I thought at first you were just laughing at

me, but I see that you are right. You are heartless. You oughtn't

to talk like that."

She looked a shade put out.

"Well, Frank, it's the truth, anyway," she said, "and in the old

days we were always such sticklers for the truth--for sincerity,

you know--weren't we?"

"I have no business to correct you," he said humbly. "I resigned

all my pretensions that morning in the old house."

"Well, so long as you love me still!" she exclaimed, with a little

mocking laugh. "That's the great thing, isn't it? I mean for me,

of course. I am greedy for love. It makes me feel so safe and

comfortable to think there are whole rows of men that love me.

When you have a great fortune you begin to appreciate the things

that money cannot buy."

"Oh, your money!" he said. That word in her mouth always stung

him.

"Well, you ought to hate my money," she remarked cheerfully. "It

queered you, didn't it? And then all rich people are detestable,

anyway--selfish to the core, and horrid. Do you know that

sometimes when I have flirted awfully with a man at a dinner or

somewhere, and the next day he telephones--and the telephone is in

the next room--I've just said: 'Oh, bother! tell him I'm out,'

rather than take the trouble to get up from my chair. And a nice

man, too!"

"I thought I might be treated the same way," he said.

"Then you thought wrong, Frank," she returned, with a sudden

change from her tone of flippancy and lightness. "I haven't sunk

quite as low as that, you know. I meant other people--I didn't

mean you, Frank, dear."

This was said with such a little ring of kindness that Frank was

moved.

"Then the old days still count for something?" he said.

"Oh, yes!" she said.

"But not enough to hurt?" he ventured.

"Sometimes they do and sometimes they don't," she returned. "It

depends on how good a time I'm having. But I hate to think I'm

weak and selfish and vain, and that the only person I really care

for is myself. I value my self-esteem, and it often gets an awful

jar. Sometimes I feel like a girl that has run away from home--

diamonds and dyed hair, you know--and then wakes up at night and

cries to think of what a price she has paid for all her fine

things!" Florence waved her hand towards the alabaster statue of

Pocahontas, with a little ripple of self-disdain. She was in a

strange humour, and beneath the surface of her apparent gaiety

there ran an undercurrent of bitterness and contempt for herself.

Her eyes were unusually brilliant, and her cheeks were pink enough

to have been rouged. The sight of her old lover had stirred many

memories in her bosom.

"And what about my job, Florence?" he said, changing the

conversation. "I've caught the yachting idea, too. Can it be

managed?"

"Oh, I want to talk to you about that," she said.

"Well, go on," he said, as she hesitated.

"I am so afraid of hurting your feelings, Frank," she said with a

singular timidity.

"My feelings are probably tougher than you think," he returned.

"You will think so badly of me," she said. "You will be

affronted."

"It sounds as though you wanted to engage me for your butler," he

said. Then, as she still withheld the words on her lips, he went

on: "Don't be uneasy about saying it, Florence. If it's

impossible--why, that's the end of it, of course, and no harm

done."

"I want you to come," she said simply.

"Then, what's the trouble?" he demanded, getting more and more

mystified. "I don't mind being an artificer the least bit. I like

to work with my hands. I'm a good mechanic, and I like it."

"I want you for my chief engineer," she said.

This was news, indeed. Frank's face betrayed his keen pleasure. He

had never soared to the heights of asking or expecting THAT.

"I had to dismiss the last one," she went on. "That's the reason

why I'm still here, and not two days out, as I had expected. He

locked himself in his cabin and shot at people through the door,

and told awful lies to the newspapers."

"If it's anything about my qualifications," he said, thinking he

had found the reason of her backwardness, "I don't fancy I'll have

any trouble to satisfy you. I don't want to toot my own horn,

Florence, but really, you know, I am rated a first-class man. I'll

prove that by my certificates and all that, or give me two weeks'

trial, and see for yourself."

"Oh, it isn't that," she said.

"Then, what is it?" he broke out. "Only the other day they offered

me a Western Ocean liner, and, if you like, I'll send you the

letter. If I am good enough for a big passenger ship, I guess I

can run the Minnehaha to please you!"

"Frank," she returned, "it is not a question of your competency at

all. You know very well I'd trust my life to you, blindfold. It's

--it's the social side, the old affair between us, the first names

and all that kind of thing."

"Oh, I see!" he said blankly.

"As an officer on my ship," she said, "you could easily put

yourself and me in a difficult position. In a way, we'll really be

further apart than if you were in South America and I in Monte

Carlo, for, though we'd always be good friends, and all that, the

formalities would have to be observed. Now, I have offended you?"

she added, putting out her hand appealingly.

"I think you might have known me better, Florence," he returned.

"I am not offended--what right have I to be offended--only a

little hurt, perhaps, to think that you could doubt me for a

single moment in such a matter. I understand very well, and

appreciate the need for it. Did you expect me to call you Florence

on the quarterdeck of your own vessel, and presume on our old

friendship to embarrass you and set people talking? Good Heavens,

what do you take me for?"

"Don't be angry with me, Frank," she pleaded. "It had to be said,

you know. I wanted you so much to come; I wanted to share my

beautiful vessel with you; and yet I dreaded any kind of a false

position."

"I shall treat you precisely as I would any owner of any ship I

sailed on," he said. "That is, with respect and always preserving

my distance. I will never address you first except to say good-

morning and good-evening, and will show no concern if you do not

speak to me for days on end."

"Oh, Frank, you are an angel!" she cried.

"No," he returned, "only--as far as I can--a gentleman, Miss

Fenacre."

"We needn't begin now, Frank," she exclaimed, almost with

annoyance.

"Am I in your service?" he asked.

"From to-day," she answered, "and I will give you a note to

Captain Landry."

"Then you will be Miss Fenacre to me from now on," he said.

"You must say good-bye to Florence first," she said, smiling. "You

may kiss my hand," she said, as she gave it to him. "You used to

do it so gallantly in the old days--such a Spaniard that you are,

Frank--and I liked it so much!"

He did so, and for the first time in his life with a kind of

shame.

"I hope we are not both of us making a terrible mistake,

Florence," he said.

"Oh, I couldn't want a better chief!" she said, "and, as for you,

it's the wisest thing you ever did. It's me, after all, who is

making the sacrifice, for, in a month or two, all the gilt will

wear off, and you will see me as I really am. You will find it

very disillusioning to go to sea with your divinity," she added.

"You will discover she is a very flesh-and-blood affair, after

all, Frank, and not worth the tip of your little finger."

"I had a good many opportunities of judging before," he replied,

"and the more I knew her the more I loved her."

"Well, I am changed now," she said. "I suppose all the bad has

come to the surface since--like the slag when they melt iron and

skim it off with dippers--only with me there's nobody to dip. If

_I_ am astounded at the difference, what do you suppose you'll

be?"

"There never could be any difference to me," he said.

"That's the only kind of love worth talking about," she said,

going to the window and looking out.

For a while neither of them spoke. Frank rose and stood with his

hat in his hand, waiting to take his departure. Florence turned,

and going to an escritoire sat down and wrote a few lines on a

card.

"Present this to Captain Landry," she said, "and, now, my dear

chief engineer, I will give you your conge."

He thanked her, and put the card carefully in his pocketbook.

"What a farce it all is, Frank!" she broke out. "There's something

wrong in a system that gives a girl millions of dollars to do just

as she likes with. I don't care what they say to the contrary; I

believe women were meant to belong to men, to live in semi-slavery

and do what they are told, to bring up children and travel with

the pots and pans, and find their only reward in pleasing their

husbands."

"I wouldn't care to pass an opinion," said Frank. "Some of them

are happy that way, no doubt."

"What does anybody want except to be happy?" she continued, in the

same strain of resentment. "Isn't that what all are trying for as

hard as they can? I'd like to go out in the street and stop people

as they came along and ask them, the one after the other: 'Would

you tell me if you are happy?' And the one that said 'yes' I'd

give a hundred dollars to!"

"As like as not it would be some shabby fellow with no overcoat,"

said Frank.

"Now you can go away!" she exclaimed suddenly. "I don't know

what's the matter with me, Frank. I think I'm going to cry! Go,

go!" she cried imperiously, as he still stood there.

Frank bowed and obeyed, and his last glimpse, as he closed the

door, was of her at the window, looking down disconsolately into

the street below.