"He was my mother's brother," I said. "I know hardly anything about
him besides that. I was under the impression that he was dead years
ago."
"Haven't you ever seen him?"
I shook my head. "He left England when I was a baby. I believe he
was a pretty bad egg one way and another--the sort of black sheep
that every respectable family rolls out occasionally. I have got
some vague idea that he went to South America, but so far as I know
there has never been any news of him from that day to this."
Ross reseated himself on the bunk and stared at me with vast
enjoyment.
"You've struck the main reef, my son," he observed. "It's the sort
of thing one reads about in a shilling shocker. He's probably made a
huge fortune cornering castor oil or something, and when you get back
you'll find yourself a prancing millionaire."
"It's much more likely he's left me a bundle of debts," I said
sceptically.
"Don't you believe it," persisted Ross. "I've got a wonderful
instinct for lucky people, and the very first time I saw you I smelt
money. I don't suppose you'll ever do another honest day's work in
your life--at least, not after you reach London."
As he spoke the jangling sound of the shore bell echoed loudly
through the ship.
"Anyhow, I must go up and make a final effort at it now," I said. "I
am due on the bridge in five minutes, and I shouldn't like to leave
the service with a tarnished record."
Ross hoisted himself to his feet and handed me back the wire.
"I shall retire to my cabin and read Marcus Aurelius," he announced.
"He is very consoling with regard to the favouritism and injustice of
life."
As people go I don't think I am very easily upset, either by good
luck or the reverse. Still, I must admit that, in spite of what I
said to Ross, the totally unexpected news which Messrs. Wilmot and
Drayton had been kind enough to forward me had certainly set my heart
beating a little more briskly than usual. There is something
peculiarly stimulating in the thought that one may have come into a
fortune--especially to a second officer in the Merchant Service,
whose capital consists of about seventy pounds in cash and a
miscellaneous collection of shore-going clothes.
All through my watch, while we were creeping out of Leixoes harbour,
and thrashing our way up the desolate coast of Spain, the pleasant
possibilities of the situation kept turning themselves over in my
mind. As I had told Ross earlier in the afternoon, I was sick of my
present life--sick to death of it. Ever since the war I had been
helping to trundle the _Neptune_ backwards and forwards between
London and Brazil, and any faint attraction the job might once have
possessed had long since vanished into thin air. I had already
practically made up my mind to chuck it at the first favourable
opportunity, and now it looked as if Fate were suddenly offering me a
chance such as I had never hoped for even in my wildest dreams. If
this mysterious uncle of mine had really left me anything worth
having I could start out on my fresh career with all the advantages
of a leisurely and deliberate choice. What that choice would be I
had not exactly determined. When one is twenty-six, and as fit as a
fiddle, the world contains so many delightful openings, it is
difficult to decide in a hurry which is the most congenial.
Even when I was back in my cabin and stretched out comfortably in my
bunk, I still found my mind sufficiently busy to keep me wide awake.
Another and highly interesting thought had suddenly dawned upon me,
and that was that if Ross's predictions were in any way right, I
should now be in a much more justifiable position to pursue my
acquaintance with Miss de Roda.
Lying there in the dark, I seemed to see her face as plainly as if
she were standing just in front of me. Those wonderful eyes and the
soft curve of her lips stood out before me with a strange, bewitching
vividness. Slowly and with a curious pleasure I went through again
all our conversation during the drive down from Oporto. It had been
simple enough on the surface--the mere exchange of ordinary cheerful
commonplaces suitable to the situation--but once more I seemed to
catch that faint, tantalising atmosphere of reserve and mystery which
was none the less real for being so utterly intangible.
The more I thought it over the more certain I felt that in her own
opinion there was some impenetrable barrier which cut her off from
the possibility of making friends with anyone on board. Her uncle's
wishes may have had something to do with it, but there seemed to me
little doubt that she herself shared his views in the matter, and was
fully determined to carry them out.
It was not exactly an encouraging conclusion, but I refused to let it
depress me. Barriers, after all, are only made to be attacked, and
on the whole I rather like a certain amount of opposition. It adds
so enormously to the value of the prize after one has succeeded in
getting one's own way.
I meditated upon this satisfactory truth a little longer, and at last
with a feeling of drowsy contentment over the prospect of seeing and
talking with her the next morning, I turned over comfortably on my
side and dropped off to sleep.
It is not always that nature is so obliging as to harmonize with
one's feelings, but from what I could see through the porthole when I
woke up the next morning it appeared to me that the weather was
thoroughly in keeping with my own good spirits. When I reached the
deck I found no reason for changing my opinion. Under a sky of
cloudless blue and through a sparkling, sunlit sea the _Neptune_ was
steadily churning her way northwards, leaving a broad white wake of
foam stretching away half a mile behind her. Even the usually
expressionless face of the first officer was wreathed in a satisfied
smile as he paced slowly up and down the bridge.
By half-past seven one or two passengers had already made their
appearance, but it was not until a few minutes after eight that I at
last caught sight of Miss de Roda. She was standing by herself
looking out over the stern railing, and the sudden thrill that ran
through me when I recognised her showed me that my feelings must have
been travelling at a very creditable pace during the last twenty-four
hours.
There was not much time before breakfast, so, without any unnecessary
delay, I at once made my way aft. She looked up as I approached, and
the swift fear I felt that she might have repented making the
appointment vanished immediately before the friendly smile with which
she returned my greeting.
"Good morning, Mr. Dryden," she said, "and if you've any
consideration for my feelings, please don't tell me it's a beautiful
day. I have heard that from three different people already."
I looked at her with deep contentment. She was wearing a plain linen
frock that showed off the graceful lines of her figure, and
altogether she was as fresh and delightful a picture as ever
gladdened the eye of sinful man.
"I am sorry," I said regretfully. "I had made up one or two very
bright remarks on the subject, but under the circumstances I'll keep
them for somebody else." I paused. "How is Señor de Roda this
morning?" I asked. "I hope he hasn't heard anything about our
adventures in the harbour?"
She shook her head. "Not a word apparently. I am beginning to think
that nobody saw us after all, except the sailor who spoke to you."
In a few words I acquainted her with what Ross had told me the
previous evening--a piece of information which she received with
obvious thankfulness.
"I have always liked Dr. Ross," she said. "He is so kind and cheery.
Is he a special friend of yours?"
"We have been together for a dozen voyages," I explained, "and so far
we have managed to get along without squabbling."
"A dozen voyages!" she repeated, opening her eyes. "You must be
getting a little tired of the _Neptune_, aren't you?"
"She has lost some of her first charm," I admitted frankly. "I have
been thinking of applying for a separation for some time."
She looked up at me with a friendly interest that I found very
refreshing.
"What are you going to do?" she asked.
"I don't know exactly," I replied. "It depends to a certain extent
upon Messrs. Wilmot and Drayton."
There was a short pause.
"They sound like two very important people," she said, wrinkling her
forehead, "but I am afraid I have never heard of either of them."
"Neither had I until I got back yesterday," I returned. "Then I
found a cable from them in my cabin telling me that my uncle was
dead."
She gave a little exclamation of sympathy. "Oh, I am so sorry," she
began. "I'm afraid----"
"It's quite all right," I interrupted cheerfully. "I never saw him
in my life, and I believe he was several kinds of a blackguard. The
only reason they wired to me was because I happen to be the next of
kin, and as he died without making a will I suppose I come into his
goods and chattels--if there are any to come into."
"But don't you know? Didn't they give you any details?"
I shook my head. "Nothing at all. I may be a millionaire, or he may
have left me a parrot and an old suit of clothes. I should think the
latter was much the more likely of the two, but Ross won't have it at
any price. He says that he has got a kind of second sight about
money matters, and that he's always felt I was born to be one of the
idle rich."
She laughed easily. "I do hope he's right. Aren't you tremendously
excited about it?"
"I am trying not to be," I said. "You see, the more one expects the
greater the disappointment."
"Who was your uncle?" she asked, after a moment's silence. "Another
namesake of the poet?"
"He wasn't a Dryden at all," I explained. "He was my mother's
brother, and his name was Richard Jannaway."
I had given my answer quite casually, but its effect was so startling
that for a moment I stood there petrified with astonishment. Every
vestige of colour had fled from my companion's face, and she was
staring at me with an expression of incredulous horror.
"Good heavens!" I exclaimed involuntarily. "What is it? What's the
matter?"
By a tremendous effort of will she managed to pull herself together.
"It's nothing," she answered, with amazing coolness. "I--I once knew
somebody of that name, but it couldn't possibly have been the same
person."
"I don't know," I said slowly; "there can't be very many Richard
Jannaways in the world." Then I paused. "My uncle spent most of his
life in South America," I added deliberately.
I saw her hand tighten on the railing that she was holding until the
knuckles stood out white and distinct under the skin.
"South America?" she repeated in a low whisper.
The same panic-stricken look had come back into her face, as though
the two words confirmed all the strange dread which the first mention
of my uncle's name had suddenly aroused.
I came a step nearer to her. "For God's sake tell me what's the
matter," I said again. "If there's anything in the world----"
I was interrupted by the noise of the breakfast gong, which came
booming up from below in a loud, insistent clamour.
With another obvious effort my companion regained her self-control,
and, letting go of the railing stood up in front of me, white and
breathless.
"Mr. Dryden," she said, "please don't ask me any questions. There is
something I can't explain to you now--something I can never explain.
I can only assure you that what you have told me makes no real
difference between us. It was always quite impossible that we could
ever be friends."
"Nothing is impossible unless one admits it," I returned doggedly.
She made a little despairing gesture with her hands.
"You don't understand," she said; "and, please God, you never will."
For one moment we remained facing each other in a strained, unnatural
silence; then, without another word, she turned away towards the
companion, and disappeared down the steps into the saloon.
To say that I was utterly flabbergasted would be nothing but the
literal truth. It had all happened so unexpectedly, and with such
astounding abruptness, that for a second or so I felt like a man who
had inadvertently dropped a lighted match into a large can of petrol.
Indeed, no actual explosion could have reduced me to such a complete
state of amazed bewilderment as that in which I stood staring at the
spot where she had vanished.
Then, quite suddenly, my senses seemed to come back to me. I caught
sight of several passengers advancing towards the companion, and,
taking out my case, I lighted myself a cigarette, and strolled very
slowly in the direction of the stern. At this hour the stretch of
deck behind the donkey engine house was absolutely deserted. A
better place for a little quiet meditation could scarcely have been
found, and, leaning over the railing, I set about the process with as
much steadiness as my disturbed faculties would permit.
One thing seemed absolutely certain. Whatever Miss de Roda's
original views may have been as to the wisdom of continuing her
friendship with me, it was her sudden discovery about my uncle which
had been wholly responsible for the extraordinary change in her
manner. If I had told her that I was the nephew of Judas Iscariot
the result could hardly have been more striking. The mere mention of
Richard Jannaway's name had been sufficient to fill her with such
amazement and horror that she had been quite incapable of making any
attempt at hiding her feelings.
This fact of itself would have been sufficiently remarkable, but to
me its significance was doubly increased by the way she had behaved
the previous day during our little discussion with the boatmen. Any
girl who could have shown such perfect coolness under the
circumstances must be gifted with a spirit and nerve that were not
easily shaken. I was, therefore, convinced that it must have taken
some very real and urgent sense of danger to upset so completely her
usual self-control.
Having arrived at this point, I found myself utterly at sea. Beyond
the fact that the mystery was in some way or other connected with my
uncle I had practically nothing to go upon. If the family
recollections of that distinguished gentleman could be trusted, he
had probably thrown himself heartily into all kinds of mischief
during the course of his South American career, and since the de
Rodas came from that part of the world it was quite possible that the
name of Richard Jannaway might be connected with some black,
unwholesome memory which overshadowed both their lives.
Señor de Roda was just the sort of man who suggested a mysterious
past. His obvious avoidance of any sort of society, and the brooding
depression which always haunted his sallow face, were exactly in
keeping with the idea. The more I thought it over the more probable
it seemed that at some period in his life he had been mixed up with
my disreputable relation, and I began to feel an acute desire for a
little genuine information about the tatter's history.
The most likely people to be able to gratify this curiosity appeared
to be Messrs. Wilmot and Drayton. However secretive their late
client may have been, they would at least know more about him than I
did, and such facts as they possessed might well be the
starting-point for further discoveries.
There was no other chance of enlightenment that I could see except by
renewing my interrupted conversation with Miss de Roda. This plan,
difficult as it might be to put into practice, appealed to me on two
grounds. In the first place, I was ready to jump at any suggestion
which would bring me into further contact with her, and secondly, I
felt perfectly certain that if she chose she could give me a good
deal more interesting information than I was likely to get in Bedford
Row.
The abrupt way she had left me was not exactly an encouraging omen,
but it was possible that after she had recovered from her first
agitation she might take a different view of the matter. Anyhow, I
made up my mind that if an opportunity came along I would be ready
enough to grasp it, and with this resolve I at last tossed away the
burned-out stump of my cigarette, and went off to hunt up a belated
and much-needed breakfast.
It is one thing to come to a sound decision, however, and quite
another to get the chance of carrying it out. All the rest of that
day, though I kept a particularly watchful eye upon every likely part
of the deck, I never so much as caught a glimpse of the one figure
that I was looking for. The remainder of the passengers promenaded
up and down in the sunshine with maddening persistence, but Miss de
Roda herself remained as obstinately invisible as though she had
vanished from the ship.
At one time I almost made up my mind to send along a note to her
cabin asking her to meet me. Second thoughts, however, soon led me
to abandon the idea. She could be in no possible doubt about my
feelings on the matter, and if she didn't choose to gratify them, any
attempt to persuade her would be worse than futile. There was
nothing to do but to put up with the situation as philosophically as
I could, a course of action in which I was assisted by a natural and
happy tendency not to worry unnecessarily about anything that cannot
be helped.
Late in the day, after we had rounded Ushant and were making our way
up Channel, the fine weather which had so far kept us company
suddenly petered out. We ran into a grey, drizzling mist, which,
although not thick enough to retard our speed to any great extent,
was a most unpleasant change after the perfect conditions of the last
twenty-four hours. Things got worse rather than improved as we drew
nearer to the mouth of the Thames, and when we stopped to pick up our
pilot off the Nore the rain was coming down with a pitiless energy
that would have damped the ardour of the most enthusiastic patriot.
Under these depressing conditions we crept up the river and came to
our berth off the docks. We were not due to make our entrance until
eight o'clock the next morning, and it was with a feeling of thorough
thankfulness for the fact that I went down to my cabin, and, throwing
off my wet clothes, took the chance of a few hours' well-earned sleep.
It was still raining dismally when I turned out, but the short rest
had restored me to my usual good spirits. While dressing, I
determined that before going on deck I would write a brief line to
Miss de Roda wishing her good-bye. I knew that, even if she were
willing to see me, which was very unlikely, I should probably be much
too busy for the next hour or so to attend to anything but my
immediate duties. A second officer is never likely to run short of
work while his ship is entering a harbour dock.
I therefore routed out a sheet of notepaper and an envelope, and,
sitting down on my bunk, scribbled the few following words by the
grey light which filtered in through the port-hole:
"DEAR MISS DE RODA,--As you will probably be leaving the ship
before I get a chance of seeing you, I am sending you a line to
say good-bye--for the present. I am not going to ask you any
questions, as you don't want me to, but I should like you to know
that there is nothing in the world which I should allow for a
moment to stand in the way of my friendship with you. Whatever
the difficulties are, I mean to find them out and put an end to
them. Till then I shall have to content myself with thinking
about you, as I can't see you; but please remember that always
and any time, if I can be of the slightest service to you, you
have only got to let me know. For the next few days I shall be
staying on the ship; after that a letter addressed to the head
office of the Planet Line in Cockspur Street will always reach me.
"Yours sincerely,
"JOHN DRYDEN."
In reading this through I felt that it was not altogether what I had
wanted to say; but I am not much of a hand at letter-writing, and,
anyhow, it was too late to start altering it. I put it in the
envelope, and on my way along the corridor I gave it to one of the
stewardesses, and asked her to hand it on privately to Miss de Roda.
Then, having done all I could, I went up on deck and set about the
task of earning my inadequate salary.
In a shroud of mist we crept in through the grey dock entrance,
amidst the usual bustle and excitement which always accompanies the
process of coming alongside. Passengers were already trooping up
with their hand-bags and lining the rail nearest the shore, but I was
much too occupied with my various duties to have any time to try and
distinguish one from the other. Bit by bit we sidled slowly into our
appointed berth, while a small crowd of people who had gathered on
the dock under dripping umbrellas began to exchange cheerful
greetings with their expectant friends on board.
At last the warps were made fast, and up the lowered gangways came
the customary knot of port officials. Knowing that I should be
wanted, I left my station in the bows, where everything was now
secured, and started to come back aft. On my way I ran into Ross,
who, hidden in a long mackintosh and smoking his new pipe, was
watching the scene with his usual good-tempered indifference.
"Anything I can do for you ashore, Dryden?" he asked.