“Why, here you are! Been looking everywhere for you, old man. Sorry you were not along this morning,” said the newcomer, shaking Ridgeway’s hand.
“I didn’t care to see the ship,” said Hugh hastily.
“Why, how funny!” cried Grace. “How did you know we had been over the ship?”
“Instinct,” he managed to gulp in the confusion.
Veath started for the dining-room, followed by Grace and Hugh, the latter refraining from mentioning that he had already lunched—insufficiently though it had been; but with the return of reason had come back his appetite and gradually he felt the old happiness sifting into his heart.
CHAPTER VIII
THE BEAUTIFUL STRANGER
They were now well along in the Mediterranean. The air was cool and crisp, yet there were dozens of people on deck watching the sunset and the sailors who were trimming the ship. There were passengers on board for China, Japan, India and Australia. A half hundred soldiers, returning to the East, after a long furlough at home, made the ship lively. They were under loose discipline and were inclined to be hilarious. A number were forward now, singing the battle songs of the British and the weird ones of the natives. Quite a crowd had collected to listen, including Ridgeway and Veath, who were strolling along the deck, arm in arm, enjoying an after-dinner smoke, and had paused in their walk near the group, enjoying the robust, devil-may-care tones of the gallant subalterns.
Miss Vernon was in her stateroom trying to jot down in a newly opened diary the events of the past ten days. She was up to ears in the work, and was almost overcome by its enthusiasm. It was to be a surprise for Hugh at some distant day, when she could have it printed and bound for him alone. There was to be but one copy printed, positively, and it was to belong to Hugh. Her lover as he strode the deck was unconscious of the task unto which she had bent her energy. He knew nothing of the unheard-of intricacies in punctuation, spelling and phraseology. She was forced at one time to write Med and a dash, declaring, in chagrin, that she would add the remainder of the word when she could get to a place where a dictionary might tell her whether it was spelled Mediterranean or Mediteranian.
Suddenly, Hugh pressed Veath’s arm a little closer.
“Look over there near the rail. There’s the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen!”
“Where?”
“Can’t point, because she’s looking this way. Girl with a dark green coat, leaning on an old gentleman’s arm—”
“I see,” interrupted Veath. “By George! she’s pretty!”
“No name for it! Have you in your life ever seen anything so beautiful?” cried Ridgeway. He stared at her so intently that she averted her face. “Wonder who she can be? The old man must be her father. Strange we haven’t seen them before. I’m sure that she hasn’t been on deck.”
“You seem interested—do you want a flirtation?”
“Oh, Grace wouldn’t stand for that—not for a minute.”
“I don’t believe she would object if you carried it on skilfully,” smiled the other.
“It wouldn’t be right, no matter how harmless. I couldn’t think of being so confoundedly brutal.”
“Sisters don’t usually take such things to heart.”
Hugh came to himself with a start and for a moment or two could find no word of response, so deeply engrossed was he in the effort to remember whether he had said anything that might have betrayed his secret.
“Oh,” he laughed awkwardly, “you don’t understand me. Grace is so—well, so—conscientious, that if she thought I was—er—trifling, you know, with a girl, she’d—she’d have a fit. Funniest girl you ever saw about those things—perfect paragon.”
“Is it possible? Are you not a little strong on that point, old man? I’m afraid you don’t know your sister any better than other men know theirs.”
“What’s that?” demanded Hugh, suddenly alert and forgetful of the stranger.
“The last person on earth that a man gets acquainted with, I’ve heard, is his sister,” said Veath calmly. “Go ahead and have a good time, old fellow; your sister isn’t so exacting as you think—take my word for it.”
It was fully five minutes before Hugh could extract himself from the slough of speculation into which those thoughtless words had driven him. What did Veath know about her ideas on such matters? Where did he learn so much? The other spoke to him twice and received no answer. Finally he shook his arm and said:
“Must be love at first sight, Ridge. Are you spellbound?” Hugh merely glared at him and he continued imperturbably: “She’s pretty beyond a doubt. I’ll have to find out who she is.”
“That’s right, Veath; find out,” cried Hugh, bright in an instant. “Make her have a good time. Poor thing, she’ll find it pretty dull if she hangs to her father all the time.”
“He isn’t a very amusing-looking old chap, is he? If that man hasn’t the gout and half a dozen other troubles I’ll jump overboard.”
The couple arousing the interest of the young men stood near the forward end of the deck-house. The young woman’s face was beaming with an inspiration awakened by the singers. Her companion, tall, gray and unimpressionable, listened as if through coercion and not for pleasure. His lean face, red with apoplectic hues, grim with the wrinkles of three score years or more, showed clear signs of annoyance. The thin gray moustache was impatiently gnawed, first on one side and then on the other. Then the military streak of gray that bristled forth as an imperial was pushed upward and between the lips by bony fingers. He was a picture of dutiful rebellion, Immaculately dressed was he, and distinguished from the soles of his pointed shoes to the beak of his natty cap. A light colored newmarket of the most fashionable cut was buttoned closely about his thin figure.
The young woman was not tall, nor was she short; she was of that indefinite height known as medium. Her long green coat fitted her snugly and perfectly; a cap of the same material was perched jauntily upon her dark hair. The frolicking wind had torn several strands from beneath the cap, and despite the efforts of her gloved fingers, they whipped and fluttered in tantalizing confusion. In the dimming afternoon the Americans could see that she was exquisitely beautiful. They could see the big dark eyes, almost timid in the hiding places beyond the heavy fringing lashes. Her dark hair threw the rich face into clear relief,—fresh, bright, eager. The men were not close enough to observe with minuteness its features, but its brilliancy was sufficient to excite even marvelling admiration. It was one of those faces at which one could look for ever and still feel there was a charm about it he had not caught.
“I’ve never seen such a face before,” again murmured Ridgeway.
“Tastes differ,” said Veath. “Now, if you’ll pardon me, I think Miss Ridge is the more beautiful. She is taller and has better style. Besides, I like fair women. What say?” The question was prompted by the muttered oath that came from Hugh.
“Nothing at all,” he almost snarled. “Say, Veath, don’t always be talking to me about my sister,” he finally jerked out, barely able to confine himself to this moderately sensible abjuration while his brain was seething with other and stronger expressions.
“I beg your pardon, Ridge; I did not know that I talked very much about her.” There was a brief silence and then he continued: “Have a fresh cigar, old man.” Hugh took the cigar ungraciously, ashamed of his petulance.
By this time the early shades of night had begun to settle and the figures along the deck were growing faint in the shadows. Here and there sailors began to light the deck lamps; many of the passengers went below to avoid the coming chill. In her stateroom Grace was just writing: “For over a week we have been sailing under British colors, we good Americans, Hugh and I,—and I may add, Mr. Veath.”
Another turn down the promenade and back brought Ridgeway and Veath face to face with the old gentleman and the young lady, who were on the point of starting below. The Americans paused to let them pass, lifting their caps. The old gentleman, now eager and apparently
more interested in life and its accompaniments, touched the vizor of his cap in response, and the young lady smiled faintly as she drew her skirts aside and passed before him.
“Did you ever see a smile like that?” cried Hugh, as the couple disappeared from view.
“Thousands,” answered his companion. “They’re common as women themselves. Any woman has a pretty smile when she wants it.”
“You haven’t a grain of sentiment, confound you.”
“They don’t teach sentiment on the farm, and there’s where I began this unappreciative existence of mine. But I am able to think a lot sometimes.”
“That’s about all a fellow has to do on a farm, isn’t it?”
“That and die, I believe.”
“And get married?”
“Naturally, in order to think more. A man has to think for two after he’s married, you see.”
“Quite sarcastic that. You don’t think much of women, I fancy.”
“Not in the plural.”
Captain Shadburn was nearing them on the way from the chart-house, and the young men accosted him, Veath inquiring:
“Captain, who is the tall old gentleman you were talking to forward awhile ago?”
“That is Lord Huntingford, going over to straighten out some complications for the Crown. He is a diplomat of the first water.”
“Where are these complications, may I ask?”
“Oh, in China, I think. He is hurrying across as fast as possible. He leaves the ship at Hong Kong, and nobody knows just what his mission is; that’s between him and the prime minister, of course. But, good-evening, gentlemen. I have a game of cribbage after dinner with his Lordship.” The captain hurried below.
“A real live lord,” said Veath. “The first I’ve seen.”
“China,” Hugh repeated. “I hope we may get to know them.”
CHAPTER IX
MR. RIDGEWAY’S AMAZEMENT
At dinner Hugh was strangely exuberant, jesting gaily and exchanging rare witticisms with Veath, who also appeared immensely satisfied. As they left the saloon he said:
“Let’s take a turn on deck, Grace.”
“Won’t you include me?” asked Veath.
“Certainly,” answered Grace promptly.
“Be delighted,” echoed Hugh, swallowing as if it were an effort.
“I must get a wrap,” said Grace. “I won’t delay you more than five minutes.”
“I’ll get my overcoat and some cigars,” added Hugh.
“And I’ll write a short letter to post at Malta,” said Veath, and they separated.
A short while later, a steward passed Hugh’s stateroom, and he called to him to step to the next door and tell Miss Ridge that he was ready.
“Miss Ridge just went up with her gentleman—” the man responded; but Hugh interrupted, slamming the door. For several minutes he stood glaring at the upper corner of his berth; then he said something strong. Every vestige of his exuberance disappeared, his brow clouded and his heart seemed to swell painfully within its narrow confines.
As he was about to ascend the steps of the companionway, he heard the swish of skirts and then a sharp scream. In an instant he was half way up, his arms extended. Lord Huntingford’s daughter plunged into them, and he literally carried her to the foot. She was pale and trembling and he was flushed. He had looked up in time to see her falling forward, vainly striving to reach the hand rail.
“Are you hurt?” he asked anxiously. The young lady sat down upon the second step before answering, a delightful pink stealing over her face.
“I—I don’t believe I am,” she said. “My heel caught on a step and I fell. It was so clumsy of me. I might have been badly hurt if you had not caught me as you did.”
“These steps are so uncertain,” he said, scowling at them. “Somebody’ll get hurt here some day. But, really, are you quite sure you are, not hurt? Didn’t you twist your—your—”
“Ankle? Not in the least. See! I can stand on both of them. I am not hurt at all. Let me thank you,” she said, smiling into his eyes as she moved away.
“May I assist you?” he asked eagerly.
“Oh, no; I thank you, Mr. Veath. I would not have my preserver perform the office of a crutch. I am not hurt in the least. Good-afternoon.”
Hugh, disconcerted and piqued by her confusion of names, answered her wondrous smile with one that reflected bewildered admiration, and finally managed to send after her:
“I wouldn’t have lost the opportunity for the world.”
That evening he was sitting out on deck in contemplative silence enjoying his after-dinner smoke. Farther down were Grace and Veath. Suddenly turning in their direction, Hugh perceived that they were not there; nor were they anywhere in sight. He was pondering over their whereabouts, his eyes still on the vacant chairs, when a voice tender and musical assailed his ears—a voice which he had heard but once before.
“Good-evening, Mr. Veath.”
He wheeled about and found himself staring at the smiling face of the young lady who had fallen into his arms but a few hours before.
“Good-evening,” he stammered, amazed by her unexpected greeting. “Have—have you fully recovered from your fall?”
“I was quite over it in a moment or two. I wanted to ask you if you were hurt by the force with which I fell against you.” She stood with one hand upon the rail, quite close to him, the moonlight playing upon her upturned face. He never had seen a more perfect picture of airy grace and beauty in his life.
“Why mention an impossibility? You could not have hurt me in a fall ten times as great.”
His tall figure straightened and his eyes gleamed chivalrously. The young woman’s dark, mysterious eyes swept over him for a second, resting at last upon those which looked admiringly into them from above. She made a movement as if to pass on, gravely smiling a farewell.
“I beg your pardon,” he said hastily. “You called me Mr. Veath a moment ago. It may be of no consequence to you, yet I should like to tell you that my name is Ridge—Hugh Ridge.”
“It is my place to beg forgiveness. But I understood your name was Veath, and that you were—were”—here she smiled tantalizingly—”in love with the beautiful American, Miss Ridge.”
“The dev—dick—I mean, the mischief you did! Well, of all the fool conclusions I’ve ever heard, that is the worst. In love with my sister! Ho, ho!” He laughed rather too boisterously.
“But there is a Mr. Veath on board, is there not?—a friend?”
“A Mr. Henry Veath going into the American Revenue Service at Manila.”
“How stupid of me! However, I am positive that I was told it was Mr. Veath who was in love with Miss Ridge.”
“But he isn’t,” hastily cried Hugh, turning hot and cold by turns. “He’s just a friend. She—she is to marry another chap.” Here he gulped painfully. “But please don’t breathe it to a soul. She’d hate me forever. Can I trust you?” To himself, he was saying: “I am making a devil of a mess of this elopement.”
“This is a very large world, Mr. Ridge, and this voyage is a mere trifle in time. When we leave the ship we may be parting forever, so her secret would be safe, even though I shrieked it all over the East. You will return to America before long, I presume?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. We may stay a year or no.”
“Then the wedding is not a thing of the immediate future?”
“Oh, yes—that is, I mean, certainly not.”
“Pardon me for asking so many questions. It is very rude of me.” She said it so penitently that Hugh, unable to find words, could only wave his hands in deprecation. “Isn’t it a perfect evening?” she went on, turning to the sea. The light breeze blew the straying raven hair away from her temples, leaving the face clearly chiselled out of the night’s inkiness. Hugh’s heart thumped strangely as he noted her evident intention to remain on deck. She turned to him swiftly and he averted his eyes, but not quickly enough to prevent her seeing that he had been scr
utinizing her intently. What she may have intended to say was never uttered. Instead, she observed, a trifle coldly:
“I must bid you good-night, Mr. Ridge.”
“Pray, not yet,” he cried; “I was just about to ask if we might not sit in these chairs here for a little while. It is early and it is so charming tonight.” He looked into her eyes again and found that she was gazing searchingly into his. A light smile broke into life and she seemed to be satisfied with the momentary analysis of the man before her.
“It does seem silly to stay below on a night like this. Shall we sit here?” She indicated two vacant chairs well forward. The young lady scorned a steamer rug, so he sat beside her, conscious that, despite her charming presence, he was beginning to feel the air keenly. But he could not admit it to this slight Englishwoman.
For half an hour or more they sat there, finding conversation easy, strangely interesting to two persons who had nothing whatsoever in common. He was charmed, delighted with this vivacious girl. And yet something mournful seemed to shade the brilliant face now and then. It did not come and go, moreover, for the frank, open beauty was always the same; it was revealed to him only at intervals. Perhaps he saw it in her dark, tender eyes—he could not tell. He saw Henry Veath pacing the deck, smoking and—alone. Hugh’s heart swelled gladly and he spoke quite cheerily to Veath as that gentleman sauntered past.
“Now, that is Mr. Veath, isn’t it?” demanded his fair companion.
“Yes; do you think we should be mistaken for each other?”
“Oh, dear, no, now that I know you apart. You are utterly unlike, except in height. How broad he is! Hasn’t he a wonderful back?” she cried, admiring the tall, straight figure of the walker.
“He got that on the farm.”
“It is worth a farm to have shoulders like his, I should say. You must introduce Mr. Veath to me.”
Hugh looked at the moon very thoughtfully for a few moments and then, as if remembering, said that he would be happy to do so, and was sure that Veath would be even happier.
At this moment the tall, lank form of Lord Huntingford approached. He was peering intently at the people in the chairs as he passed them, plainly searching for some one.
The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack: 25 Classic Novels and Stories Page 172