Her dance was a repetition of her first dance for the crew of the Ellice—a wild, gypsy-like movement; yet there was a difference.
Her steps were the same, there was the same grace of form and motion, but something had changed. She did not lose herself in the dance; she moved carefully and correctly, but the old abandonment to the joy of rhythm was lacking. Was it, Mark wondered, the heat, or was it—possibly—the result of his statement on the beach, his assertion that her audience watched her body, not her dance? She was trying desperately hard; everything was there but the spirit.
Nevertheless, her audience approved; she bowed and gave her usual encore. Mark tore his eyes reluctantly from the lure of her lithe body, and watched the faces of the sailors about him.
Like automatons, he saw their eyes shift in unison as they followed her. Like puppets moved by the same string, their eyes moved right, left, up, down, at the girl's movements. And what he saw in their faces angered him. They had no right to be watching Vanya like that —the agile grace of her body, the curves of her slender figure, the black sheen of silk on her slim legs! No right! And he'd see to it!
Vanya bowed, forced a wan smile, and retired to the dressing room with just a weary glance at Mark. Loring came back to the table with a shout for Hong and a drink. He slipped into the chair with a mutter of dissatisfaction at Hong's slowness.
"What's Vanya doing?" queried Mark.
"Resting. That dance of hers is real work."
"I don't see how she stands it."
"Nor I," said Loring. "These slender girls have an inconceivable amount of vitality."
"She seemed tired."
"She did. I hardly thought she'd be able to finish."
"Lord!" groaned Mark. "I'm going in to see her."
"Let her rest," suggested Loring, but Mark had already departed. He rapped on the door beyond the piano; the other girls were among the guests; Vanya must be alone. He entered at the faint, "Come in!" Vanya was lying back in a canvas steamer chair, still in her dancing costume, with closed eyes. She opened them as Mark entered.
"Mark!" she gasped.
"Keep still!" he ordered, glancing about the room. On another chair he spied the tattered vagabond costume she had worn before in her second dance. "Do you expect to dance again tonight?"
"Of course, Mark. I must."
"But you're not going to."
"Please, Mark! Let's not argue."
"You're not going to dance! Tonight, and then again tomorrow night—"
"There won't be any tomorrow night. The Caroline sails at noon, with the tide."
"It makes no difference, Vanya! You're not dancing again tonight. It isn't only the heat! It's that avid crowd out there, ogling you dressed like this—" He indicated the long curves of her legs. "I won't have it, and I'm not—"
"All right, Mark! All right!" cut in the girl desperately. "I'll sing instead! Will that satisfy you?"
"It'll have to," growled Mark. "All the same, I don't like that crowd of scum gaping at you. I'll get out now, and you change."
"Silly!" Vanya smiled, though somewhat wearily. "Do you think (change costumes between each number? That dress comes quite to the floor; I slip it on over this."
"Then I'll stay until you go on." He tossed the costume of tatters to another chair and sat down, drawing his chair beside her.
"I can't help it, Tanya!" he continued. "The sight of those faces, with their eyes following every, move you made—I wanted to punch their leering mouths! The grinning apes!"
"Isn't it strange that it didn't bother you last time I danced?"
"But it did! I was too wrapped up in watching you myself to know it."
"But, Mark, there will be other ships in. You can't act like this every time—I've got to live, you I know."
"Not by dancing!"
"But I must!"
"Not at all! I've an idea—I wanted to talk to you about it tonight. A very simple and reasonable solution."
"Mark, honey," said Vanya, "would you mind telling me about it tomorrow? I'd like to turn in as I soon as I'm through here. I can't think tonight—kiss me, and let it rest till tomorrow." Just as their lips met, Loring rapped his summons on the door.
CHAPTER XXVII
A REFUSAL
"Was Shene furious?" asked Mark as he and Tanya stood on the point watching the Caroline weigh anchor. A light breeze had cooled the parched air, whipping the girl's dress about her; she looked, Mark thought, like a lovely child of twelve.
"Why should he be? Every one was satisfied, or I hope so, anyway. And I'm glad you made me sing, Mark. I felt on the verge of collapse."
"You looked it. They'll have to be satisfied with less in the future." "Mark," said the girl, turning to him with a serious expression. "Why are you so suddenly opposed to my dancing?"
"I told you why. I won't have you exposed to the gaze of eager scum like that"—he indicated the Caroline, just rounding the point.
"But it's my living, Mark."
"No longer, however."
"Mark," said Vanya softly, "how do you think I'll manage to live when we reach the States? Or haven't you thought?"
"That's different, to dance before a cultured group."
"How do you know my dancing has merit enough for that?" asked Vanya. "Even if it has, do you think I can step off the ship into the ballet of—whatever you call your opera—the Metropolitan?"
"Vanya, truly I hadn't thought of that."
"And if I should, by some miracle, manage to be placed in your—those revues—Follies or Scandals, does every person who buys a ticket for those belong to a cultured group, and pay to see an artistic performance, and watch the dance instead of the dancer?"
Mark groaned inwardly; the picture Vanya drew disturbed him somehow, and he sought ingenuously for some means to counter.
"Vanya, when we reach the States, I'll manage in one way or another to see that you're decently placed. I have friends there, and some influence; and there are many quiet, artistic groups of dancers in the country."
"Our bargain ends at the docks, Mark. You made that stipulation yourself."
"But I want to do it, Vanya."
"And I won't accept it! However, Mark, there's so much fuel to burn before we reach the States. Why quarrel about it now? Tell me about the idea you said you had last night."
"Of course," said Mark. "I wonder that I didn't think of it before. It's simple; you're to leave Shene's employ at once, and stay at the Helmet as my guest; or, for that matter, in Nukualofa or Taulanga, if you'd rather. It's only a short time now before we can leave."
The girl stared at him in apparent amazement.
"Mark, do you really believe I'll agree to that?" she asked.
'Why shouldn't you?"
"Do you think I'll take help from you as long as I can pay my way?"
"But dear, I offer it gladly. I'm not going to suffer any more seeing you devoured by the eyes of South Sea scum like those out there." He gestured toward the receding Caroline, now hull-down over the horizon.
"Then you'll just have to look away when I dance."
"But Vanya, why won't you do it? Is it asking very much? '
"Too much, at any rate; I simply can't do it!"
"But dear, can't you see my view-point? I don't like to think of you appearing in that dive, dressed— like that! And I don't believe you like it either—not if you've told me the truth of your attitude toward dancing."
She shook her head silently, decidedly.
"Or do you like it?" Mark continued, his patience worn thin. "Do you like to prance half naked before those grinning monkeys? Do you enjoy their ogling? Are you like a spoiled child with an exhibition complex?"
"Mark, I can't accept your offer," she said with a tone of finality, ignoring his angry outburst.
"But you'll accept passage to America; you'll take help in that!"
"And I'm paying for it—dearly!"
"Vanya," he said, choking back his temper, "you're being a stubborn fool!"<
br />
"And you're being a brute — crude, coarse, and without a spark of understanding! You're like the old Mark Talbot!"
"That you thought so fine and noble! Well, you're like the old Vanya!"
"That you thought so depraved and vile and unworthy! Thank you, indeed!"
"You're a headstrong mule!"
"And you're a stupid jackass!"
"Vanya!—" Mark sputtered, his anger rendering him almost speechless. He glared at the girl with clenched fists, and she returned his gaze. They stood for a long moment staring their rage into each, other's eyes.
Then, gradually, the flush receded from Mark's cheeks; a faint hint of a smile twitched the corners of his mouth, and his eyes softened.
"Honey, we're acting like a pair of children."
"You are! You're acting like a good many more than a pair!" Vanya was still angry.
Mark laid his hand gently on her bare brown arm.
"In the first place, dear," he said, "how often do ships drop anchor in the Cove at this season?"
"Seldom enough ; three or four the whole dry season."
"There!" he said triumphantly. "The chances are a hundred to one that no more ships will visit the place in the few days we have left to stay. Why quarrel about such improbabilities?"
“Because you like to quarrel, apparently."
"Don't you see, dear? The odds are that you won't be called on to dance while we're here. You'll have nothing to lose by promising that you won't, and I'll waive the guest part of the offer if you'll promise I me that."
"On the same argument, you'll have nothing to lose if I don't promise."
Mark was forced to laugh in sheer exasperation. He slipped his arms around the girl, regardless of the forgotten Loring under his tree on the far side of the cove.
"Kiss me, Vanya!" he whispered.
She yielded willingly; he pressed his lips to hers; they were warm; vibrant, responsive, and indescribably sweet.
"Promise?" he murmured as he withdrew his lips.
"No, dear."
"Then kiss me again!"
"Not again," she shook her head gravely. “If I do, I'll promise what you ask, and I'd only have to break that promise."
"Then I could just keep on kissing you."
"No, Mark! Don't—don't start all over again."
Mark shrugged; the argument began to seem trivial, for it was quite true that the probabilities were strongly against the early appearance of another ship. The quick succession of the Ellice and the Caroline was a rare occurrence.
"You win, then," he said. "A graceful surrender!"
"I'm amazed," said Vanya, smiling. "Honey, may I go do my mending?—and without you; I can't work with you near me.”
"I'll visit Loring," chuckled Mark.
"I'd as soon visit a nest of hornets!" said the girl as they moved toward the beach. "At least their stings are in their tails instead of their tongues."
Mark watched her disappear into the hotel. His anger had vanished completely as he turned to Loring.
"Comrade," cried that worthy, "you come at an opportune moment! I've figured out a way to earn that quart!"
"I ought to tell you to mind your own business," said Mark.
"And I," answered Loring, "should be duly insulted, and explain that I have only your interests at heart. But I can tell you why you're afraid to believe Vanya's story, which, by the way, you never told me."
"I'm not afraid!"
"You are, and here's why: because your self-picture, the way you think of yourself in your secret thoughts, is much like mine—a gentleman. Though perhaps we mean different things by the word."
"I don't follow."
"Well, if her story's true, have you played the gentleman? Have you lived up to your own secret ideals of yourself —if it's true? Emphatically not, and that's why you dare not believe it!"
"Loring," burst forth Mark, with a few savage paces, "your services will earn you a solid kick rather than a quart of Shene's poison! I don't want psychological ways—I want proofs.”
"Proofs? You're wilfully blind. I don't even know her story, yet can prove it's truth."
"I'd like to see you!"
CHAPTER XXVIII
"Vanya's manner, then. Is it the manner of a hussy? Or her French —or, for that matter, her English?" asked Loring.
"There are French islands in the South Seas, and Singapore's an English city. I've met sailors fluent in a dozen tongues. Every nation has colonies in the Pacific."
"And did your sailors," queried Loring, "speak the King's English, and vary their chanteys with excerpts, in Parisian French, from 'Samson and Delilah'?"
"Loring," said Mark half enviously, "you should have been the attorney instead of me. You can weave a convincing chain of evidence out of air and dreams."
"Neither air nor dreams enter into this chain. I'm not to be fooled on the points I mention."
"The whole trouble with your admirable defense," said Mark, "is this: You're defending against the wrong charge. It doesn't matter whether the story of her origin is true or false—not any more. One doesn't expect any woman to be entirely truthful. It's quite a different point that's the really vital element."
"Probably some more difficulties from your curious American standards,” said Loring dryly.
"What is the trouble?"
"It's that damned proposal I made her in a misguided moment, and that she accepted!"
"I know nothing about your proposal," said Loring, "except that the lady's acceptance lost me a quart bottle, which I am endeavoring, by honest efforts, to recover. But I can imagine extenuating circumstances."
"Extenuating circumstances! For that? I'm sure I can't."
"No," said Loring judiciously, "I begin to realize that you couldn't." "After all, there are such words as decency, purity, self-respect, and honor."
"All of which words," put in Loring, "mean one thing to a woman and another to a man, and—much more to the point—mean one thing in New England and another in Paris."
"They have only the New England meaning to me."
"And that's not necessarily the right one. And even if your meanings are correct, aren't you being unnecessarily harsh in your interpretations? Are you so sure of your judgments?"
"I can't see how facts can be questioned."
"Isn't it possible," pursued Loring, "for a person to be so situated, so miserable, that any escape at all seems preferable? Can't you imagine that person driven to extremities not usually desirable?"
Mark shook his head.
"Well, perhaps such things don't happen in New England," said Loring sardonically. "I'm sure they do in Old England, which is very nearly as civilized!"
He dug his bare brown toes into the sand, and turned suddenly to Mark with a grin.
"Have I earned my quart?" he queried.
"Of course—though as a matter of fact, I haven't doubted Vanya's story for several days. The other point's the troublesome one."
"Then I haven't really earned it," mourned Loring. "Well, here's some additional food for thought, then. I told you once that I'd never tried to approach Vanya, for a reason. Did you ever wonder what the reason was?"
"No," said Mark thoughtfully. "No; I never did."
"It's because—and this is strange, coming from me—because I happen to respect her."
"I'll say it's strange! I've gathered that you respected nobody and nothing."
"Yet it's true. There was a time when we were—friends. Don't flare up--I mean just friends. When she first came here, though now she never speaks to me."
"I've noticed that!"
"She was different—less solemn, less hopeless. She was spirited, the sort of spirit she retained until you killed it somehow."
"Spirit! You mean temper!"
"Call it what you please. But she used to talk to me, much as you do. She even tried to waken me to effort, to going back to England—in a word, to reform me."
"So I told her. But I let her try, and cadged drinks f
rom her when I could."
"Ethical idea, I must say—on Shene's wages!"
"She knew what I was doing. What I'm trying to prove is that she had ideals then; even Singapore hadn't broken them. It took Tongatabu—and you!"
"What good are ideals, unless you live by them?"
"Do you live by yours?" queried Loring.
"I'm a man."
"And therefore excused. Well, New England morals may be, and probably are, the highest the world, but—"
"But what?"
"But the rules are too inflexible, harsh, and cruel. You can't live by them."
"I do!" snapped Mark.
"All you do is blame others for failing."
"I won't argue. What about you, and Vanya?"
"Oh, what finally finished our friendship was this. I cough a bit during the rains—harmless but nasty—and last season I convinced her I needed medicine, and she gave me money to buy it. I did, too; but not the kind she thought."
"That was a scurvy trick! I don't blame her for cutting you."
"Blame her! It does her credit," said Loring with his cynical smile. Mark made no reply. Ho was thinking of the Vanya Loring had known, cheerful, hopeful, happy. He knew her spirit; it had flamed out at him a half hour ago, there on the reef. Yet she had grown meeker, more submissive, ever since the night he had forced his kisses on her. I "Comrade," said Loring, watching him," you were bred a prig but you weren't born one. You've some imagination—not much, but sufficient if carefully nurtured. Use it."
"To the devil with you!" snapped Mark. "If I've too little imagination, you've too much, and one can never be sure how much embroidery you stitch around your stories! And at that, you haven't answered the one thing that has troubled me!"
"Because I can't conceive of that thing troubling me. That's where our natures part company, and I can't advise you where I lack understanding, can I?"
"But what am I going to do about it? What am I to do about the infernal mess?"
"Ah!" said Loring. "That's for you to figure out."
TURTLES
"I didn't mind the drinks I paid for. I didn't even mind that medicine fraud," said Vanya, kicking a bit of coral rock from the tip of the point. "Loring couldn't have told you my real reason for disliking him, because he doesn't know."
The Lost Master - The Collected Works Page 101