Return Journey

by Ruby M. Ayres

  “Is it? What is your reason, then?”

  “Well”—she glanced up at him a trifle impatiently—”well, I suppose I dance for the fun of it—because I love the music and dancing with people I like.”

  “Then you cannot be enjoying this dance particularly,” he said.

  Rocky’s hand half fell from his shoulder, and then she resisted the petulant impulse.

  “I suppose there is some deeply hidden meaning in those words,” she said gaily, “but, if so, it is beyond my poor intellect to understand what it can be.”

  “I meant that, as you dislike me so much, you cannot possibly enjoy dancing with me,” he explained.

  “I never said I disliked you; at least—well, if I did I apologised, and I hoped you’d forgotten.”

  “Do you think apologies are ever sincere?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said quickly. “At least mine was. I was sorry that you heard what I said to Clive, but I meant it at the time or I shouldn’t have said it.”

  “I should not have thought you would change your opinions so quickly.”

  Rocky sighed.

  “You’re very difficult,” she said, and then, “Why did you ask me to dance if you meant to lecture me all the time?”

  “I thought you looked as if you would like to dance. You were tapping the deck with your feet and keeping time to the music.”

  “I always do that,” she said breezily. “Music seems to go to my head—or my feet—or both, perhaps.” There was a little silence before she added, “Anyway, thank you for taking pity on me. I did not know I looked so much like a wall flower.”

  Wheeler laughed.

  “That is the very last description I should ever think of applying to you,” he told her.

  “I’m glad,” Rocky said. “I always feel so sorry for wall flowers, poor things! it must be dreadful to feel that nobody wants to dance with you.”

  “There are plenty on board,” he answered calmly.

  “I know.” Her eyes went quickly round the crowded deck, and then she said impulsively, “Would you like to do something very kind?”

  “That depends,” he answered cautiously.

  “It’s nothing so very terrible,” she, apologised. “It’s just—if— well, you need only do it once—but if you would ask Miss Esther to dance!”

  Wheeler’s handsome eyes opened wide.

  “You mean the old lady in the grey frock?”

  “She’s not so old,” Rocky objected. “If that sister of hers wouldn’t bully her so, she’d be perfectly sweet, but I’m sure Miss Caroline chooses all her clothes for her and makes her screw her hair up in those frightful plaits. It’s too bad—and it ought to be stopped.”

  “Are you going to stop it?” he asked in amusement.

  “I’m going to try” Rocky answered, and then, “Will you ask her? Just once.”

  “Must I?”

  Rocky frowned. “Why should it be such a hardship?” she demanded. “All the middle-aged men dance with the girls—and it’s just the same thing.”

  “It isn’t.”

  “Why not? I don’t think it’s fair; but then, of course, I suppose men can do as they like no matter how old they are, and it’s only the women who have to take a back seat.”

  “How long have you championed the cause of your own sex?”

  “Always” she said firmly. “At least——”

  “Go on,” he urged.

  Rocky shook her head.

  “You wouldn’t understand—no man does, but I do think it’s unfair that men never seem to think they are too old to do anything they want to do, but women are too old as soon as their hair begins to get grey, or they are not so slim as they used to be—or— well, you know what I mean.” The music stopped, and her hand fell from his shoulder. “If ever I have a son——” she said impulsively, and then, realising that as usual her sweetly shrill voice was making itself heard, she flushed and laughed in embarrassment. “Well, thank you for the dance,” she said.

  “Is that a dismissal?” he asked, “or shall we walk a little?”

  “If you care to.”

  She walked beside him out of the range of lights to the dimness of the promenade deck, humming a little snatch of song beneath her breath.

  She pointed suddenly seawards. “There’s a ship.”

  They stood still looking out into the darkness where a mast-light hung like a star low down on the horizon.

  “It looks lonely,” Rocky said.

  “And yet I expect on board there is a band and dancing,” Wheeler answered. “And perhaps someone else is looking across at us and saying, just as you have said, ‘It looks lonely!’ ”

  “It shows how little anybody knows about anybody else,” Rocky said thoughtfully.

  She leaned her slim arms on the ship’s rail.

  “Supposing I fell overboard?” she said cheerfully. “Would you dive in after me?”

  “Certainly not,” he answered calmly. “If you did anything so silly I should imagine that you wished to die, and therefore it would be decidedly discourteous of me to attempt to thwart your wishes.”

  Rocky chuckled.

  “What a grand speech!”

  They stood in silence while the distant light grew fainter and fainter, and then suddenly Rocky turned her head. “Why do you look at me like that?” she asked.

  “Mustn’t I look at you?”

  “Not with the policeman look.”

  “Some policemen are exceedingly good fellows,” he told her.

  “It all depends what you’ve been up to,” she answered airily.

  “What have you been up to?” Wheeler asked.

  She stood upright facing him.

  “I know you would like me to say, ‘All the sins that ever came out of China,’ ” she mocked him, “but it wouldn’t be the truth. You see—I’ve never done any harm to anyone—at least not intentionally.” And then the soft lines of her face hardened a little. “But I’d like to do harm to some people,” she added intensely.

  “Me?” he asked.

  Her eyes came back to his face.

  “No,” she said, “not you. You see——” and then impulsively she held out a hand to him. “Let’s be friends, Mr. Wheeler, shall we?”

  He looked down at the inviting little hand and then up to her eyes.

  “You don’t want to be friends with me,” he said.

  She answered him hurriedly. “I do—at least…”

  It was funny how long a silence could last, she thought vaguely; funny that it could last so long that it seemed as if nothing could ever break it again, while you counted the seconds by your heart beats and your mind searched round in the darkness for an answer to some unspoken question.

  And then quite suddenly Wheeler said:

  “You’re missing all the dancing; shall we go back?”

  She moved quickly. “Oh yes, of course.”

  “There is no need to run,” he said.

  Rocky slackened speed; she felt a little breathless as if she had been battling against a storm.

  “And will you ask Miss Esther to dance?” she said as they drew nearer to the circle of light round the band.

  “If it will give you any pleasure,” Wheeler answered.

  She laughed then, not very mirthfully.

  “As if you care whether it gives me any pleasure or not!” she said scornfully; and then, catching sight of Clive Durham, she smiled and waved her hand to him.

  “Do you care to dance?” he asked rather stiffly.

  “I should adore it,” she answered.

  “What has Wheeler been talking about?” Clive asked as he swept her away.

  “Nothing,” she answered.

  He looked down at her suspiciously.

  “Do you like him any better?” he demanded.

  “I don’t like him in the very least,” Rocky said firmly, but for some entirely inexplicable reason she felt like tears.

  Chapter

  6

  R
ocky’s first small mishap occurred that same evening, when she tipped a glass of orange squash down the front of her white frock. She realised afterwards that Gina Savoire was really to blame for suddenly firing a string of questions at her about Paris. The dancing was over, and they were grouped in a corner of the smoking-room. (”You may notice,” so the elder Miss Pawson acidly remarked to her sister, “that your friend Rocky never by any chance sits in the lounge with the rest of us.”)

  Sir John was there, and the two Durhams, and Wheeler, as well as the Frenchwoman, and the conversation had been general until Gina suddenly turned to Rocky and asked where she had lived in Paris.

  Rocky changed colour.

  “I wasn’t there very long—only a few months—and not always at the same address. You see—well, we were not always at the same address.”

  “You were in an hotel—yes?” Gina persisted.

  Rocky nodded. “Yes—for part of the time—and then in a flat— but I forget the name. I was never any good at French.”

  And then suddenly she had found Wheeler’s eyes upon her, and the next thing that happened was that the glass of orange squash was trickling gaily into her lap and down the skirt of her new white frock.

  “Some people do have clumsy children,” Clive said cheerfully, as he groped for a handkerchief, and Sir John called to the steward.

  “Your pr-pretty frock,” Gina squealed in her high staccato voice. Rocky started to her feet.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she declared, grateful for the interruption. “It’s nice and cool anyway. I’ll just rush down and change,” and she had gone before anyone could stop her.

  She met her stewardess at the cabin door and explained breathlessly ; “Look what’s happened! Yes, I did it myself. Do you think it will come out if I put it in cold water at once?”

  The woman followed her into the cabin, and Rocky wriggled out the frock, letting it fall in a little ring round her feet.

  “It’s only orange squash,” she said, “and that won’t stain, will it?” She stooped to pick up an end of the flowing sash. “I expect it will spoil this, though,” she said regretfully.

  The stewardess took it from her, and carried it over to the washbasin.

  “Cold water will be best,” she said practically. Rocky stood watching her, a slim little figure in her short petticoat.

  “I can’t think how it happened,” she said ruefully.

  “There are worse troubles at sea,” was the answer.

  Rocky sighed. “Yes, I suppose there are.” And then, with a bright idea, “Have you ever been in a bad accident at sea—a shipwreck or anything exciting like that?”

  “I was during the war—but it wasn’t so exciting.” She glanced up at the girl with a wry little smile. “You won’t remember the war, of course; but I am not likely to forget it. I was in a hospital ship then, and we were torpedoed—but you don’t want to hear about it, I’m sure.”

  Rocky did want to hear, very much, but she hardly liked to press the question.

  “Do you like being in a ship?” she asked presently.

  “It’s as good as most jobs,” the stewardess answered. “You see something of the world, and you meet all sorts of people.”

  “That must be fun,” Rocky said. “Lots of nice people too, I expect.”

  “And some of the other sort,” Mrs. Bingham answered. Rocky had discovered from a little notice on the cabin wall that the stewardess’s name was Mrs. Bingham and the steward’s name Robinson.

  “Nasty people?” Rocky enquired interestedly.

  “Not too nice,” Mrs. Bingham agreed. “Some give so much trouble—I don’t mean young ladies like you: you’re no trouble at all.” Rocky almost said that she had always been used to waiting on herself, but she was not sure whether it would be quite dignified.

  “Who gives you the most trouble in this ship?” she asked.

  Mrs. Bingham shrugged her shoulders. “Well, that French lady —Mademoiselle Savoire, isn’t too considerate,” she said a little reluctantly. “I never knew a bell ring so often as hers does.” She sniffed eloquently. “Most actresses are like that,” she added. “I suppose it’s part and parcel of being an actress.”

  “She’s really rather nice,” Rocky ventured.

  “Is she? You’re not the only one who seems to think so, Miss,” Mrs. Bingham answered meaningly.

  Rocky’s eyes brightened. “You mean—I suppose you mean that she’s got an admirer. Do tell me who it is?”

  Mrs. Bingham glanced towards the door to make sure it was closed. “That Mr. Wheeler,” she said in an undertone.

  “Mr.—Wheeler?”

  “Yes. Not that it’s my business to talk about the passengers— but you can’t help seeing things.”

  “Of course not,” Rocky agreed in a small voice.

  Richard Wheeler? She felt as if someone had shaken her.

  Mrs. Bingham laughed.

  “I always say that some day I shall write a book,” she said. “I could write twenty books—if I could write at all. Talk about life! You see enough of it between London and Australia.”

  “It must be very interesting,” Rocky said; she shivered, and Mrs. Bingham said at once:

  “You’ll take cold standing there without your frock. Haven’t you got a dressing-gown?”

  Rocky took one down from a peg in the wardrobe and slipped her arms into it.

  “Not that it’s much warmer with my evening frock on than it is without it,” she said. She sat down on the side of the bed.

  “There!” Mrs. Bingham said presently. “I think it’s all out, and you’ll find there won’t be any mark left. If we hang it up somewhere in the cool tonight, I’ll press it out for you in the morning, and none the worse, I think.” She held the little frock at arm’s length, eyeing it critically.

  “Thank you,” Rocky said gratefully, and then, “I suppose I may as well go to bed now, it’s past eleven.”

  “That’s early,” Mrs. Bingham answered. “Not that I hold with such late hours.” Her little eloquent sniff was repeated. “Mademoiselle Savoire told me this morning that it was past one before she came down to bed.”

  “And—was she on deck—all that time—with Mr. Wheeler?” Rocky asked, and then wished she had not.

  “She didn’t tell me that,” Mrs. Bingham said; and then, her trained reticence giving way, she added: “What he can see in her I’m blessed if I know. But there! Some gentlemen seem to like that sort, don’t they?”

  “I know they do,” Rocky agreed, and perhaps it was unconsciously that she raised her eyes to the opposite mirror, contrasting her own rather pale face with the bright complexion and heavily darkened eyes of the Frenchwoman.

  Did men like women to make up so much?

  Someone tapped softly on the closed door and Clive’s voice asked, “Are you there, Rocky?”

  “Yes.”

  “Aren’t you coming back?” “I’m going to bed.”

  “Oh.” He sounded disappointed. “What about the frock?”

  “I think it will be all right.”

  “That’s good—well, good night.”

  “Good night.”

  She listened to his departing footsteps and sighed again. Perhaps eleven o’clock was a little early to go to bed.

  Suddenly she sprang to her feet, and, opening the door, called after him: “Clive!”

  He turned quickly.

  “I’ve changed my mind. I shan’t go to bed yet. Wait for me and I’ll get into another frock.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  It was only a few minutes before she joined him.

  “Are you always so quick?” he asked.

  “Always—you see, I’m so afraid of missing something if I dawdle about.”

  They both laughed.

  “Has everyone gone to bed?” she asked.

  “No—Mademoiselle and Wheeler are walking up and down the deck—at least, they were when I came down, but Sir John is there still and your little old lady in grey
.”

  “Miss Esther?”

  “Yes. I believe she was sent to bed by the Dragon, but she evidently sneaked out to see what was going on.”

  “Good for her,” Rocky said warmly.

  “Are you trying to start a revolution on board?” he asked, in amusement; but instead of answering, Rocky said irrelevantly:

  “Do you like Mademoiselle?”

  “She’s all right—she’s amusing, but I’m rather tired of her blue pyjamas,” he laughed. “I believe she’s got her weather eye on Sir John.”

  Rocky said quickly: “That won’t be any use.” And then, in hurried explanation: “I mean, he’s too much a man of the world.”

  “To be caught,” Clive added for her.

  Rocky nodded and laughed. “All the cats seem to be out,” she sighed.

  “You’re not so catty,” he protested.

  “I am sometimes,” she admitted. “You don’t know me properly yet.”

  He slowed his steps a little as they neared the companionway.

  “We get to Naples tomorrow, Rocky.”

  “I know.”

  “Will you come on shore with me?”

  “I should love to.”

  “Ever been there before?”

  “No—but I suppose you have?”

  “Oh—yes, it will be great, showing you round. We’ll take a car and do it properly, shall we?”

  “Yes, on one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That I pay my own whack,” she said firmly.

  “I invited you,” he protested.

  “I know,” she agreed. “But I’d rather pay for myself, if you don’t mind. I should have to if I went alone.”

  “You’re not going alone.”

  She broke into a little run along the deck in order to end the argument.

  “Race you to the end!”

  She won easily, only saving herself by a mighty effort from falling into the arms of Wheeler, who came strolling round the corner with Gina beside him.

  “Oh! … Sorry!” Rocky gasped breathlessly.

  Clive joined them.

  “You cheated,” he accused her. “You started before the ‘all right.’”

  “I could have beaten you, anyway,” she declared.

  “And your pretty frock?” Gina asked.

  “Oh, it will be all right, I think,” Rocky answered. “The stewardess washed the stain out for me and she thinks it will be all right, too. I can’t think how I was so clumsy.” And then once again she met Wheeler’s eyes, and a little gleam of defiance suddenly lit her own. “Now I’ll race you to the end of the deck,” she challenged him.