People said that you grew to love furniture and household gods, but this evening she realised with a sense of guilt that it was not true as far as she was concerned, and that often she had paused before the shop windows and had looked wistfully at chintz curtains and painted wardrobes, and the bare freshness of a modern bedroom!
Ungrateful of her, of course, when she had so much to be thankful for—a home, and enough to live on—much more than many unmarried women possessed.
Sir John touched her arm.
“Shall we go out on deck?”
“Oh yes.” But she thought guiltily of Caroline lying sleepless in her darkened cabin. “I suppose I ought to go down and sit with her,” she told herself. “But—just for this once,” and she went out on deck with Sir John.
Rocky danced up to them.
“The champagne was lovely—we all enjoyed it very much.” She looked at Miss Esther. “Wasn’t it good?” she asked.
“I enjoyed it too,” Miss Esther admitted. “Have you been dancing?”
“Yes; we’ve chosen all the tunes ourselves so far: the conductor is such a lamb—he doesn’t mind what he plays,” and off she went again.
“What it is to be young,” Miss Esther said, and there was an unconscious shade of regret in her quiet voice, and Sir John answered:
“There is a very true saying, ‘We who have found it good to be young, shall find it good to be old.’ Do you agree with that?”
She did not answer at once, for she could not very well tell him that she could not truthfully say she had ever found it good to be young, so she said instead:
“I suppose you have had a wonderful life?”
“In some ways,” he admitted. “I have seen the world and I have had as much—perhaps more—experience than most men; but there is one thing in which I must admit that I have not been clever.”
She looked up at him.
“What is that?”
And he answered: “I have never managed to secure companionship—or, I should say, the lasting companionship of one person. You know”—he threw the half-smoked cigar overboard—“most of us never notice or realise what loneliness means until we are no longer very young. I never married—and, in spite of what the modern cynic is so fond of saying about and against marriage, I have grown to believe that it is the finest institution in the world.”
“But—some marriages are so—unhappy,” Miss Esther said.
“And some businesses fail while others succeed,” he reminded her. “It all depends how they are handled, and with what degree of determination and unselfishness.”
She did not know what to answer, but she would like to have said:
“But supposing nobody ever—asks you to marry him?” and suddenly it became difficult to remember the face of the curate who had with so slight a cause been the one romance of her life, so that she found herself trying in vain to recall even his smile or why he had so attracted her. She did not like to admit that it was probably because she had known so few men—hardly any—for her parents had held the old-fashioned idea that daughters must be safeguarded at all costs and kept away from masculine society.
In her simple way she felt that she would have liked to tell Sir John about the curate—only there was so little to tell. Wheeler came strolling along the deck and paused beside them, and Miss Esther stifled a sigh and tried to smile a welcome.
“I hear that your sister is ill,” he said.
“Not really ill,” Miss Esther answered. “She has just caught a chill. I think it must be the sudden change into the hot weather; she left off her coat last night when we were sitting on deck.”
“Suppose we sit down,” Sir John said. He drew up some chairs, and Miss Esther found herself sitting between the two men, and then at once realised with a thrill that such a thing had never happened to her before, that as a rule she sat a little apart with Caroline, or with other women of her own age, knitting or reading a book.
The band was playing again, and she caught a glimpse of Rocky whirling by in the arms of a tall young man with red hair. Rocky was laughing, her head thrown back as she looked up into her partner’s face, and Miss Esther smiled in sympathy.
“How she does enjoy life,” she said happily.
“Who?” Wheeler asked lazily.
“Rocky,” she explained. His eyes followed the girl’s slim figure, and he frowned. Rocky had deliberately avoided him since the moment when she had scattered his cigarettes to the four winds.
“Little devil,” he told himself.
Miss Esther laughed suddenly.
“Look at her now,” she said. “I believe she’s going to insist that Mr. Bumpus dances with her—oh, poor Mr. Bumpus, he looks like a scared schoolboy.”
Rocky was tugging at Mr. Bumpus’s resisting hand, trying to drag him forward, and they heard her say: “Of course you can dance, you never know what you can do till you try.” And presently she had whirled him into the throng of dancers.
Sir John laughed, and leaned forward to watch them. Poor Mr. Bumpus was very red in the face and looked rather as if he might be going to have a fit; he was clutching Rocky tightly to him and capering about like a baby elephant.
“As long as he doesn’t land on her feet,” Sir John said.
But in a moment or two the band mercifully stopped playing and Rocky leaned against the wall breathless and laughing.
“But that was splendid,” they heard her say. “Only you mustn’t hold me quite so tightly—you’ll find it easier if you don’t.”
“It’s the first time I’ve danced for twenty years or more,” Mr. Bumpus gasped, mopping his face.
“It evidently won’t be the last time,” Wheeler said grimly.
Miss Esther glanced at him.
“Don’t you like Rocky?” she asked impulsively, and then flushed at her own daring.
“Of course he likes her,” Sir John said calmly. “We all adore her. The ship never came to life till she rushed up the gangway at Toulon.”
“And promptly proceeded to drop everything she was carrying,” Wheeler said dryly.
Sir John glanced at him.
“That sounds almost symbolical,” he said.
Wheeler raised his eyes.
“Symbolical?”
“Yes—perhaps of most people who go aboard ship. I have noticed that so many of us deliberately leave the past behind and become something quite different. For instance, I have travelled with men—and with women, too—who at home are the dullest, most unimaginative people, but once on board—” He stopped; and Wheeler said ironically:
“Perhaps it’s a case of ‘once aboard the lugger and the girl is mine,’ or words to that effect.” And his eyes turned again to Rocky. Clive Durham was with her now, and she had just presented him with a diminutive mirror to hold in position for her while she delicately powdered her nose. Sir John chuckled, and then, quite suddenly, Wheeler rose to his feet and crossed the deck to her.
“May I have this dance?”
Clive scowled, but Wheeler looked undisturbed.
“I’m sorry—I’ve promised Clive,” Rocky answered.
“I see; well, perhaps the next,” Wheeler said casually, and walked away.
Clive stared after him.
“That’s the darndest coolest beggar I’ve ever met,” he said. “I suppose he took it for granted you’d chuck me for him.”
“Well, I didn’t,” Rocky said; but she had lost colour a little. “And I shan’t dance any more tonight after this—I’m tired.”
“Tired?” He looked down at her disbelievingly. “I’ve never heard you say that before,” he objected.
“I’m glad I’ve made an original remark,” she answered; she smiled at Miss Esther as they passed, but she did not speak again, and when next the band stopped playing she gathered up her wrap and the Chinese bag which Wheeler had given her from the chair where they had been lying.
“I’m going to bed,” she announced.
“But it’s not eleven ye
t,” Clive objected, with keen disappointment.
“I’m tired,” she said again, a little irritably. “Perhaps it’s the champagne. I’m not used to such luxuries. No, don’t come down with me. Good night. Happy dreams.”
From a distance, Wheeler saw her go, and knew that she was deliberately avoiding dancing with him, and, as she disappeared, he turned and went down the aft staircase, thinking to come face to face with her on the deck below.
But she was too quick for him, and the long passage which he knew led to her cabin was empty when he reached it.
He waited a moment and was turning away with a shrug of his shoulders when suddenly he heard her footsteps—funny how he always recognised them—and her voice calling his name:
“Mr. Wheeler.”
She ran towards him, breathless and pale. “Someone has been in my cabin.”
His face changed. “Been in your cabin? What do you mean?”
“Been in my cabin,” she echoed in a scared voice. “I left my money locked in a suitcase—and it’s been broken open.”
“Are you sure?”
She nodded, her lips trembling.
“And has the money gone?” he asked.
“Yes.” Her eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. “Come and see—the lock’s been smashed.” She bit her lip hard trying to steady it.
He went back with her to the door. The suitcase lay on the floor, its lid open, the contents in disorder.
“It was all there,” she said. “Everything I’ve got—and it’s gone. Oh, I can’t believe it.” Her voice was a tragedy.
Wheeler said almost angrily: “But you’re warned to put money and valuables in the Purser’s charge—there are notices everywhere.”
“I know.”
He looked at her, the more angry with her because she was so like a child in her distress.
“But I didn’t,” she said voicelessly. “I thought it would be safe —locked up. I thought it would be safe.”
Wheeler took a step forward, bending over the open case.
The lock had obviously been forced, and around it there were scratches evidently made by some sharp implement.
“How much money had you?” he asked; and Rocky answered hopelessly:
“Eighty pounds.”
“Eighty pounds? And you left it here? It was madness.”
She just looked at him, too stunned to speak. “It was sheer madness,” he said again angrily.
Rocky covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.
There was a moment of profound silence before Wheeler asked: “How long is it since you were in the cabin? Have you been down since dinner? And was everything all right then?”
Rocky took her hands away from her tear-drenched face and looked at him. “I came down just after dinner—the suitcase was under my bed then.” Her eyes dilated. “Oh, you don’t think I’ve just made it all up?” she appealed in horror. “You don’t believe that I never had the money?”
“Good heavens, no” Wheeler answered almost violently, but he turned towards the door. “You’d better stay here. I’m going to find the Purser.”
When he had gone, Rocky tried to check her tears, but it was not easy. She could not really believe that this thing had happened—any more than she could understand now why she had been so unutterably foolish as to keep the money in her cabin.
Eighty pounds! All she had in the world. She felt numbed with shock. What would she do if the money was not recovered? What would become of her? It had never occurred to her that such things could happen on board ship; she felt as if the whole world in which she had been so happy had crumbled about her.
It seemed an eternity before she heard Wheeler’s returning footsteps. He had brought the Assistant Purser with him; and to Rocky’s overstrung imagination both men looked at her with faint suspicion as she answered questions and repeated what she had already told to Wheeler.
“I had eighty pounds. I know I should not have kept the money here, but I thought it was safe enough. I never dreamed that anyone on board ship would steal it from me.”
The Assistant Purser smiled dryly.
“We cannot guarantee all our passengers,” he said. He bent over the forced case. “Was this locked?” he asked.
“Yes—I had the key with me in my evening bag.”
She looked from one man to the other anxiously.
“Do you think there is any hope that I shall get it back?” she asked. “It’s all the money I have in the world.”
Nobody answered for a moment, and then the Purser said:
“I sincerely hope that we may discover who is the thief. There is nobody you suspect, I suppose?”
“Oh no.”
“Well——” He looked at Wheeler. “It will be better not to speak about what has happened,” he said. “If you will just leave it to me for the present——”
“And what am I to do?” Rocky asked.
He smiled sympathetically.
“If you had put the money in our charge it would never have happened,” he reminded her. “There are notices all over the ship —passengers are warned.” He turned on his heel. “I am very sorry —more sorry than I can say—but I am afraid you have only yourself to blame. However, we must hope for the best.” He waited a moment, looking a little uncomfortable, then he said, “Good night —I’ll do what I can,” and he had gone.
Rocky stared at Wheeler.
“And is that—all he means to do?” she asked blankly.
Wheeler frowned.
“What can he do? It is not possible to search everyone’s cabin, or even to question the passengers. I am certain it was not one of the crew or a steward.”
“And what am I to do?” Rocky asked again faintly, and she put out a hand to steady herself against a chair-back.
“The best thing you can do at the moment,” Wheeler answered sensibly, “is to come upstairs and let me give you a stiff brandy. Nothing can be done tonight, and we must hope that tomorrow we shall hear something.”
“But it’s all the money I have in the world!” she said again in despair.
“I know—I’m very sorry.” He did not repeat the obvious thing that she had only herself to blame. “Come and have that brandy, and then you’ll feel better.”
He shoved the battered suitcase out of sight. “Come along,” he said coaxingly. “It’s no use staying here.”
But she still hesitated. “I don’t want to go in the smoking-room —there’ll be lots of people there.”
“Not now—it’s too late. Come along, there’s a good child.”
Rocky cast one glance in the mirror.
“Do I look as if I’ve been crying?” she asked hopelessly.
“I’m afraid—yes, you do,” he admitted. “But—if you stick some powder on—I’ll wait outside for you.”
It was only a moment before she joined him, and he noticed with a sense of deep pity that all her gay inconsequence seemed to have deserted her—that she looked very pale and, in a pathetic way, much older.
He touched her arm. “Cheer up—it may not be so bad as we think. Of course, there’s a thief on board. It’s not the first time I’ve had the same experience, although not with such a large sum of money. Once, when I was on my way to America, my watch was taken—but I got it back—they caught the fellow red-handed helping himself to someone else’s property.”
“A passenger?” Rocky asked blankly.
Wheeler nodded. “Oh yes,” He smiled at her. “You see, thieves have as much right to travel as we have; that’s why so many precautions are taken.”
They went up to the smoking-room, and to Rocky’s relief it was almost deserted.
“Just in time, Sir,” the steward said smiling. “We’re just closing.”
“Two double brandies,” Wheeler said.
“Not a double for me,” Rocky protested; but he ignored her. They sat down at a corner table, Rocky leaning back, her hands tearing nervously at her handkerchief.
It was like a
bad dream, she thought, only she knew well enough that it was a bad dream from which she would not awaken.
The steward brought the brandy, and Rocky made a great effort to rouse herself. “I am so sorry to have been such a trouble to you,” she said; and Wheeler answered kindly:
“I am only too sorry it has happened.”
The silence fell again until Rocky said tremulously:
“And supposing I don’t get the money back?”
“Didn’t you say you had friends in Colombo?” he asked.
“Yes—I did.” She pushed the bright hair back from her forehead with a trembling hand. “But it wasn’t the truth,” she added with the calmness of despair. “I don’t know anyone in Colombo at all.”
Wheeler’s mouth hardened a little and he avoided looking at her. “That certainly rather complicates matters,” he said; and then, as she did not speak: “Then what was the idea in coming out? What did you intend to do?”
“I just came for—the voyage—to get away from—things.”
She spoke very quietly and expressionlessly as if she no longer cared what he might think; and after the slightest pause he asked just as quietly: “What things?”
The thin little handkerchief suddenly ripped under Rocky’s agitated fingers.
“Well—my life—and—and my father.” She looked at him defiantly. “Wilfred Chandler is my father,” she said.
“I knew that,” he answered; and then: “You’re not drinking your brandy.”
She raised the glass, just sipping its contents, and put it down again; and presently Wheeler said: “Is there anything else you would like to tell me?”
Rocky laughed mirthlessly.
“Do you think you would believe me—or understand?” she asked.
“I’ll try to,” he answered.
“You won’t be able to,” she said dully. “I don’t think anyone could; sometimes I think myself—it all sounds like a story—as if I’ve made it up. Sometimes—especially since I’ve been in this ship —I’ve suddenly thought that if people—Clive and other people— knew what I’ve gone through, they wouldn’t want to speak to me at all—and yet … it isn’t my fault—not really.”
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