“I’d chuck that woman overboard if she belonged to me,” Wheeler had said a moment ago to Gina Savoire; and when she asked, very wide-eyed: “Oh, but why? The poor lady!” he answered:
“She’s so suspicious—Bumpus can’t call his soul his own.”
“She is his wife,” Gina said reproachfully; and Wheeler answered that that didn’t give her the right to behave like the Spanish Inquisition. Gina sidled a little closer to him.
“Then your wife will have to be very—how do you call it?— tact-ful,” she said.
“She’ll have to trust me—if ever I have a wife,” he replied bluntly; and it was then that Rocky created a welcome diversion.
“Shall we walk?” Wheeler asked when she had gone. He would like to have followed Rocky to hear what the Purser had to say, but Gina was not easy to escape, though she obediently strolled beside him towards Clive and his sister.
Wheeler puzzled Gina as much as at one time he had puzzled Rocky; she would have said with a certain amount of truth that she understood all men and knew how to manage them, but this man was different, and with him her conventional little wiles had completely failed, which was probably why he attracted her. During the last day or two she had begun to realise that he was not so eager for her company as she had believed; he was restless when they were alone—a little absent-minded too, and then this morning, when she had certainly counted on his escort ashore, he had calmly departed with Rocky.
What with one thing and another she had begun to consider the voyage a disappointing one and to wish it was over. She was a queer, unhappy sort of creature, always hoping that the unattainable would fall into her lap and put her beyond reach of anxiety for the future. During a somewhat unsatisfactory career she had found it difficult to save money, and in spite of the care she took of her appearance she knew that she was no longer a young woman and that with advancing years her hope of Fame was receding.
Most of the flowers which had arrived with her on board she had sent to herself with various imaginary names written on their separate cards, and even that had not created quite the excitement for which she had hoped.
She had not been invited to sit at the Captain’s table, and neither had she been singled out for any special attention, and the omissions hurt her far more than she would admit even to herself. Her life was made up of small vanities and an eternal playing to the gallery which, now her first youth had passed, made her a little pathetic and ridiculous. Only that morning she had said to Mrs. Bingham with a sigh:
“I suppose some day I must marr-ry. I am just a leetle tired of excitement and so many admirers—sometimes I long to be like other girls—and to settle down.”
It was the last thing she really longed for, but to express the wish—even to a stewardess—gave a new fillip to her pride and self-confidence.
But she had not been so pleased when Mrs. Bingham had answered in her downright way, “Well, why don’t you find a husband? If you wait much longer it won’t be so easy.”
She had not meant to be unkind, but Gina had turned on her like a fury.
“Much longer? How old do you think I am?” And in her anger she had spoken quite good English. And then, as Mrs. Bingham had made a hurried exit, Gina picked up one of her high-heeled shoes and flung it violently at the closing door.
“Much longer indeed!” she said again tremulously, and she turned to the mirror to stare at her reflection with angry eyes.
The sunlight was streaming into the cabin, and sunlight was not too kind to Gina—and after a moment she rose, and dragged the curtains across the window, shutting it out; and then, to her own amazement, she burst into tears. It was not often she allowed herself the luxury of tears, and she checked them quite soon and lay down on her bed with a cold-water bandage across her eyes, comforting herself with the thought that Mrs. Bingham was only an ignorant woman and did not understand life, or those who were famous.
Later, when she met Wheeler on deck, she had done her utmost to be bright and amusing, but it had been uphill work, and the sight of Rocky’s flushed young face as she flew by on her way to the Purser’s office had turned the knife once more in her heart.
To be young! That was all that mattered—to stand at the threshold of life instead of half-way through its corridors; there was something infinitely pathetic in her heavily made-up eyes as she stared out over the desert and wondered what would happen to her when she could no longer obtain even the second-rate engagements which she was already obliged to accept.
She had been rather intrigued by Sir John Stannard when they first met, and she utterly failed to understand why he should spend so much time with Miss Esther, whom she considered to be both old-fashioned and dowdy.
She saw them standing together now, looking at the sunset, and she saw Sir John smile down at Miss Esther—a kindly protecting smile for which she herself would have given a great deal.
But when Constance suddenly said, “You’re looking very smart this morning, Mademoiselle,” Gina’s old radiance quickly returned, and tears and sadness were at once relegated to the background.
“And you too!” she said graciously.
Clive laughed. “Hand each other a bouquet,” he said, and his eyes searched the deck anxiously for Rocky to return.
He felt that he had behaved foolishly to show jealousy of Wheeler: it was obvious that the fellow did not really care for women; besides, Wheeler wasn’t Rocky’s sort—he was too serious; she liked someone younger, livelier! Like Gina Savoire, he was trying hard to reassure himself. And then Rocky returned; she was not running this time, but her face was a little flushed, and when she was still some distance from the group she called out in her confident, imperious way:
“Mr. Wheeler! … I want to speak to you.”
Clive paled a little and bit his lip as Wheeler turned to walk towards her—without the slighest hurry, confound the fellow, Clive thought savagely—he might at least have shown some sort of eagerness when she had singled him out in such a marked way.
“I’ve got something to tell you,” Rocky said.
“Yes?” They began to walk away together, and it was a moment before Rocky said:
“I’ve got my money back.”
“That’s good news.”
Wheeler’s voice was quite impartial, and she threw an impatient glance at him.
“You don’t sound very pleased about it,” she said.
“Don’t I? I am pleased, of course. What happened?”
“It was the same man who was in Miss Esther’s cabin—they haven’t told me much about him—only that he had intended leaving the ship here. The Purser said I was very lucky—and that if Miss Esther hadn’t caught him, there wouldn’t have been any hope of getting the money back. The police searched his cabin.”
There was a little silence before Wheeler said:
“I hope this time you have done the sensible thing and left the money in the Purser’s care?”
“Oh yes.” She looked away from him, screwing up her eyes against the bright sunset tints. “So I shan’t want you to help me after all,” she added.
“I shouldn’t be too sure of that,” Wheeler answered.
“It almost sounds as if you hope I shall,” she said.
“Perhaps I do,” he agreed. “Money is not an absolute guarantee of safety, you know.”
They had reached the end of the promenade deck and stopped.
“You don’t seem as excited as I should have expected you to be,” Wheeler said; and she answered:
“I’m rather sorry for the poor man, though the Purser says he’s just an ordinary thief—the police have got him now and I suppose he’ll be sent to prison.”
“I sincerely hope so,” Wheeler said calmly.
She flung him a swift glance.
“You haven’t any pity for—people like him, have you?” she said painfully.
“Not the slightest,” he answered; and then, struck by her silence, he asked: “What are you thinking about? I know there
is something troubling you.” And Rocky answered:
“I was thinking that it might have been me.”
“Nonsense,” Wheeler said sharply; but she went on:
“You don’t know what I might have done—that morning in Paris—if that money hadn’t come—addressed to me. I should have had to live, somehow——”
“But not by dishonesty,” Wheeler said.
She drew a long breath.
“What could I have done?” she asked. “I’m not clever; I should have tried to get work or something, of course—but it wouldn’t have been easy— you know that! And besides, I might never have got away as I did, and then-—”
“They could not have touched you,” Wheeler answered. “You were not present when—” He stopped; and Rocky said quickly:
“You mean when—Louis was killed?”
“Yes.”
“But you were there,” she said in a whisper.
“Yes.”
Her eyes dilated.
“What—happened?” she asked; but Wheeler shook his head.
“It won’t do any good if I tell you, and it’s best forgotten. What about a swim before dinner? The water in the pool is quite clean.”
Rocky did not answer; but after a moment she said thoughtfully, “I wish I knew where that money came from. Who sent it to me, I mean.”
“It must have been a friend,” Wheeler answered. “Someone who knew—or guessed—that you would not find things too easy—and who wanted to help—” And then with deliberate cheerfulness, “What about that swim? It will wash the bogies away. I’ll go and change.”
“All right,” she said with a sigh; and then a little shyly: “Thank you, Mr. Wheeler.”
“Thank you?” he echoed, smiling.
“For being kind,” she said; and then, with something of her old candour: “You know, I think I really like you very much, after all.”
“But not well enough to marry me?” he asked. But she would not answer that.
“I’ll go and change,” she said, and hurried away.
Wheeler hurried too, but, quick as he was, Rocky was at the bathing pool before him, sitting on its edge swinging her bare feet and calmly smoking a cigarette.
“We’ve got it all to ourselves,” she called to him. “Everyone else is admiring the view.” She lowered herself to the water so that her toes touched it. “Ugh, it’s quite warm,” she said, and hauled her slight figure back again.
Wheeler stood on the opposite side of the bath and looked across at her. She made an attractive little figure in her saucy bathing cap, and with the cigarette between her lips.
“She looks as if she hadn’t a care in the world,” he thought. Very different from the tragic little figure in its gaudy evening gown whose frightened way he had barred that night many months ago in Paris. She had looked so much older then and more sophisticated, although she had appealed to him strangely because of her evident helplessness and because of the terrible position in which he knew she must be placed. In retrospection he saw it all again—the hot, brilliantly lit room to which he had half reluctantly consented to go with another man; could hear the sudden cry of “Cheat” in an English voice which had broken the tense silence, and then …
“A penny for your thoughts,” Rocky said suddenly, and Wheeler started.
“Nothing—at least … you are looking very sweet this evening, Rocky.”
He never knew what made him say it—the words were uttered before he was aware of them, and immediately the embarrassed colour darkened his face. Rocky flushed too, and laughed, and then suddenly she sprang to her feet.
“I’ll race you to the end of the bath,” she cried, and dived in. Rocky was quite at home in the water, but this evening she dived badly, her foot slipping on the wet marble edge of the bath so that she half fell, twisting her shoulder in a vain effort to recover.
She gave a little stifled cry as she disappeared rather ungracefully beneath the water, and in a flash Wheeler was after her.
They came up together, Rocky spluttering and trying to laugh.
“I slipped—no, I’m all right, thank you—I sort of twisted my shoulder, but it’s nothing.” She put out one hand to clutch the rope which hung all around the bath, rubbing her shoulder with her free hand.
“I slipped,” she said again. “It must have been the shock of your compliment.” She turned a wet, laughing face to him, and he suddenly bent forward and kissed her lips.
There was a breathless second of complete silence, broken by the voice of Mr. Bumpus, who made a sudden appearance on top of the steps.
“Hullo, you two! … Any room for a little ’un?”
He was a queer, clumsy figure in his bathing dress, as, without waiting for a reply, he climbed down into the water, looking rather like an old porpoise, blowing his cheeks out as he slowly swam towards them.
“Well, thank goodness he came,” Rocky thought, but she knew she did not really mean it; she knew that at that moment she was nearer to disliking Mr. Bumpus than she had believed possible.
She stayed in the water for some time, but Wheeler kept away from her, until, feeling a little tired and conscious of her aching shoulder, she clambered out and went down to her cabin to dress.
The ship was still in the Canal, but now she had other more important things to think about. Wheeler had kissed her. …
Louis had kissed her often—but always on her cheek, and then she had only allowed it because she was sorry for him, and this was something quite different.
“It’s the first time I’ve been kissed in a swimming-pool, anyway,” she told herself humorously, and knew that her heart was still beating fast with a strange sort of happiness which was yet half pain.
Why had he kissed her? Just because he thought, as he had said, that she looked sweet? Or because she had twisted her shoulder and he was afraid she might be seriously hurt? Or because, although he would not admit it, he loved her—just a little?
The thought of meeting him again made her tremble, and yet she knew that nowadays kisses were lightly given and as lightly taken. But she chose her prettiest evening frock—the one that had almost been spoilt the night she spilt the orange-squash—and she took extra pains with the arrangement of her hair and fastened a tiny imitation pearl clip into its thick waves.
But it looked a little too much like Gina, she thought, as she criticised her reflection in the mirror, so she took it out again and went down to dinner quite early, hoping to be there before Wheeler arrived. The Bumpuses were at their table, and Sir John Stannard, and as Rocky took her seat the melancholy Edith arrived, looking for once decidedly cheerful.
“Had a good day?” Rocky asked.
“Very good. I met a friend on shore—an old sweetheart.”
“But how thrilling,” Rocky said.
“Yes.” Edith was inclined to be communicative, although the meeting had been anything but exciting. “It was in a restaurant— he saw me across the room and recognised me, though it must be quite four years since we met.”
“Four years isn’t very long,” Rocky said tactlessly, and then her heart began to thump again as she saw Wheeler crossing the saloon to his table.
“I won’t look at him,” she decidedly firmly; and she picked up the menu card with a great show of interest. “What is Consommé de Volaille Royale?” she asked airily, but Edith was so engrossed with her story to answer.
“He’s not married,” she said. “And he has a job with the Canal people out here. He was frightfully interested when he heard I live in New Zealand, and he says he may come out there for a holiday on his next leave. Of course I gave him my address.”
“Of course,” Rocky agreed; and without intending to do so, she looked at Wheeler.
He was looking at her too, and there was just the same softened expression in his eyes as there had been when he said that evening: “You are looking very sweet, Rocky.”
And Rocky drew a quick breath and smiled with a sudden feeling of glorious happine
ss, because somehow—after all—she could not believe he was the kind of man who would just kiss a girl— any girl—because at the moment she happened to look rather attractive.
“What can I order for you, Miss?” the steward asked; and Rocky answered:
“Anything; I don’t mind,” because at the moment she didn’t mind about anything except that softened look in Richard Wheeler’s eyes.
And then Clive appeared.
“I saw you in the swimming-pool,” he said reproachfully.
“Oh,” Rocky flushed, wondering how much he had seen. “Why didn’t you come in?” she asked. “The water was a bit warm, but it was fun.”
“I thought I might be de trop” he answered with dignity, forgetting all his good resolutions.
And then Miss Esther came hurrying in, a little flushed and bothered-looking, for Miss Pawson had chosen to feel aggrieved because she had been left so much to herself. “I might die for all you care,” she reproached her sister—and so Miss Esther had promised to spend the rest of the evening reading to her.
Not a very happy prospect when there was so much to see on deck; still, she reminded herself that she must not be selfish and that she had spent a wonderful day.
When Constance appeared she explained that she had changed her mind about not wearing a fancy costume for the ball tomorrow, and that she had been making one.
“When you go to Rome it’s as well to do as the Romans do,” she said.
“We’re not going to Rome,” her brother reminded her aggravatingly.
“Well, you know what I mean,” she retorted. “Don’t be tire-some.
“What is the dress?” Rocky asked; but apparently it was to be a secret.
“What are you going to wear, young ’un?” Clive asked; but Rocky said that hers also was to be a secret.
“Bought on board or made on board?” Edith asked, a little melancholy again now she had lost her audience.
“Bought on board, I’m afraid,” Rocky admitted. “I’m not clever enough to make one.
Her spirits were damped a little when Clive presently announced that there would be no dancing tonight. “Because we’re in the Canal, I suppose,” Edith conjectured.
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