TheTempest Queencarried a merry cargo. The young officers, the Americans and rich pleasure seekers from other lands--young and old--made up a happy company. Of all on board, but one was despised and loathed by his fellow-travellers--Lord Huntingford. Not so much for his manner toward them as for his harsh, bitter attitude toward his young wife.
He reprimanded and criticised her openly, very much as he would have spoken to a child, and always undeservedly. She endured patiently, to all appearances, and her cloud of humiliation was swept away by the knowledge that her new friends saw the injustice of his attacks. She did not pose before them as a martyr; but they could see the subdued and angry pride and the checked rebellion, for the mask of submission was thin, even though it was dutiful.
The two young women, unlike as two women could be, became fast friends. The Englishwoman was refinement, sweetness, even royalty itself; the American, proud, equally refined, aggressive and possessed of a wit, shrewdness and spontaneity of humor that often amazed the less subtle of the two. Tinges of jealousy sometimes shot into Grace's heart when she saw Hugh talking to the new friend, but they disappeared with the recollection of her Ladyship's pure, gentle nobility of character. It is seen rarely by one woman in another.
And Veath? The stalwart, fresh-hearted, lean-faced Indianian was happier than he had dreamed he could be when he drearily went aboard a ship at New York with the shadow of exile upon him. He had won the friendship of all. The brain of the Westerner was as big as his heart, and it had been filled with the things which make men valuable to the world. Men called him the "real American," and women conveyed a world of meaning in the simple, earnest expression--"I like Mr. Veath."
Veath was now unmistakably in love with Grace Vernon. The fact was borne in upon him more and more positively as the sunny days and beautiful nights drew them nearer to the journey's end. Occasionally he lapsed into strange fits of dejection. These came when he stopped to ponder over certain prospects, hopes and the stores of life. At times he cursed the fate which had cast him into the world, big and strong, yet apparently helpless. It had not been his ambition to begin life in the capacity which now presented itself. His hopes had been limitless. Poverty had made his mind a treasure; but poverty had also kept it buried. He saw before him the long fight for opportunity, position, honor; but he was not the sort to quail. The victory would be glorious when he thought what it might bring to him from Grace Ridge--she who was going to be a missionary. A long, hard fight, indeed, from revenue officer to minister plenipotentiary, but it was ambition's war.
And Hugh? As the days went by, his jealousy of Veath became almost intolerable. He dared not speak to Grace about it, for something told him she was not to be censured. Even in his blind rage he remembered that she was good and true, and was daring all for his sake. In calmer moments he could not blame Veath, who believed the young lady to be sister, and not sweetheart.
In view of his misery, Mr. Ridgeway was growing thin, morose, and subject to long fits of despondency which Grace alone could comprehend. Both were dissatisfied with the trip. That they could not be together constantly, as they had expected, caused them hours of misery. They were praying for the twenty-third of May to come, praying with all their hearts. Beside whom did Hugh walk during the deck strolls and at Port Said? With his sister? No, indeed; that would have been unnatural. Who was Grace's natural companion? Henry Veath or any one of a dozen attractive young officers. How could it have been otherwise?
She was popular and in constant demand. There were not many young women aboard and certainly but two or three attractive ones. From morning till far in the night she was besieged by men--always men. They ignored Hugh with all the indifference that falls to the lot of a brother. Time after time they actually pounced upon the couple and dragged her away without so much as "By your leave." They danced with her, sang with her, walked with her and openly tried to make love to her, all before the blazing eyes of one Hugh Ridgeway. On more than one occasion he had gone without his dinner because some presumptuous officer unceremoniously usurped his seat at table, grinning amiably when Hugh appeared.
The sweet, dear little moments of privacy that Hugh and Grace obtained, however, were morsels of joy which were now becoming more precious than the fondest dreams of the wedded state to come. They coveted these moments with a greediness that was almost sinful.
On many nights Grace would whisper to Hugh at the dinner table and would creep quietly on deck, meal half finished, where he would join her like a thief. Then they would hide from interruption as long as possible.
One night they enjoyed themselves more unrestrainedly than ever before in their lives. They were walking self-consciously and almost guiltily near the forward end of the deck-house when they saw Veath approaching far behind. Their speed accelerated, and for half an hour they walked like pedestrians in a racing match, always keeping some distance ahead of poor Veath, who finally, like the sly fox, sat down and waited for them to hurry around and come upon him unexpectedly. He, of course, never knew that they were trying to avoid him, nor could he imagine why brother and sister were so flushed, happy and excited when he at last had the pleasure of joining them in their walk. And, strange to say, although they had been wildly happy in this little love chase, they felt that they had mistreated a very good fellow and were saying as much to each other when they almost bumped into him.
Womanly perception told Grace that Veath's regard for her was beginning to assume a form quite beyond that of ordinary friendship. She intuitively felt that he was beginning to love her. Perhaps he was already in love, and was releasing those helpless little signs which a woman understands, and which a man thinks he conceals impenetrably. TheQueenwas leaving Port Said and she was leaning on the rail beside the big Indianian.
"Why are you going out to be a missionary?" he suddenly asked. Then he flushed painfully, remembering when too late that he had sworn to Hugh that he would not speak to her of the matter. "I beg your pardon," he hurried on; "I promised--that is, I should not have asked you that question. I forgot, hang my stupidity."
"Mr. Veath, I am not going out to be a missionary. Nothing was ever farther from my mind," she said, rather excitedly.
"Not going to be a--why, Hugh said you were. There I go, giving him away again."
"Hugh was jesting. I a missionary! How could you have believed him?"
"Are you in earnest?" he cried.
"Of course I am in earnest," she said, trying to look straight in those bright eyes, but failing dismally. Something in his glance dazzled her. It was then that she knew the truth as well as if his mind were an open book.
"Why are you going to the Philippines?" he persisted.
She gave him a quick, frightened glance and as hastily looked away. The red of confusion rushed to her cheeks, her brow, her neck. What answer could she give?
"We are--are just taking the trip for pleasure," she stammered. "Hugh and I took a sudden notion to go to Manila and--and--well, we are going, that's all."
"You don't mean to say you are making this as a pleasure trip?" he asked, staring at her with a different light in his eyes.
"A mere whim, you know," she hurried on. "Look at those Arabs over there."
"But a pleasure trip of this kind must be awfully expensive, isn't it?" he insisted.
She hesitated for an instant and then said boldly: "You see, Mr. Veath, Hugh and I are very rich. It may not sound well for me to say it, but we have much more money than we know how to spend. The cost of this voyage is a mere trifle. Please do not think that I am boasting. It is the miserable truth." His face was very pale when she dared to look up at it again, and his gaze was far off at sea.
"And so you are very rich," he mused aloud. "I thought you were quite poor, because missionaries are seldom overburdened with riches, according to tradition, or the gospel, or something like that. This is a pleasure trip!" The bitterness of his tone could not be hidden.
"I am sorry if you have had an idol shattered," she said.
"Something has been shattered," he said, smiling. "I don't know very much about idols," he added. "How long do you expect to remain in Manila?"
"But a very short time," she said simply.
"And I shall have to stay there for years, I suppose," he returned slowly. His eyes came to hers for a second and then went back to the stretch of water like a flash. That brief glance troubled her greatly. Her heart trembled with pity for the man beside her, even though speculation wrought the emotion.
In her stateroom that night she lay, dry-eyed and wakeful, her inward cry being: "It is a crime to have wounded this innocent man. Why must he be made to suffer?"
She could not tell Hugh of her discovery, for she knew that he would be unreasonable, perhaps do or say something which would make the wound more painful. During the days that followed Veath was as pleasant, as genial, as gallant as before; none but Grace observed the faint change in his manner. She was sure she could distinguish a change, yet at times, when he was gayest, she thrilled with the hope that her belief was the outgrowth of a conceit which she was beginning for the first time to know she possessed. Then came the belief again and the belief was stronger than the doubt. She could not be mistaken.
In the meantime an unexpected complication forced itself upon Hugh Ridgeway. Perforce he had been thrown more or less constantly into the society of that charming creature, Lady Huntingford. Not that the young rakes in uniform were content to pass her by, but because she plainly preferred the young American. It had not occurred to Mr. Ridgeway that his Lordship might be expected, with reasonable propriety, to unmask a jealous streak in addition to other disagreeable traits. The British subalterns probably knew the temper of the old diplomat's mind, which, in a degree, explains their readiness to forgo the pleasure of a mild flirtation with her Ladyship. Hugh, feeling like a despised pariah, naturally turned to her in his banishment. She was his friend, his one beacon of light in the dark sea of unhappiness.
Others noticed it; but Hugh was blind to the scowl which never left the face of Lord Huntingford in these days. The old nobleman knew full well that his wife loathed and detested him--just as the whole ship knew it; his pride rankled and writhed with the fear that she was finding more than friendship to enjoy in her daily intercourse with the good-looking Mr. Ridge. Gradually it became noticeable that he was watching her every act with spiteful eyes, and more than one observer winked softly at his neighbor, and shook his head with a meaning unmistakable.
The clash came one night in the Red Sea, just before the ship reached Aden. Hugh, reviling himself and the whole world, had been compelled to stand by and see Lieutenant Gilmore, a dashing Irishman, drag the unwilling Miss Ridge off for a waltz. Her protestations had been of no avail; Gilmore was abominable enough to say that she had no right to stow herself away with a stupid old brother when there were so many "real nice chaps on board." And this in Hugh's presence, too! And he could not resent it! Alone and miserable the pariah sent his unspoken, bitter lamentation to the stars as he stood in savage loneliness far aft, listening to the strains of waltz music.
"'Pon my soul! Of all the assinine idiots, bar none, the enlightened inspirer of this glorious voyage certainly ranks supreme! And I didn't have brains enough to foresee that this would surely happen! Brains? Faugh! Chump!"
Hugh might have apostrophized himself in this fashion until dawn had not a harsh, rasping voice from out of the semi-darkness broken in on his doleful revery.
"Pardon me, sir, do you play cribbage?"
Hugh turned half about and faced the speaker. He could hardly believe his ears, his eyes. Was it possible that the haughty Lord Huntingford had fixed upon him as the next lamb to be fleeced? Ugly stories concerning the government emissary's continuous winnings, disastrous losses of the young subalterns inveigled into gambling through fear of his official displeasure, were not unknown to Hugh. A civil declination was on his lips; but keenly searching the shrivelled face leering into his own, Hugh saw written there something that compelled consideration, challenged a refusal. Promptly and in affirmative speech he reversed his intention.
Slowly the left hand of Lord Huntingford produced from behind his back an exquisitely carved ebony cribbage-board; and assuming the position of host, indicated with exaggerated courtesy and a wave of his free hand the way to the smoking-room.
Hugh, following him along the deck, was hastily reviewing the voyage; and failing to recall any previous occasion wherein the nobleman had addressed him his sense of perplexity increased. Was there some hidden purpose, some crafty machination lurking behind the elaborated manner with which the invitation was delivered? On the other hand, perhaps, his imagination was playing him a trick, and this selection of an adversary was merely accidental.
And yet, had he but known, it was his own absorbing jealousy of Veath that precluded the recognition of a like sentiment directed against him, even surpassing in intensity its owner's lust for gain at play.
The smoking-room was empty, which, to the younger man, appeared as rather extraordinary, and served to augment his supposition that such a condition was presupposed. This, in turn, was dimissed, for he remembered that the usual occupants were either dancing or looking on.
Taking the initiative, as if such a course was incumbent, Lord Huntingford placed his cribbage-board on a table and drew up chairs for both; with equal politeness the proffered seat was accepted, Hugh registering inwardly a determination to force high stakes, and, if possible, recoup the losses of the young officers. Not for an instant did he doubt his ability to detect the slightest irregularities in the count of his discredited opponent.
"Sovereign a point?"
"Done! Five, if you like!"
This answer from the young American caused an avaricious glint to leap into the other's eyes. Plainly, two master passions fought for supremacy: an inordinate greed for money and a choleric determination to prohibit any further attentions to his wife. The struggle was brief, for the vehemence of his enmity, triumphant, the hope of immediate emolument was sacrificed, and the rooking of the young man postponed to some future occasion. Then, subtly concealing his purpose, he nodded an ambiguous acceptance.
Cards were ordered. A steward fetched them and awaited further commands.
Lord Huntingford strangely distrait, it seemed to Hugh, considering the amount at stake, shuffled the pack and offered them for the cut. This conventional operation performed and his Lordship successful, he dealt the hands, at the same time giving the steward a sharp order to leave. The man's reception of his dismissal was so insolent that it attracted Hugh's attention. Looking up, to his surprise, he recognized his room steward.
"With whom have I the pleasure of playing?" came suddenly from Lord Huntingford.
"Ridgeway, Hugh--"
Quick as the thought in the mind preceding it, inevitably connected, the name escaped unwittingly from his lips; for with the discovery of the steward's identity there flashed like a bolt from the blue an appalling recollection! Exposed to view on the table in his stateroom were valuable documents addressed to him by his banker, which he had forgotten to replace in his dispatch-box!
"Eh? What's that? What name?" The interrogation, icily formal, told nothing; but upon its answer hinged limitless consequences.
Hugh was in a dilemma. Should he correct himself, or rely on the slip passing unobserved? The peculiar expression on the steward's face returned to him; and he wondered if the knowledge of his adopting an incognito had been elicited from the garrulous servant, and the Englishman about to take advantage of it? Reddening with anger as much against himself as against the cynical old aristocrat, who was cornering him cavalierly, he decided to brave exposure:
"Ridge! H.B. Ridge is my name, Lord Huntingford!"
There was a reckless disregard of possibilities in the eyes that fastened themselves on the face of the nobleman for a clue, some enlightenment as to the impression produced; but all in vain. The shrewd, small eyes answered the scrutiny impassively, and without as much as the flicker of an eyelid. Taking one of the little ivory pegs, he stuck it in the starting hole at the end of the cribbage-board. Unconsciously, while waiting for the mental move which would determine his future address, Hugh following the other's lead, picked up one and pegged. Then to his infinite relief Lord Huntingford apparently allowed the correction, accepted the alias.
"Ridge!" he pronounced with malicious uncertainty. "Ridge! I am acquainted with the English Ridges;" and the sneer in the voice increased. "Do I understand you to pretend that you are one of that distinguished family?"
Hugh clenched his lips and his blood boiled at the treatment.
"I am an American, Lord Huntingford," spoken easily, his pride showing only by a perceptible lift of the head; "and my ancestors were not Tories in the Revolution. Relationship, if any, would be--er--distant. I claim none."
"A trifle strained," admitted his Lordship, laughing disagreeably.
At that moment the band could be heard in the distance playing the strains of a waltz; also the voices of the couples who were promenading and passing the open door. To Hugh's amazement, Lord Huntingford, obviously heedless of his peculiar action, recommenced shuffling the stack of cards, though the dealt hands remained untouched on the table. Instinctively, Hugh was convinced that no play was intended. There was something on the mind of the wily old diplomat far more momentous than a mere game of cards; yet no chance had been given to him to penetrate into the other's motives.
It was not long forthcoming.
Suddenly, clear as a bell, Hugh distinguished the laughter of Lady Huntingford, and involuntarily he smiled. This seemed to enrage his Lordship. Hatred and menace shone from his eyes as he glanced at the man opposite him. With an oath he rose, walked to the door and closed it. Then ruthlessly laying aside the last vestige of his assumed courtliness, he picked up his stick from the table, leaned far over, shook it in Hugh's face, and became an irascible, shouting old man.
"Look here, young man--Ridge--Ridgeway--or whatever your blasted name--do you think I'll allow you to carry on an affair with my wife--my wife, sir?" he vociferated. "Henceforth, I forbid you to speak to her! Do you hear me?"
It was debatable whether Hugh was more astonished at the mention of Lady Huntingford's name in connection with his own, or at the stick in dangerously close proximity to his countenance. It was some time before he could find words; but his face from red went white.
"And if I decline?"
There was that in the low tone that should have warned the aggressor from further insult; but forgetting that the swaggering domination he had been accustomed to exercising over his own countrymen, officially his inferiors, would not for a moment be tolerated by one of another nationality, he again broke out:
"You bounder! Yankee upstart! I'll thrash you, and then have the captain put you on shore at the first port--you infernal impostor!"
In an instant Hugh was over the table. He tore the stick from Lord Huntingford's hand and clutched his throat, forcing him down on the seat cushions. With the exception of the younger man's hard breathing and some gasps from the other, the struggle was noiseless. Not until Lord Huntingford was growing black in the face did Hugh come to his senses. Then releasing one hand from the throat, he pinned him with the other and a knee.
"You old scoundrel!" Hugh began, jerking out the scathing words; "if it were not for your old age and your wife I'd drag you on deck and make you apologize on your knees before them all. I'll spare you that degradation; but if I ever hear of you mentioning the name Ridegway--I've my own reasons for concealing it, and they don't concern you--I'll make some charges in regard to your card playing that will bar you from every club in the world, and, unlike your poor dupes, I am in a position to substantiate them without fear of consequences."
Lord Huntingford grudgingly mumbled a throttled promise, and Hugh allowed him to regain his feet. At that instant Veath, with Grace and Lady Huntingford, standing behind him, opened the door of the smoking-room.
"Here, Veath!" called out Hugh to the astonished Indianian. "I want you to bear witness that Lord Huntingford has promised to keep absolutely quiet about a little altercation of ours, and--"
The quick gesture of caution from Veath came too late. Lady Huntingford with astonished eyes was gazing into the room at them. Hugh promptly went over to her.
"You must pardon me, Lady Huntingford; I am sorry to cause you any pain or annoyance. In a dispute over the cards with your husband I forgot myself for a moment. Pray forgive me."
Ridgeway quietly strode away with Grace and Veath. Lady Huntingford directed a look of unutterable contempt at her husband, turned on her heel and left him to slink away as quickly as possible, like a cur that has felt the whip.
Lord Huntingford could not forgive the man who had put his aristocratic nose out of joint in such an effective manner. He was, however, as polite as nature would permit him to be to Miss Ridge and Mr. Veath. As for Hugh, that young gentleman thought it the wiser plan, when unavoidably relating a mild description of last night's encounter, to abstain from acquainting Grace with Lord Huntingford's discovery of his name--whether accidental or otherwise. Quite rightly he surmised that it would unnecessarily distress her, and he preferred not to cross the bridge until he came to it.
It was the evening following the conflict. As night approached, the sun fell behind the shores of the Red Sea, the stars twinkled out through the blackness above, and yet they had not caught a glimpse of her Ladyship. At dinner, he and Grace had agreed that she had either renounced them entirely, or had been compelled to avoid him in particular. Veath was less concerned. He was thinking of another woman.
Hugh and Grace again stole away for a few moments of seclusion on deck. They found chairs and sat down, neither very talkative.
"Oh, Hugh, just think where we are," she murmured at last. "Thousands of miles from home, and no one the wiser save ourselves. Chicago is on the other side of the world."
"Are you sorry you came, dear?"
"I am glad. But isn't it awful to consider how far we are from everybody we know? We might just as well be dead, Hugh." She was very solemn and wide-eyed.
"I am afraid you are losing heart," he said disconsolately.
"Why, Hugh Ridgeway--Ridge, I mean,--how can I afford to lose heart now? Don't ever say that to me again."
"Yes; we are a long way from home, dear," mused he after a while.
"How far are we from Manila?" she asked suddenly.
"A million miles, judging by the way time goes. We'll be there in twenty days, the captain says."
"What do you suppose Mr. Veath will say when he hears of our marriage?" This question was propounded after a longer interval of silence than usual.
"Why should we care what Mr. Veath says? If he doesn't approve, let him go to--" but Hugh checked his fiery speech as abruptly as he began it.
"He will be awfully shocked to learn how we have deceived him," she went on, as if he had not spoken.
"Well, do you care?" demanded Hugh.
"Yes, I care," she cried. "I shall be very sorry if he loses the good opinion he may have formed. He is the kind of a man who would not understand such an affair as this."
"But, then, we are not obliged to tell him. We can get married and leave Manila at once without ever seeing him again. After that we will be Mr. and Mrs. Ridgeway, and he could never find the people known as Hugh Ridge and sister."
"That would be a shameless way to treat him. He has been so true, so good, Hugh," she cried reproachfully. For quite a while their eyes lingered upon the dark water without seeing it, their thoughts centred upon the fast approaching end of their relationship with Henry Veath.
"I wish he could be told," murmured she, her voice far away.
"I couldn't do it to save my soul. What would he say?" There was an awed anxiety in his voice.
"I don't care what other people say, but I do care what he says. He seems so honest, so far above tricks of this kind."
"What's one man's opinion, anyhow, especially when he's to be buried in Manila for years?"
"Oh, Hugh! How lonely he will be in that strange place. And how dreadful it will be in us to sneak away from him like cowards, just as if we cared nothing for him at all. He doesn't deserve that, does he?"
"No, he doesn't, that's a fact. We can't treat him like a dog."
"I wish he could be told," sighed she pensively.
"When?"
"You might try to tell him at any time," she said, a perceptible strain in her voice.
"I'll tell you what I'll do," said he, taking her hand in his. "I will tell him the day before we reach Manila."
"I'm afraid it will be too late," she cried, all a-flutter.
"Too late? Why?"
"I mean," she went on confusedly, "he might think we had waited too long." She was thinking of Veath's wistful eyes.
"Hello! Here you are," cried a strong voice, and Veath loomed up through the shadows. Hugh released her hand and dropped back in the chair from which he had half risen to kiss her. "You hide away like a pair of silly lovers. There's nothing prosaic about this brother and sister. Do you know, I have often marvelled over one thing in connection with you. You don't look any more like brother and sister than the sea looks like dry land."
The pair caught breath sharply and Hugh almost snorted aloud. Grace could do nothing but look up to where she saw the red fluctuating glow of a cigar tip in the darkness. It made her think of a little moon which could breathe like herself.
"It all goes to show how deceptive appearances can be," went on Veath easily. "Don't you want to walk, Miss Ridge? I'm sure you need exercise."
"I promised Hugh I would drive away his blues, Mr. Veath. Thank you, but I believe I'll sit here for a while and then go below," she said, a trifle disconnectedly.
"We'll take Hugh along," said Veath obligingly. "Come along, both of you."
"Excuse me, Henry, but I don't feel like walking," said Hugh, a tinge of sullenness in his manner.
"Lazy, eh? Well, I'll bring Miss Ridge back in half an hour. You wouldn't have me wander about this dismal old boat alone, would you? Smoke a cigar, Hugh, and I'll take care of your sister while you count the stars." He offered Hugh a cigar.
Hugh rose suddenly and started away.
"Hugh!" called she, "come and walk with us." He could distinguish the loving entreaty, the trouble in her tones, but he was unreasonable.
"Never mind me," he sang out with an assumption of cheerfulness. Grace flushed hotly, her heart swelling with injured pride. Without another word she rose and walked away with Veath. Indignation burned within her soul until she went to sleep, hours afterward.
Ridgeway stamped the full length of the promenade before he came to an understanding with himself. On reaching that understanding, he whirled and walked back to where he had left them, expecting to find Veath occupying the chair he had vacated. Of course they were not to be found, so he threw himself on one of the chairs, more miserable than he had been since they started on their voyage. The lady in the chair to his left stirred nervously and then a soft laugh came from her lips.
"Are you sleepy, Mr. Ridge?" she asked. Hugh turned quickly and looked into the face of Lady Huntingford.
"Not at all," he replied. "But how strange it seems that you should always appear like the fairy queen when I am most in need of a bracer. Oh, I beg your pardon," he went on, rising in some perturbation. "I forgot that there is a--a barrier between us. War has been declared, I fear."
"I am ready to make friendly overtures," she said gaily. "Isn't there some such thing as a treaty which requires a strong power to protect its weaker ally in time of stress?"
"You mean that we may still be friends in spite of all that happened last night?" he cried. She nodded her head and smiled, and he shook her hand as only an impulsive American would.
"But Lord Huntingford? What will he say?" he asked.
"His Lordship's authority can be carried to a certain limit and no farther," she said, and her eyes flashed. "He knows when to curse and abuse; but he also knows when that attitude might operate against him. He is not in a position to push me to the wall."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean he knows enough not to drive me to the point where I would turn and fight." Hugh never had seen her so entrancing as she was in that dim light, her face the picture of proud defiance.
"I wonder not a little that you have not asked for a divorce long before this."
"You are not a woman or you would not ask that."
"Lots of women ask for divorces."
"It should be the last resort with any woman. But let us talk of something else. Where is your sister? I have not seen her to-day."
This question was particularly ill-timed, for it restored the forgotten bitterness to the position from which it had been temporarily driven by the interruption.
"I don't know," he answered.
"I thought I heard her talking to you here a few moments ago--in fact, I saw you."
"Where were you?"
"I passed within a dozen feet of you. Neither of you saw me, I am sure. You would not have cut me intentionally, would you?"
"I should say not. You walked past here?"
"Yes, you were tying her shoe-string."
"What!" exclaimed he, starting to his feet, "tying Grace's shoe-string?" The first thought that rushed to his mind was that Veath had knelt to plead his love to Grace Vernon.
"Lady Huntingford, let us walk," he exclaimed. It was a fierce, impatient command instead of a polite invitation. The pretty young woman calmly lay back in her chair and laughed. "If you won't come, then please excuse me. I must go."
"Why are you so eager to walk, Mr. Ridgeway?" she asked.
"Because I want--what was that you called me?" he gasped, his heart almost turning upside down.
"Ridgeway. That's your name, isn't it?"
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, a great many things," she said with a serious face.
Hugh was visibly annoyed. There was to be more trouble from the nobleman; evidently he did not intend to keep his promise.
"In the first place," she continued, "I must acknowledge that I forced from my husband an account of last night's affair; he also told me your name. But, believe me, it will go no further. I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Ridgeway," the color stealing into her cheeks.
Ridgeway bowed.
"In the next place," she went on playfully, "you are very jealous of Mr. Veath. Tut, tut, yes you are," with a gesture of protest. "He thinks Miss Ridge is your sister, and she is not your sister. And lastly, nobody on board knows these facts but the very bright woman who is talking to you at this moment."
"But you are mistaken, madam," with a last attempt at assumption of dignity.
"Would I say this to you if I were not positive? You think you are very clever; I'll admit that you are. Your secrets came to me through an accident. Do not think that I have pried into your affairs. They really forced themselves upon me."
"Tell me what you know, for Heaven's sake," cried the dismayed Ridgeway.
"I was in your sister's room earlier in the day. Her trunk was open and I saw a portfolio with Vernon in silver lettering; and I was more mystified than ever when I observed that the initials on her trunk were 'G.V.' All day yesterday I tried to solve the problem, taking into consideration the utter absence of family resemblance between you, and I was almost sick with curiosity. To-day I was convinced that her name is not Ridge. She inadvertently signed her name to the purser's slip in my presence, and she did not sign the--yours. She scratched it out quickly and asked him to make out another one. Now, what is this mystery?" She bent her gaze upon his face and he could not meet it.
"Do you want to know the reason why I did not see you yesterday?" she continued.
"Yes," he murmured, mopping his brow.
"Because I was so distressed that I feared I could not face either of you, knowing what I do."
"What do you mean?"
"I know you are running away." Not a word was spoken for a full minute. He could scarcely breathe. "You do not deny it?" she questioned gently. "Please do not fear me."
"I do not fear you," he half whispered, sinking his chin in his hands. Another long silence.
"There are some circumstances and conditions under which a woman should not be condemned for running away," she said in a strained, faraway voice. "Has--has she children?"
"Good Heaven!" cried Hugh, leaping to his feet, horror-struck.
Lady Huntingford, alarmed by his manner, arose and steadied herself against the deck-house. His exclamation rang in her ears, filling them with its horror. At length he roughly grasped her arm, thrusting his face close to hers, fairly grated out the words:
"You think she is a wife?"
"I feared so."
"She is not! Do you hear me? She is not!" he cried so fiercely that there was no room for doubt. "She is the purest, dearest girl in the world, and she has done all this for me. For God's sake, do not expose us." He dropped back in the chair. "It's not for my sake that I ask it, but for hers," he went on quickly.
"I'm sure I have wronged her and I have wronged you. Will you believe me?"
He did not answer at once. His turbulent brain was endeavoring to find words with which to convince her of the innocence of the escapade. Looking up into her eyes, he was struck by their tender staunchness. Like a flash came to him the decision to tell her the true story, from beginning to end.
"Lady Huntingford, I will tell you everything there is to tell. It is not a long tale, and you may say it is a very foolish one. I am sure, however, that it will interest you."
"You shall not tell me a word if you do so in order to appease my curiosity," she began earnestly.
"I think it is best that you should know," he interrupted. "One favor first. You will earn my eternal gratitude if you do not allow Grace to feel that you have discovered our secret."
"You have my promise. I have kept many secrets, Mr. Ridge." He drew his chair quite close to hers. Then he told her the full story of the adventure, from first to last. She scarcely breathed, so deeply was her interest centred in this little history of an impulse. He spoke hurriedly, excitedly. Not once did she take her eyes from his earnest face, almost indistinguishable in the darkness; nor could he remove his from hers.
"And here we are approaching Aden, your Ladyship," he concluded. Her big dark eyes had held him enthralled, inspiring him to paint in glorious colors every detail of the remarkable journey. As he drew to a close, her hand fell involuntarily on his knee. A tremor dashed through his veins, and his heart throbbed fiercely.
"How glorious it must be to love like that," she almost whispered. There was a catch in her voice, as she uttered that soft, dreamy sentence, almost a sigh. She turned her face away suddenly and then arose, crying in tones so low and despairing that he could hardly believe they came from the usually merry lips: "Oh, how I envy her this life and love! How wonderful it all is!"
"It has its drawbacks," he lamented. "As a brother I am a nonentity, Lady Huntingford; it's not altogether relishable, you know. It's a sort of pantomime, for me, by Jove. I'm the fool, and this seems to be the fool's errand."
"If you will play a part in the pantomime, Mr. Ridge, let an Englishwoman suggest that you be the harlequin. How I loved the harlequin in the Drury Lane pantomimes at Christmas time! He was always the ideal lover to me, for there was no trick, no prank this bespangled hero could not play to success. He always went incognito, for he wore his narrow mask of black. He performed the most marvellous things for his Columbine,--and was she not a worthy sweetheart? No, no, Mr. Ridge:--not the fool, I pray. Please be the harlequin," she cried in rare good humor.
"As you like it," he said, reflecting her spirits. "I am the harlequin and this is, perforce, the harlequin's errand." They were silent for a long time, then he said soberly:
"It was such a foolish thing to do, after all." She looked up at him for a moment, the bitterness fading from her hungry eyes, a smile struggling feebly into power. Then came the radiance of enthusiasm.
"Foolish!" she exclaimed, with eyes sparkling and breast heaving. "It was magnificent! What a brave girl she is! Oh, how clever you both are and how much you will enjoy the memory of this wonderful trip. It will always be fresh and novel to you--you will never forget one moment of its raptures. How I wish I could have done something like this. If I dared, I would kiss that brave, lucky girl a thousand times."
"But you must not let her suspect," cautioned he.
"It would ruin everything for her if she even dreamed that you had told me, and I would not mar her happiness for the world. Really, Mr. Ridge, I am so excited over your exploit that I can scarcely contain myself. It seems so improbable, so immense, yet so simple that I can hardly understand it at all. Why is it other people have not found this way to revolutionize life? Running around the world to get married without the faintest excuse save an impulse--a whim. How good, how glorious! It is better than a novel!"
"I hope it is better than some novels."
"It is better than any, because it is true."
"I am afraid you are trying to lionize me," he jested.
"You have faced a British lion," she said slowly.
"My only regret is that he is old and clawless."
"We are retracing our steps over dangerous ground," she said with a catch in her breath.
"You would have me to believe that I am a brave man, so I am determined to court the danger of your displeasure. How did you happen to marry this old and clawless lion?"
She did not exhibit the faintest sign of surprise or discomfiture, certainly not of anger. Instead, she looked frankly into his eyes and answered: "That is what I thought you would ask me. I shall not refuse to answer. I married because I wanted to do so."
"What!" exclaimed he incredulously. "I had hoped--er--I mean, feared that you had been--ah--sort of forced into it, you know."
"Since my marriage I have discovered, however, that there is no fool like the ambitious fool," she went on as if he had not spoken. "Do you understand what I mean?"
"That you married for position?"
"That I married simply to become Lady Huntingford."
"And you did not love him at all?" There was something like disgust, horror in Hugh's voice.
"Love him?" she exclaimed scornfully, and he knew as much as if she had spoken volumes. Then her face became rigid and cold. For the first time he saw the hard light of self-mastery in her eyes. "I made my choice; I shall abide by it to the end as steadfastfully as if I were the real rock which you may think me to be. There is nothing for me to tell--nothing more that I will tell to you. Are you not sorry that you know such a woman as I? Have you not been picking me to pieces and casting me with your opinions to the four winds?"
"I am truly sorry for you," was all that he could say.
"You mean that you despise me," she cried bitterly. "Men usually think that of such women as I. They do not give us a hearing with the heart, only with the cruel, calculating brain. Think of it, Mr. Ridge, I have never known what it means to love. I have been loved; but in all my life there has been no awakening of a passion like that which sends Grace Vernon around the world to give herself to you. I know that love exists for other people. I have seen it--have almost felt it in them when they are near me. And yet it is all so impossible to me."
"You are young--very young," he said. "Love may come to you--some day."
"It will be envy--not love, I fear. I threw away every hope for love two years ago--when I was transformed from the ambitious Miss Beresford to Lady Huntingford, now thoroughly satiated. It was a bad bargain and it has wounded more hearts than one. I am not sorry to have told you this. It gives relief to--to something I cannot define. You despise me, I am sure--"
"No, no! How can you say that? You are paying the penalty for your--of your--"
"Say it! Crime."
"For your mistake, Lady Huntingford. We all make mistakes. Some of us pay for them more bitterly than others, and none of us is a judge of human nature except from his own point of view. I am afraid you don't feel the true sympathy I mean to convey. Words are faulty with me to-night. It shall be my pleasure to forget what you have confessed to me. It is as if I never had heard."
"Some men would presume greatly upon what I have told to you. You are too good, I know, to be anything but a true friend," she said.
"I think I understand you," he said, a flush rising to his temples. After all, she was a divine creature. "You shall always find me the true friend you think I am."
"Thank you." They were silent for a long time, gazing out over the sombre plain of water in melancholy review of their own emotions. At last she murmured softly, wistfully, "I feel like an outcast. My life seems destined to know none of the joys that other women have in their power to love and to be loved." The flush again crept into his cheek.
"You have not met the right man, Lady Huntingford," he said.
"Perhaps that is true," she agreed, smiling faintly.
"The world is large and there is but one man in it to whom you can give your heart," he said.
"Why should any man desire possession of a worthless bit of ice?" she asked, her eyes sparkling again.
"The satisfaction of seeing it melt," he responded.
She thought long over this reply.