CHAPTER II
Topham was on board the Marlatic in good time the next morning.
He found himself in the midst of a jolly laughing throng that crowded and pushed and hugged and kissed and wept a little sometimes, but that the most part gave itself up to a perpetual chattering, like a flock of magpies—with more noise but with little more sense. All sorts of people were there, from the brandnew bride on her honeymoon to the gray old lady who was taking her granddaughter abroad; from the Cook’s tourist to the blasé young man who talked airily about crossing the “pond” and the grumpy globe trotter who hated the noise and confusion with his whole heart.
Topham leaned on the rail of the hurricane deck and watched the crowd idly. Somehow he felt lonely. Everybody else had friends; he seemed alone in having no one to see him off. It struck him suddenly that his life was a very lonely one. If Lillian Byrd had not proved faithless—
His ranging eyes fell upon a girl who was just coming up the plank in the wake of a granite-faced chaperone, and the current of his thoughts snapped short off. She was young, scarcely more than twenty, he judged, but there was something about her—he scarcely knew what—that set his pulses to pounding. With his whole strength he stared, and, as though drawn by his glance, the girl suddenly lifted her face and looked directly at him.
For an instant his heart stood still, then raced as it had never raced before, not even when Lillian Byrd had smiled at him in days gone by.
Never had he seen such eyes. They held him, enthralled him, with a magic that went beyond any reasoned process of the human brain. They seemed to fill the girl’s whole face—to fill it so that Topham thought he did not notice its other features; though later, he found that he could picture its every detail—the great masses of red-black hair; the clear dusky skin with a rose hiding in each cheek; the nose, chin, and teeth in keeping—not regular, not perfect according to canons of art, but compelling; a face for which men die.
Recklessly the navy officer stared—stared till the red flamed in the girl’s cheek, and she stumbled,her trembling fingers loosing their hold upon the rail.
She must have said something, though Topham could not hear her, for the hard-faced chaperone turned and caught her arm. Topham saw her shake her head in negation to some question. The next instant she looked up once more. But not as before! Coldly her glance swept Topham’s face, as coldly as if he did not exist. Then, before he could even attempt to catch her eyes, she had stepped upon the deck and was hidden from his view.
Topham drew his breath gaspingly. He had been holding it for quite a minute, unknowingly. His thoughts ran riot. Who was she? Who was she? What was her race, her state, her name? Her face bespoke a southern parentage; the blood that burned beneath it cried aloud of tropic heat. But her blue eyes were of the north. And the chaperone by her side could be nothing else than German—a veritable grenadier.
Certainly they were people of distinction in their own land—probably in any land. The purser might know. He would go and ask.
The purser was affable but tremendously busy. Yes, he knew the lady. She had crossed on the Marlatic a few weeks before. She was a SenoritaElsa Ferreira, a Brazilian lady who was connected with a famous German family. The lady with her was the Baroness Ostersacken. If Mr. Topham wanted any more information, he would endeavor to oblige him later on. At the present moment, however, in the hurry of departure, he—
Topham thanked him and went on deck, feeling the throb of the propeller beneath his feet as he did so. The steamer was in midstream heading toward the lower bay and the open sea.
For an hour or more Topham paced the deck hoping in vain for another sight of the girl who had so fascinated him. The wind was blowing strongly, and as the Marlatic approached Sandy Hook, she began to pitch with, the motion of the Atlantic rollers, and her passengers began to disappear. When she crossed the bar all but a handful had deserted the decks. Many seats were vacant when the gong rang for luncheon, and as Miss Ferreira did not appear, Topham began to fear that she was a poor sailor who would keep her cabin all throughout the voyage.
All afternoon he paced the deck despite the increasing unpleasantness of the weather. Darkness fell early and when he came up from dinner and from a tour of the main saloon without seeing anythingof the girl, he was forced to abandon hope of finding her that night.
As he leaned grumpily over the rail watching the dim white caps that chased each other athwart the course of the ship, one of the few passengers on deck came and leaned by his side.
“It makes rough, eh! senor?” said the man. “We shall have storm? What you think?”
At the soft Spanish accent, Topham looked quickly up and recognized a Spanish-looking personage whom he remembered having seen crossing the gang plank.
“Oh! no!” he replied, lightly. “I think not. It’s damp and cold and unpleasant, but not stormy. Tomorrow will probably be clear.”
“That is good. I no like the storm. It is bad for the—the stomach, do you say, senor? I no get sick, but I feel sorry for the others.” He took out a package of cigarettes and offered them to Topham. “You smoke, senor?” he asked.
Cigarettes were not Topham’s failing, but he helped himself nevertheless. He was lonely and wanted companionship. Besides, the man seemed to be a Spanish-American and anything from Spanish-America had a special charm for Tophamsince he had heard that Miss Ferreira was from that part of the world.
For a few moments the two men puffed in silence, chatting of indifferent subjects. Then the ship pitched more heavily than usual and the other gulped.
“I—I no get sick,” he protested. “I am old sailor. But I—I think I eat something for dinner that not agree with me. I—I think I go below.” He slouched heavily away.
Topham did not laugh. With astonishment he had suddenly discovered that he too was feeling qualmy. The sensation was so novel, so utterly unlooked for, so hatefully amazing that he almost laughed.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “I’m feeling queer myself. I didn’t know that any sea could make me sick, but—Good Lord!”
The sensations had grown stronger with unexampled rapidity. In almost a moment they became acute. A fog came before his eyes and his senses actually reeled. Desperately he clung to the rail, feeling certain that he should fall if his grip loosened.
How long he stood there more than half unconscioushe never knew. He was roused by a woman’s voice, speaking excitedly.
“But he is ill! He is very ill! Quick! catch him!”
Dimly he heard a faint rush of feet; then an arm was slipped under his. “This way, senor,” pleaded a voice—a very soft, musical voice. “Just a step—just a step. Now sit down! There!”
Guided by some one’s arm Topham reeled for an immeasurable distance. Then he fell also immeasurably. Finally, finding himself in a chair he closed his eyes.
Only a few seconds later, it seemed, he opened them again and found himself stretched in a steamer chair. His head felt queer and his stomach shaky. As he gazed stupidly around, a woman who was bending over him straightened up.
“It’s all right!” said the voice. “He’s coming to.”
Instinctively Topham struggled to his feet despite the girl’s protests. He could see little more than her figure in the semi-darkness, but he nevertheless felt sure that it was she. “Miss Ferreira!” he murmured.
“Oh! you are better! senor! I am glad.” HerEnglish was perfect except for a soft Castilian burr.
Topham strove to answer, and succeeded better than he hoped. “Yes! I’m better. Thanks to you! senorita. Heavens, I don’t know what got into me! I haven’t been seasick since—since—. Is this your chair?”
“Yes! But do not leave it, I beg. I had just come on deck when I noticed that you were ill. Perhaps you ate something for dinner that disagreed with you.”
“Perhaps!” ruefully. “That’s the usual excuse for getting seasick, you know. However—Good Heavens!”
Topham’s heart almost stopped beating. He whipped his hand into his inner coat pocket and found—nothing! Desperately he snatched at another pocket—and another!
With distended eyes the girl stared at him. “You have lost something, senor?” she queried.
“Lost! Lost! Good Heavens, I—” Suddenly Topham dropped his hands and laughed aloud. “Oh! What an idiot I am!” he cried. “No! I haven’t lost anything, senorita. I must be daffy. I was looking for something, forgetting that I had put it away for safe-keeping.”