Part 14

"Madeleine did; there was nothing banal or ordinary about her. She waited some time after she found him, trying him, and then when she was satisfied he was what she wanted, she put off her man's things and sent for him."

"Without her things. I agree with you, Miss Selbourne; Madeleine was far from correct."

"Don't be silly. Of course she had a dress on, a woman's dress; that's why she sent for him, to show herself in it, to prove to him she was a woman after all."

"And what happened then?"

"Oh, nothing much; there the story ends. She admitted she loved him and next ... after that, left him."

"That was a poor sort of thing to do, why did she do it?"

"She didn't want to spoil it, I suppose. I think she was right too. They parted, loving one another, anyway."

"I don't think much of the man for allowing it. I would not have----"

Stara looked at him meditatively.

"No," she said at last; "you, I should say, would have followed it up till she'd really begun to care, not the mere passion that she felt to start with, but the steady love that comes with time, and only a woman, I believe, can feel. Then you'd have got bored and left her."

"That's cheap cynicism, Miss Selbourne; there are happy marriages."

"No doubt. I was talking of what you'd do. Very rude of me, but you introduced the subject."

Graeme felt very angry indeed. Analysis of character, he considered, to be his own particular privilege, and to have it applied to himself, especially when, as in this case, the reading was so obviously false, was most irritating. His whole life gave the lie to her words, he thought, and a sudden feeling of loyalty to and affection for Lucy sprang up, momentarily obliterating Stara's attractions from his mind.

"As it happens, Miss Selbourne," he said stiffly, "you're rather out in your prophecies. I've been married for the last ten years, and believe that, so far, I have shown none of the symptoms you mention."

"I apologise, Colonel Graeme. I didn't know, of course, and you don't look married."

The frown vanished from Hector's face, for her words were pleasing--no man likes to look married.

"I suppose," he said, "it's because I've been such a lot away. It's three years since I was last home."

"I wonder whether you ever met my brother, Richard Selbourne, he was out with the Yeomanry during the war, and settled down afterwards on a farm in the O.R.C. I've been staying with him and my sister-in-law."

"Place called Duikerpoort?"

"Yes."

"I have, then; my regiment camped on his ground last manoeuvres, and your brother dined with us, I remember. Where were you?"

"At home, with Polly, my sister-in-law. We watched you ride away. Oh, look!" with sudden delight in her eyes as they fell on a small fat child slowly toddling about the deck some distance away, "quick, fetch her and bring her here; she'll be gone if you don't hurry."

Graeme reluctantly rose and walked over to where the child was playing. Unceremoniously picking her up, he returned to Stara, the little girl faintly whimpering in his arms.

"The idea of holding a child like that," said Stara indignantly, snatching his burden from him; "no wonder the poor mite was beginning to cry. Oh, you darling," bending rapturously over the baby, who was now smiling up at her, her hands playing with Stara's coral chain, "how perfectly sweet you are, and how I wish you were mine. Look at her little feet and legs, Colonel Graeme; oh, you're not interested a bit."

"I confess I'm not; babies have no attraction for me."

"Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Every man ought to love children. Haven't you any of your own?"

"No," snapped Graeme, and walked sulkily away down the deck, stopping at the far end to look back. Stara was still holding the child in her arms and talking baby talk to it, obviously oblivious of his existence.

"Schopenhauer's right," he muttered; "they're hypocrites, every one of them. Night of it, Madeleine de Maupin, and now baby talk--don't go together the two. I've done with it, I know the sort: pose as fast and bite you if you say anything. I'll get some books and go on the upper deck. I shan't see her there."

He descended to his cabin, picked up a couple of books at random, and went above, where he sat down amongst the boats, and, ignoring the luncheon bugle, tried to concentrate his attention on Lombroso. "It's too hot for this stuff," he muttered, after reading the same paragraph half a dozen times without taking in a word. "I'll try the other, Shelley; I don't know why I bought the thing except for the short biography at the beginning." He read this through and lay back reflecting. "Woman, always woman in these fellows' lives," he murmured; "domestic unhappiness seems inseparable from genius." He began to turn over the pages. "_Epipsychidion_--now what does that mean I wonder?" He began to read, and, bored at first, soon became absorbed, the flaming passion in the lines stirring something within him that had been hitherto unawakened.

"We shall become the same, we shall be one Spirit within two frames. Oh! wherefore two? One passion in twin-hearts, which grows and grew, Till, like two meteors of expanding flame, Those spheres instinct with it become the same, Touch, mingle, are transfigured: ever still Burning, yet ever inconsumable."

Graeme laid down the volume. His eyes were shining, and his face had become very pale.

"Nothing banal about that," he murmured; "no married sameness, no dreary domesticity. It's all free and lawless, as it ought to be. God, the thing's maddened me; I can't keep still!" He sprang up, hesitated for a moment, and then hurrying below looked furtively up and down the decks. He searched the saloon, the music-room, the library, but all to no purpose; that which he sought was not there. Gradually he was seized with anger, then anxiety, and finally a sick longing. Restlessly he wandered about the ship, now trying to read, now pacing the decks, till at length the dinner-bugle sounded and he went below to dress.

"She shan't escape me afterwards," he thought, watching her across the crowded saloon; "we'll sit together away from the world, and the romance of our lives shall begin." Stara, nevertheless, did escape him, despite his vigilance, and, wait though he did till after the decks were in darkness, she appeared no more.

Sick with disappointment and a bitter sense of humiliation, he at length went down to his cabin, and, flinging himself on the bed, tried hard to sleep. But the bells clanged the hours away and sleep refused to come, till at last he rose from the tumbled bed and sat up, irresolution in his eyes.

"Sanders told me not to," he muttered; "he said for me it was fatal, but what am I to do? I shall go mad if I don't sleep. I don't care--I will," and Hector switched on the light, dragged out a dressing-case and took out a small phial containing tabloids.

"Thank heaven," he murmured drowsily, half an hour later; "better than all the natural sleep in the world. Stara..." His eyes closed, and he fell asleep at last.

*CHAPTER XIII*

The old proverb, "One man may better steal a horse, than another look over the hedge," like most sayings of its kind, possesses a very deep meaning, particularly when applied to the passions and emotions by which human nature is swayed.

There are beings, for instance, to whom a little flirtation is a pastime, enjoyable maybe, but never to be allowed to interfere with the serious business of their lives; it is taken up or dropped whenever it pleases them, for their natures allow them so to do. On the other hand, there are others to whom a love affair, once entered upon, means a temporary enthralment of body and soul; and to this class belonged Hector Graeme. Though but ten days had elapsed since the episode of the bookmarker, he had managed, even in that short space, to forget both love of wife and his ambition, the one destroyed for ever, the other for the time superseded by a mad unreasoning desire of possession the more imperative because of the seeming impossibility of fulfilment.

The small phial, hidden away in his dressing-case, was by now almost empty. Its contents had been drawn on at the rate of three or four tabloids a night, and yet sleep, save intermittently, failed him; nor could he eat, racked as he was by the triple pangs of unsatisfied desire, impatience of the wasted present, and jealousy of the future, with its certain rivals.

Such love as this the brutal and plain-spoken call "lust," the more refined "earthly passion." Scornfully they contrast it with the sentiments they feel for their own beloved, ignoring the fact that love between man and woman, disguise it as you will, is that and that only--the sexless guardians of the harem proving this in their insensibility to the emotion--though it varies according to the nature of him or her who feels it.

Thus the dull, material being is as dull and brutish in his loves as he is in all else; the rare, steadfast nature, knowing no satiety, loves on till death; the ardent and imaginative invests his mistress with a halo of romantic fancies. And so, Hector loved Stara, with an exalted, passionate adoration, rendering him, for the time, ready and longing for any manifestation of self-sacrifice, and, as he truly believed, incapable of the very wrong to the accomplishment of which his whole present energies were nevertheless directed.

It is men like Graeme who are the only really dangerous lovemakers to pure-minded women, for apparently grossness has no part in their minds, they place their divinities on a pedestal and worship at it: not for worlds, they declare and believe, would they sully her white purity with suggestions of earthly passion. Then the time comes, and they ... do, and that far more effectually and thoroughly than doer, the ordinary commonplace lover, whose feeling, though obviously of the earth, is nevertheless healthy, and not rendered unnatural and fantastic by a fevered imagination. And so Hector vowed that Stara was, and would be always, sacred to him: he only wanted her love, that was all, and to gain this he now concentrated all the force of which his nature was capable. But the days were slipping by, the end of the journey was already in sight, and still so far, apparently, his efforts were all in vain; for, from the first, Stara had made it plain that she would have none of his lovemaking. Good friend he might be to any extent, but nothing more; and to this resolution she adhered, despite all his attempts at trespass on ground forbidden, and thereby rendered imperatively desirable.

The whole day long she would sit with him, and often till late at night, when the decks were dark, and, save for them, deserted; also she would dance with him, fence with him, and on one occasion had even matched herself to drink against him. This last, however, like their fencing bouts, had resulted in humiliation to Hector, who, with the deck heaving beneath his feet and the stars dancing giddily above him, had staggered away below, his steps being guided by the soft, white, yet steel strong arm of his late antagonist. Further, she would discuss love in all its aspects, but at any attempt on his part to take advantage of her candour, and turn the conversation to a personal issue, Stara would round on him, lashing him with her tongue in a manner that left Hector sullen and discomfited for hours afterwards.

Indeed, so far, with the woman lay victory, even in those very intellectual attainments on which he had now come to set such store; for his reading, compared with hers, was as the veriest smattering, while in knowledge of subjects called deep, and ability to discuss them, Stara was on another plane.

Nevertheless, though hitherto baffled, Graeme's purpose remained unchanged, rather it increased in intensity with the passing of the days. Nor did his confidence in ultimate success lessen, for that Stara loved him he felt intuitively certain, though at the same time he realised that she was determined not to acknowledge that love, possibly from pride, more likely because she did not believe in his, thinking it to be but a passing infatuation and not the life's passion it really was to him.

He must make her believe--that was all; not by words, for they, he realised, would never convince her, but by action, and that soon, for his own endurance, he knew, was now well-nigh at an end. The only question was, what was that action to be? Something big it must be; nothing small would do. Well, the bigger the better; he wouldn't shrink whatever it was, even to the burning of the ship, if necessary, and subsequent rescue of Stara from the flames. He didn't care--the end was before him, and everything must give way to the attainment of that end.

He was debating these things in his mind one afternoon, as he lay in his deck-chair with eyes closed and brain feverishly working. From the other side of the ship, where sports were now in progress, bursts of delighted screams and clapping of hands came at intervals.

Close beside him sat Stara, reading; a somewhat pale-faced Stara of late, with blue shadows beneath the long, grey eyes.

Suddenly she smiled over her book, and, looking up at her companion, spoke. "Here's something for you, Colonel Graeme," she said. "Oh, I'm sorry; I didn't see you were asleep."

"Asleep, how the devil could anyone sleep with that row going on? Oh, confound it all!" angrily, as another loud outburst of hilarity came from the other side.

"You're very captious this afternoon, why grudge those people their amusement?"

"Amusement! Dropping potatoes into a bucket or chalking a pig's eye on the deck? The swine's an unclean animal to most of them too, I should say. Amusement--God!"

"Far better for you, Colonel Graeme, if you were to do the same, instead of sitting all day reading unhealthy books. I should like to talk to you seriously about those books; I've been wanting to for some time. Will you listen?"

"All right, if you'll listen too when I talk seriously, as I shall ... soon."

"What do you want to say, nothing silly, I hope; because, if so ... what is it?"

"Never mind now; go on."

"Well, then--oh, bother you, Colonel Graeme--! I wish you wouldn't interrupt; I've forgotten what I was going to say."

"My books," watching her.

"Oh yes, don't stare, please. Well, an unhealthier selection than you have here on board I've never seen. There's Edgar Allan Poe, for instance, imagination gone mad. Schopenhauer, a philosophy to justify wrong-doing, hence its popularity; it's full of flaws too."

"How?"

"Here's one, at any rate: in his main argument for pessimism, he says desire for anything means unhappiness."

"He's quite right."

"And because we're always wishing for something, we must necessarily be unhappy. He's quite wrong; it's that which alone gives happiness and keeps us alive; for, take away hope--the same thing, for what we desire we hope to get--and suicide would inevitably follow. Everyone, even the most wretched hopes, don't you?"

"Yes, but don't rest content with hoping."

"Well, there's one flaw in your Schopenhauer, there are many others too, but never mind. Now for Lombroso, your other favourite. I see you have 'The Man of Genius' there. Throw it overboard, if you're wise."

"What's the matter with it? It's science."

"Perfectly true, but you're neither a scientist nor a doctor. That book is as bad for you as the advertisement of a quack medicine is for some weak-minded people. You find all your own symptoms, and, like them, are glad when you do. Drop such reading, Colonel Graeme; take up something healthy."

"Like that thing you've got there, I suppose, 'The Cow in the Morning,' isn't it? It sounds as if it might have been written by one of Lombroso's friends."

"Don't be cheap, please. It's 'The Heifer of the Dawn,' and, well, you may think it silly, but I don't. Listen to this, and judge for yourself, though in the interests of women I consider this particular paragraph ought to be suppressed." She took up the book and began to read.

"'She that is to retain her lover's love for ever must possess, first, a body without a flaw, or his senses will stray from her to other bodies, for it is their nature to seek their proper object; secondly, intelligence, or his esteem will depart elsewhere; and thirdly, goodness, or his soul will abandon her in search of that without which it cannot do, and without which the other two component parts are worthless except for a time. And as it is for the woman so it is for the man, with this difference, that their bodies and their intelligence and their souls are totally unlike.'"

"And, if she has all that, he's bound to be faithful, I suppose?"

"In theory yes, but I'm afraid not practically. You see, the speaker, being a woman, looks at it from a woman's point of view, which is not that of a man, their intelligence being, as she says, totally unlike. She thinks that, if she is perfectly beautiful, her husband's thoughts will never stray to one less so. But that can't be right, for in many cases men have left beautiful wives for ugly mistresses. A woman can't or won't see that--that--how shall I put it nicely?"

"That in the sexual instinct lies her whole attraction. Pah!"

"Thank you, though that's not nicely put.... And once that dies, her beauty ceases to exist for him. She might be a picture on the wall as far as he's concerned: the beauty is still there, and others see it, but the owner has seen it too often and got tired."

"And the intellect part?"

"No good at all to keep him. A man may like talking to a so-called clever woman--which, by the way, only means one quick to utilise men's brains, for no woman can originate, only receive--but that doesn't prevent him from kissing a pretty fool five minutes afterwards."

"According to you, then, fidelity is impossible to a man."

"Certainly not; however, it's not love that keeps him faithful, but other things, a sense of honour, pride in his family, and possibly a feeling of compassion."

"What damned nonsense!"

"Colonel Graeme?"

"So it is. You sit there, knowing nothing at all about it, and reel off yards of cheap clap-trap cynicism picked up from rotten, morbid books. Lord, talk of my reading doing me harm!"

"My views are not gathered from books, but observation. I know what I say is true."

"And may I ask how, if you do, you can contemplate the idea of marrying one of us brutes, as you told me the other day you did eventually?"

"Because I'm human, like everyone else, and when the time comes, as it unfortunately must, I suppose, I shall be like any other woman, or like--like you. I shall recant all I've said, and believe in undying love and the rest of it. I can see now; then I shan't be able."

"Sure you can see now?

"Quite sure, Colonel Graeme, absolutely, perfectly sure," she added, somewhat unnecessarily meeting his eyes.

"'Absolutely--perfectly', why such emphasis, Stara?"

"Please don't call me 'Stara'; it annoys me."

"I shall call you 'Stara' from now."

"You will not. Why--why should you?"

"Because----"

"Be quiet, here's someone coming. Oh, it's that poor creature Hayward, why doesn't someone look after him? It's sad to see him."

"Drunken brute! I'll bash him if he comes here. I wish he would, and insult you, I believe I'd kill him if he did."

"You'd do a very cowardly thing, then, which would disgust me more than I can say. It's not the destruction, but the saving of life that appeals to me, Colonel Graeme."

The man, a harmless creature enough save for his one failing, at this moment shambled by, smiled vacantly at the two as he passed, and then, moving behind the wind screen some distance away, perched himself on the rail, where he sat rocking, his figure just visible from where they sat.

"I've pity for that man, and pity only," continued Stara. "Why, where are you going, Colonel Graeme, to see the sports? All right, I'll come too."

"No, stay where you are," answered Hector rather indistinctly, his face averted from her; "I'll be back in a minute, I'm only going down to my cabin to fetch..." The rest of the sentence was lost, the speaker having disappeared through the main companion.

Once more Stara returned to her book, and then a minute later flung it down and jumped up, her face blanched and every nerve quivering; for high and shrill in her ears a scream of mortal terror was ringing and then was suddenly hushed.

"Man overboard! starboard side!" wailed a voice from the forecastle head. The beating of the screw ceased, and the ship quivered to the short, sharp bursts of the siren.

A tumult of voices arose; the clatter of hurrying feet. "Where is he, who is it, Stara?" and Graeme, coat and shoes discarded, stood beside her.

"It's Hayward, he's no longer there, what are you going to do, Colonel Graeme? Hector, you shall not."

"Oh yes, I shall--but before I go--Stara, say it."

"Say what?"

"You love me, Stara--quick!"

"Oh, I do--I do, Hector--you--you shall not. Oh, Hector, there are sharks hereabouts."

"No shark can hurt me now, Stara, love; good-bye." and springing on to the rail he stood for a second steadying himself, looked back once and was gone. With a crash he struck the water, the blue surface seeming to rush up to meet him as he fell, and then, like an arrow, flew down, apparently for miles, down through a strange jade-coloured world into the very heart of the sea. Surely he must strike the bottom soon, he must have journeyed for hours already, yet still he was rushing on. What would it be like, he wondered vaguely, that unknown ocean floor--rock, sand or oozy mud?

Ah, he was stopping at last, and yes, slowly, very slowly rising. The return to daylight had begun, but--what a journey lay before him: those endless miles of water, thousands of millions of tons of liquid crystal between him and air. Could he hold out, would his breath last? No, not unless he hurried, and a sudden desperate feeling of anxiety seizing him, he began to fight, his hands tearing at the dense green wall above him. Frenzied, he fought, heart and lungs well-nigh bursting, and in his head the loud, wild clanging of bells; then, suddenly, the desire to struggle ceased, and in its place he felt a sense of rest and dreamy content. In his head, now strangely clear and light, a voice began to sing--only one verse, that of a music-hall ditty, last heard at a soldiers' "sing-song" in Dutch Gethsemane. "I would I were a kipper in the foam," it repeated for the hundredth time. Well, that's what he was--in the foam, at any rate; but a kipper---a kipper... "I would I were a kipper in the foam."

He must think this out; it was clear as daylight really--daylight--light--light; and then with a sudden stunning roar the mists of death were torn asunder and the veil of water gone.

Slowly back from death's gates he came, his dazzled eyes blinking at the fathomless blue above, and labouring lungs gulping down the salt evening breeze. It seemed hours that he lay there, though but a minute in all had passed since his leaving the ship's side, hours of perfect peace and rest; and then suddenly strength came rushing back, and with it consciousness of his own being. A faint wonder at first, a chaos of mingled remembrances, and then sequence of ideas and full realisation of his surroundings. With a thrust of his foot he raised his head and shoulders above the water and looked about him; there, a mile or so away, floated the great grey shape of the _Dunrobin Castle_, a faint haze of smoke showing above the scarlet funnels, her decks black with figures, all faces turned to where he lay. And yes, that was a boat being lowered down her side, and thereupon the last cloud of mist lifted from his brain and he remembered what he had set himself to do.