Part 3

"As you please," said Mariol, arching his brows resignedly. "My choice for you would have been the fine-grained daughter of the Puritans with hair the color of a hazelnut, the flat, straight back, and resolute figure gowned by Paquin. I dare say both ladies are accessible to what you have to offer them, or that either would soon fit into place in the long walk at Beaumanoir, among those strutting white peacocks against a background of clipped yews and sun-warmed ancient brick. No American girl could resist that walk and those white peacocks, Clandonald, take my word for it."

"Then marry one yourself, and I'll let the place to you for a song."

"I have still to see Tibet," answered the other, stopping to light a fresh cigar.

Their talk ended in a discussion wide afield from the subject with which it had begun. But when Mariol turned in, it was with a throb of secret satisfaction that he had been able, in the darkness, and apparently _a l'improviste_, to wing in the direction of his friend a shaft he had long held in reserve for him.

He had been with Clandonald, side by side, wading through the miserable mire of his divorce case, and rejoiced when he saw him rid for ever of the creature who had dragged him down. The two men had met first in South Africa, while Clandonald was lying ill of enteric, and Mariol, coming upon him by accident in the course of his own explorations for observation and adventure at the seat of war, had nursed him with the gentleness and devotion of a woman, until he was out of danger and ready for the voyage home. During his first convalescence, Clandonald had received the plainly unwelcome news of his wife's intended journey out, "to look after her dear old boy." The arrival of her errant ladyship, followed by the untoward discovery of her real motives in making this heroic effort, and the hardly concealed scandal of her companionship on the voyage, precipitated a relapse of Clandonald's malady, and the ultimate severance, some two years later, of his heavy marriage bond, borne during the lifetime of a boy who died through her neglect.

In all this dreary time Mariol had stood by him and held him up. The brilliant mocker, the professed skeptic of all tenderness apart from the metaphysics of the sex question, had developed into the best of hard-luck friends; and their agreement to travel together after Clandonald was free and had left the army proved more than a success.

Now they were drifting homeward again, Mariol to his boulevards and the fond congenial life of Paris, Clandonald--to what? Mariol, with his keen insight and ready sympathy, saw that his friend was returning to England, restless, unsatisfied, out of tune with his future surroundings; well in body and healthy in his mind, indeed, but in no humor to pick up his life from where his late partner had cast it, like a jewel, into wayside dirt.

Mariol had hoped much from their visit to America, where they had found themselves, during the latter part of the season at Newport, subjected to the overpowering hospitality of the leaders of the great world. But although Clandonald's antecedents were as well known and familiarly discussed there, as in England and on the Continent, and there had been displayed no disposition on the part of society to visit his evil fortune upon him, the young man passed but abstractedly through the ordeal of charms and graces, defiled before his gaze, during the hours when the world that entertains is in evidence. Mariol sometimes wondered whether his friend would not have been more easily consoled in an atmosphere less surcharged with the art of pleasing.

The moment he had laid eyes upon Miss Carstairs, whose patronymic he was yet to learn, it had flashed upon the Frenchman's active brain that here was the solution of his perplexities. That the girl met so thoroughly his own exacting taste in externals, seemed to him a convincing proof she would be the ideal angel to step down into Clandonald's troubled pool and make it clear. Her looks, age, good breeding, reserve of bearing, and evident fortune, added to the fact that she, too, had in her eyes the shadow of past sorrow, left the kind fictionist no doubt of his own perspicacity in selection. He had addicted himself to the task of making friends with her, with a promptitude facilitated by his secret hopes, and Clandonald's indifference proved the more provoking in that it bore every aspect of probable enduringness.

Mariol fell asleep, that memorable first night at sea, congratulating himself that his cares in connection with matters of sentiment were so purely perfunctory, and that whatever the issue out of Clandonald's impassivity, no personal interest in any one of the disturbing sex could ever afford his mentor other than the emotion of a scientist who skewers a new butterfly for his microscope.

*CHAPTER III*

There was to be no complexity attending the position taken by Miss Pamela Winstanley, commonly called Posey, in the consideration of her fellow-passengers of the "Baltic." From the first day out, as has been said, every one aboard became a prey to the absorbing interest created by her daily movements, sayings and doings. Beyond the fact that she was travelling with her father, a Mr. Herbert Winstanley, sometime of the Army of the Confederate States, presumably a person of very moderate social place and fortunes, the antecedents of the radiant young beauty were unknown, and she was accepted upon her face value alone. It was indisputable that, whenever she appeared conversation centered upon her to the exclusion of more serious topics. And, in return, Miss Winstanley lavished her effervescing good graces with impartiality upon all admirers in attendance. The honors of her smiles and pretty sayings were shared alike by Lord Clandonald and any minor individual of the impressible sex, who might chance to be on hand. Jolly old Lord Channel Fleet, resembling Santa Claus with his roseate face and white fringe of a beard, found himself vying for her favors with a succession of American college youths in sweaters, one of whom, famed in university circles as a thrower of the hammer, stood about in attitudes expressive of rank jealousy, whenever his sportive lordship was at her side. Lady Channel Fleet, indeed, was known to be nervous lest the threatening young man should do something dreadful to her liege.

Miss Bleecker, Mrs. Vereker, and sundry mothers of unentertaining daughters who struggled into their deck-chairs without assistance and walked with each other the diurnal mile, looking as if nothing would induce them to descend to the companionship of the supporting sex, formed a number of ingenious theories to account for the fair Pamela. She was a milliner's forewoman, going out to secure fashions for Alison's Cross Roads. She was a dashing divorcee, who had resumed her maiden name. She had been a barmaid in California, an artist's model in New York, an assistant washerwoman in the Klondyke, had tried on cloaks in a leading haberdashery of Chicago--in all of which capacities there was somebody aboard who had known somebody else who had actually seen her! But of suppositions concerning the charmer, the most popular was that she had sung on the local stage somewhere in the South, and was now going abroad to study for comic opera. For in addition to other devices for the bewilderment of mere man, Miss Winstanley was found to possess a fascinating gift of rendering little Creole chansonettes that conjured up the warm velvet-like touch of Southern air, the region of palm and pine and mocking-birds, of orange flowers and Cherokee roses, and the love spells lingering around it. Then she could croon "Mammy" songs, of a negress hushing her nursling, in a way to bring tears to the eyes of most hardened listeners. And between the songs and croonings she would describe scenes, and impersonate actors, with a natural fire and pathos that are rarely taught or teachable. But of this accomplishment she was more chary than the rest, and there were those heard to declare that, on one occasion on deck, she had sung tears into her own eyes, and abruptly stopped, declaring she did not care to do it before more than one or two. The incident being repeated to Miss Bleecker, that inveterate lady declared it to be but a clever bit of acting to whet expectation of future appearances behind the footlights.

Amid the successes of his daughter's meteoric rise, little Mr. Winstanley prowled about the ship, a solitary and somewhat pathetic figure in his evident belief that self-effacement was the first duty of the parent of such a Phoenix among maidens. Following his abortive reopening of acquaintance with Miss Carstairs, he withdrew into his shell and spoke no more to her. Helen reproached herself that she had not been able to conceal from him the repulsion at first inspired in her by her rival in John Glynn's favor. Old Winstanley's mild twinkle of the eye, the smile playing around his thin lips, gave no hint, however, that his retiring attitude was inspired by offence. He seemed to live apart in a world of his own thoughts and memories, from which even his Posey's triumphs could not extract him for long.

And Posey, Miss Bleecker to the contrary (who from her end of the table consistently glared down the intruder's right to be), continued to reign in her revolving chair, as the established queen of every meal. Her quips and cranks of fan, her lawless sallies at the expense of those around her, had effectually banished restraint and brought the diverse elements of their party together; even Helen parting with her formality to join in the talk, when convinced by observation that Miss Winstanley knew nothing whatever of her prior acquaintance with John Glynn.

From the beginning, the Honorable Bobby Vane, Lord Kennington's scapegrace boy, had fallen head over ears in love with Posey, and was ready to forfeit his not very brilliant prospects in life to marry her, no matter in what capacity she had previously appeared. Posey laughed at and with the lad, enjoying his off-hand gayety and mischief, and there it began and ended. The Russian savant, under the influence of Miss Winstanley's presence, forgot to grumble about draughts and sauces, and smoothed his grim-visaged front into affability, answering her in English as choice as M. de Mariol's French. The old German count, proving to be the most kindly and merry of comrades, developed a faculty for telling uproariously funny stories, of which the effect was impaired only by such a strange mispronunciation of the English tongue that his auditors were kept supernaturally grave in the effort not to smile at him, and therefore did not smile at all.

A volume of Mariol's clever (and happily innocuous) short stories having been produced by somebody and put into circulation on the ship, Miss Winstanley had familiarized herself with them, and was engaged at odd moments in translating the little _chef d'oeuvres_ of style, with Bobby Vane, in whose imagination a book of any kind, save a betting book, loomed larger than an elephant.

Mariol, to whom direct address from casual people upon the subject of his writings was an affliction, had been rather dreading the young lady's comments, and was relieved when she disposed of him thus easily:

"I think they're just lovely, Mr. Mariol, and am trying to make Mr. Vane agree with me, but he declares they're too jolly dismal and give him the awful blues. After this, when people say they envy me being at table with you, I can truly tell them you don't talk the least bit like your books."

"Mrs. Kipling told me once," said Clandonald, following a laugh at Mariol's expense, "that when a gushing American girl asked how she could endure the brilliancy of a certain chat between her husband and Cecil Rhodes on the Kiplings' veranda in South Africa, she had been puzzled what to answer, because, as a matter of fact, each of these gentlemen had been trying to talk more delightful drivel than the other. What good luck for the rest of us, that great minds do unbend in the intimacy of private discourse!"

"If one doesn't talk in brief paragraphs, like those columns printed in American newspapers for busy men to read in elevated trains, one isn't listened to, I find," said the author, ruefully.

"In most countries, nowadays," observed Prince Zourikoff, looking anxiously to see whether the portion of cold braised beef left upon the platter was enough for his liberal appetite, "the fine arts of conversation and correspondence have both been driven like chaff before the wind of modern restlessness. Nobody converses, few read, friendly communication is achieved by wire or telephone. And as to introducing a serious topic into society--perish the thought! One would be voted a superannuated nuisance."

"I have always thought it the best compliment a man can pay a woman," said Miss Carstairs, blushing a little, "when he talks to her, in earnest, about what dominates his thoughts."

Mariol flashed an appreciative glance at her. Clandonald cried out:

"Heaven defend your sex, my dear lady, if they had to sit still and listen to most men's governing thoughts. And, on the whole, there is nothing so wearing as a person with ideas that have never been applied. To-day, we must think and act, and accomplish or fail, before we talk. And as far as talk goes, it's everybody's plain duty to be amusing and not long."

"To come down before the footlights, and do one's turn, and then drop back again," interpolated Miss Bleecker, with a glance at the beauty, who was helping Bobby Vane to a baked potato. "You are quite right, Lord Clandonald. It is perfect audacity for any one person, whether clever or insignificant, to attempt to monopolize attention. Everybody else is invariably bored by it, where they are not laughing in their sleeves."

"Have you seen many persons laughing in their sleeves, Miss Bleecker?" asked Posey Winstanley, innocently. "Did they do it when you were young? I always wondered how. Mr. Vane, please stop eating long enough, to let's try laughing in our sleeves at Miss Bleecker. I reckon she'll tell us if it's the real thing."

"There are places, then, where they do say 'I reckon,'" pursued Miss Bleecker, impassively. "You mentioned, Lord Clandonald, how much you were disappointed not to hear more provincialisms of speech in America. I should think Miss Winstanley could give you all you care to collect."

"Did you ever hear, Miss Winstanley," put in Mariol quickly, "the pretty speech made by King William IV about a charming country-woman of yours, whom some one asked, 'Pray, do you come from that part of America where they guess and where they calculate?' 'Lady Wellesley comes from where they fascinate,' said the gallant monarch."

Bobby Vane clapped his hands approvingly.

"That's rippin', ain't it, Mr. Mariol! My goodness me, wish I weren't such a duffer at writing things down an' spellin' or I'd make a note of it. What?"

"Come to school at Alison's Cross Roads, Alabama, and we'll teach you how," said Posey.

"Helen, you will find me on the boat-deck by Mrs. Vereker," said Miss Bleecker, majestically arising. "I have had quite enough of this. And I consider it my mission to spend as much time as I can give to poor Mrs. Vereker, prostrated by care and anxiety as she has been, and her husband never allowed to come near her on the voyage."

A light sparkled in the wide-open blue eyes of the ship's charmer, and a smile hovered around her pretty mouth. She was well aware that about the second day out, the critical and finical Mr. Vereker had joined in the universal procession toward her shrine. She had avoided an introduction as long as possible, compelling her ancient admirer to perform wonders of intrigue and diplomacy, before he was admitted to the privilege of her acquaintance. Since then, he had persecuted her for walks on deck, secured for her white violets, at vast expense, from some one who was taking them out in the ship's ice-box for sale in London; had sent to her table daily tokens of regard, from pats of choice butter, bunches of black Hamburg grapes, and broiled birds, to Southern "pin-money" pickles. Not content with these tangible evidences, Mr. Vereker had promised her a dog, and invited her to motor with them through Touraine. The poor man, who had, in Miss Bleecker's parlance, "no stomach to speak of," was expecting the return of one of his periodical attacks, when he would be forced to go upon milk and Educator biscuits, too enfeebled to walk the deck and flirt, and wished to make the most of his well moments; but, so far, Miss Winstanley had been constantly engaged with others, and could not yield him the tete-a-tete desired.

Miss Bleecker, enlisted under the standard of a complaining wife, was gratified to leave the party, having hurled the final shaft. Mariol liked the self-control with which Posey turned immediately to other topics, no less than he appreciated the effort Helen Carstairs made to atone for her companion's venom by remaining awhile in conversation that included the girl attacked. The Frenchman, who noted most things passing near him, had been making up his mind that some strong personal reason existed to keep Miss Carstairs in a state of mental self-defence against the attractions of Miss Winstanley. A judgment so clear and cool and fair as Helen's in ordinary matters, he had rarely seen, and he believed her capable of more than the allotted amount of feminine generosity toward those of her own sex. As far as he had been able to gather, she had never before seen or heard of this mysterious young person who had made their voyage so gay. What could the reason be?

It had not escaped him that the Southern girl, taking heed of Helen's low-pitched voice, of her quiet garb and reserved manner among strangers, had profited by them to tone down some of her own extravagances. Already, Miss Winstanley's hair was brushed simply back in a glorious golden sweep, allowing its natural waves to reveal themselves untortured. Already, the obnoxious blue dress with its lace transparencies, the redundant jewelry had gone into retirement, the young girl appearing at dinner in white blouses as simple as Helen's own. Better than all, she no longer challenged people within earshot with her sentiments and opinions.

From time to time, Mariol had detected passing from her to Helen the glances of homage a very unsophisticated girl bestows upon one she has elected to make her heroine. And, despite this artless worship, Miss Carstairs did not relent in her cool demeanor. She was civil always, considerate often, but never yielding in keeping Miss Winstanley at a distance. The men at their table were unanimously beginning to feel that a girl may win easily in the chief events of such a contest, and yet be badly worsted in the end.

The only one among them who seemed to have preserved indifference on the subject of Posey's wrongs, was the quiet little man in the mustard-colored tweeds, with the cowboy hat of sunburnt felt, who accompanied the beauty to her meals, but was rarely seen with her elsewhere.

One afternoon, however, she broke away from her cordon of admirers, and finding the old fellow walking alone, linked her arm in his, adjusting her pace to his.

"Why, little girl, what's come to you, that the beaux have left you no better company than mine?" he said, with the jocular homage of his habitual manner to her.

"There isn't much better company than yours, dad, and I'm beginning to find it out," she answered, caressingly.

"Well, well, a compliment from the belle o' the ship! Reckon when I get to London I'll have to be buying myself a new suit, and a dozen o' boiled shirts, though, come to think of it, seems to me I'm no great way behind that Lord Channel Fleet o' yours in the matter of clothes and footwear--regular beetle-crushers, those shoes of his, and his hat an even match for mine."

"He's rather an old dear, anyhow," said Posey; "but I've got another ancient on the string that's too foolish to talk about. That Mr. Vereker--he's dyed and made-up, and always fussing about his digestion. He has a young doctor travelling with him to give him hypodermics for his nerves, and they're going to some queer place where he'll have to walk barefoot on wet stones, and diet, with a lot of grand dukes and things that he just loves to talk about. Aren't they funny though, these old society men? Imagine you prancing around after young girls!"

"I can't," said her father, simply. "There isn't a woman living, old or young, that could take my fancy away from the girl I won in Baltimo, after the wah. She's my love, the same now as then. You're pretty good-looking, Posey, so people seem to think. But your mother. Lord! She was a beauty, and as soft and gentle as an evenin' breeze."

"I sometimes wish I had her now, daddy. Since I've been eighteen, and everybody's so good to me, I mean. There are such lots of little things a mother could tell me. And to think I was the only child she kept--the very last of your family--and she couldn't have stayed with me! Ah! well, don't mind me, dad, I'm happy enough with you."

"You certainly don't often pull a long face, dearie. If there's anything troubling you, out with it, and let's see if I can't help."

"It's rather a big little secret, daddy. Maybe I oughtn't have kept it so long, but I was ashamed to tell, I reckon. You see nothing like this ever happened to me before."

The old man's faded eyes kindled with sudden fire. He halted her suddenly, facing seaward, and together they leaned over the taffrail.

"Posey, it hasn't got anything to do with John Glynn, has it?" he asked with a tremulous eagerness of joy.

"Yes, daddy."

"He spoke to you before we sailed?"

"Just before. That last evening, at the hotel, when you went off to smoke with the nice old gentleman you fought beside at Seven Pines, and left us sitting in the corridor looking at the people. He said everything that was nice about you, first; how you had been his father's dearest friend, and had helped him through college, and started him in New York, and he loved you dearly, and never could repay the debt. Then he recalled how he and I had known each other as boy and girl, though he always thought of me as nothing but a little kid, until he saw me last year at home, and just now, in New York. He told me how hard he was working, with scarcely a minute to call his own, and what a tough struggle it would be to get up top, but that he meant to do it, if he lived----"

"And he will--he will!" interrupted Mr. Winstanley, in accents of strong pride. "He didn't tell you, I'll bet, that he never took up my offer to stake him with funds for his expenses in New York, till he got square upon his feet, and that he never drew a blessed cent of it?"

"He said you'd been more than good, but he wouldn't impose on you. You see, daddy, John knows that all these years you've had as much as you could do to keep us going, and have me educated. I suppose he was as surprised as I, when he found you were taking me abroad in style--you extravagant old thing, you!"

"Of course. Of course," murmured Mr. Winstanley, acquiescently. "It does seem extravagant, doesn't it? But we'll manage to make two ends meet, I reckon, if we pinch, afterwards, to make up for it. Go on, Posey, go on. Tell me the rest about you and John. It is music to my ears."