Part 13

She was too pleased with her lace stockings to hide them.

"May I smoke?"

"I beg your pardon," said Franklin. Good Lord, was she there for the night!

For some few moments she sat in silence looking interestedly about her, with a quiet air of proprietorship. She inhaled two or three mouthfuls of smoke and let it trickle out of her slightly Oriental nostrils. In her dark hair, that was drawn tightly across her forehead, the strange stone glittered. She made an attractive, if somewhat erotic, picture sitting there, so slight and so feminine in her white satin dress cut with impish ability to the very limit of decency. Then she turned amused eyes on Franklin, who was standing watching her, trying to discover what was behind this obviously well-planned visit.

"All men are liars, saith the prophet, and you, my dear Pelham, very palpably hold a diploma in class A." She laughed quietly, rather pleased with her way of breaking the ice.

"Think so?" What on earth did the woman mean?

"You undemonstrative, self-contained men lie far more unsuccessfully than the Latins. One looks for a certain amount of duplicity from them. Their wine and climate and the quickness of their wits makes truthfulness almost impolite. Much the same point of view is held of the Irish, who have an inherent disbelief in the mere truth. The strong streak of Anglo-Saxon in you which gives you a horror of pulling down the fourth wall behind which you hide your sentimentality puts one off. What one takes for honest inarticulation and shyness is really a well-thought-out pose, isn't it? You manage admirably to give the impression of rather aloof integrity, an unexpressed contempt for dodgers. It is historical, all the same, how artfully you can live a double life and achieve a statue in the market-place."

This wordiness bored Franklin. He hated phrase-making. Also it was late and he wanted to go to bed to sleep and be healthy. "The prophet said another good thing," he replied. "Cut the cackle and come to the 'osses. Did you ever hear that?"

She laughed again. "You know that I have a horse or two then?"

"Would you be here if you hadn't?"

"Why shouldn't I have come for the pleasure of being with you, alone?"

"It's very kind of you to put it like that."

Mrs. Larpent flecked away the ash of her cigarette. "Sarcasm doesn't suit you," she said sharply. "If you mean to imply that I am here for money, you are wrong."

"I didn't mean to imply that," said Franklin. "On my honor."

"Thank you," she said, and was silent again. The conscientious beat of the engines made a sort of tune. Then she got up and faced him, dropping artificiality. "Why did you tell me you were married?"

"Ah!" thought Franklin, "it _is_ that, then." He said nothing. He was no match for women.

"Couldn't you have been honest with _me_, of all people? You know my feelings for you. _I_ was above board. Whatever the reason for hatching this extraordinary story I wouldn't have given you away. I would have helped you."

"I can't discuss this with you," said Franklin, "you were at the Vanderdykes. You saw the papers. Beatrix is on the yacht. There it is. I can't see any reason why you should say that she and I are not married."

"Can't you? Haven't I seen you together for the last three days? Wouldn't my eyes be the first to notice any sign of love or affection between you, or even toleration? I came on the yacht expecting to be made to suffer the jealous agony of the damned and I find,--it's easy enough,--that this honeymoon is a farce. You are a bachelor entertaining two duly chaperoned women."

What could Franklin do but lie? "Beatrix is my wife," he said, "and the way in which we treat each other is our affair."

"Oh, no, believe me," said Mrs. Larpent quickly. "That's where you're wrong. I am in this. You were on the verge of loving _me_ before Beatrix cropped up. You may decline to accept this as a fact but I tell you that you were, and I know. You stand there looking at me in amazement because I am not afraid or ashamed to tell the truth. Women are more or less a mystery to you and you've got a rooted idea that we must go through life hiding our souls behind light laughter and lace veils. And so we do until the inevitable hour when we come out into the open to fight for love. This is my hour, Pelham, and I stand in front of you as common and as human as a peasant woman or a squaw."

Her voice shook with emotion and she seemed to Franklin to be taller and more beautiful and more dignified than he had ever seen her. All the same he wished to Heaven that both these women had never come into his life, that he were still a free agent, a mere sportsman, as Beatrix called him so scornfully, the captain of his fate.

"I don't like your talking like this," he said, with a curiously boyish bluntness and awkwardness. "It isn't fair to yourself--or me."

"I'm not thinking altogether about you to-night, my dear. I said that this is my hour, my fight, the moment when I let you see me as I am. Now listen. I overheard your quarrel with Beatrix on deck this afternoon. I deliberately eavesdropped. I don't want to know why you and she are playing this queer game. It doesn't interest me. From the way you kissed her, without loving her in the very least, I saw that what you want is what I want. You are free. I am free. We neither of us owe allegiance to a living creature. I love you. You are the first man who has made me understand the pain and ache of love. I make no bargain. I ask for no bond. I just want you. Take me."

She held out her white arms, with her head thrown back and her lips slightly parted and her eyes half closed. There was something utterly simple and in a way fine about her. It wasn't so much an appeal that she made as an offer of fellowship. Nature spoke in her voice and stood alluring in her presence.

Perhaps because of the subtle sense of isolation that the open sea gives, or of the wonderful silence of the night, or of the overwhelming strength of her desire, Ida Larpent was nearer sincerity in what she said than she had ever been. It wasn't only because she saw a chance to catch Franklin on the rebound that she had gone into his room. She had argued in cold blood that by becoming his mistress she would strengthen her position, put a claim upon his sense of honor and win her way to independence. But under the stress of genuine emotion these sordid calculations lifted like hawks and left her a woman in love, a very woman.

Franklin proved that he was very much of a man. To him love and its rewards were only good if they were won by fighting. They were the spoils of the chase. This inversion of the old right way was distressing, chilling and rather indecent. What to say and how to say it left him wordless. He would rather have found himself facing a lion with two empty barrels. Then he told the truth. "You're very kind," he said. "But I love Beatrix and I'm going to be true to that."

Ida Larpent dropped her arms. Just for an instant the supreme mortification of being turned down put a red mist in front of her eyes. She could have fallen upon Franklin and struck him again and again. Then the sense of self-preservation came to her rescue. Her cunning returned and with it the vista of a doubtful and tricky future. She hid her disappointment and humiliation and impatience behind a perfect piece of acting and told herself that, after all, Franklin was difficult and different because he was a sportsman. She held out her hand and said, in a very sweet voice, "I love you. You know where to find me when you need a friend," and went away quickly before she might be moved to spoil the effect of her lack of drama. She believed that in this way she would win a warm place in Franklin's esteem,--the first step to the goal that she intended to gain by hook or crook,--and she was right.

*XXII*

Beatrix slept too late the following morning to take her usual exercise in the gymnasium. She was called at eight-thirty by Helene, who dared not give her less than half an hour in which to get ready for breakfast at the luxurious hour of nine. It was a delicious morning, with the sea in a very gracious mood, the sky blue and cloudless and a gentle breeze which brought the taste of salt to the lips.

Waking after a dreamless night, Beatrix found the sun pouring through the portholes of her state-room, caught the infection of health and high spirits, sprang out of bed, gave the sturdy Breton a cheery word, went into the bathroom and alternately sang and whistled one of Jerome Kern's catchy little tunes,--while the French girl gave thanks. The world was worth living in when her mercurial-mistress found it so--otherwise death held many charms.

It was an easy matter to dress Beatrix for the morning,--a white silk shirt with a turned down collar, a grey-blue jersey cloth skirt with stockings to match, white shoes with brown strips and a man's tie of blue and white. In these she stood in front of a glass and turned about in careful examination before throwing a little smile of congratulation at herself and her handmaiden. "I don't give a single whoop what the fool fashions may ordain, Helene," she said, "the too short skirt is for Coney Island only and makes women look either comic or pathetic, according to their weight. See that I never have anything shorter than this, won't you?"

Murmuring a suitable reply and blessing her patron saint for the good day, Helene opened the door and Beatrix passed out, touching the girl's cheek with the tips of kindly fingers. "We go ashore to-day," she said, "I will let you know when to pack."

Ah, there was, then, a fly in the amber! Helene gave one of those exquisitely eloquent gestures, that are peculiar to the Latin race, and sat down suddenly, her eyebrows almost lost behind her straight cut fringe. "What a life!" she said, addressing the whole suite. "Joost as we settle and tink to breathe,--up and away. Joost as Mistare Jones breaks his Engleesh ice,--we go. I leave a republic and come to a democracy and I fall into the entourage of a monarch!"

From which it will be seen that Horatio Jones had been playing the sailor again.

And then Beatrix went into the stateroom of Mrs. Lester Keene. "Why, Brownie dear, what's the matter? Have you had a bad night?"

The little lady was sitting up in bed in an early Victorian white linen night dress with a discreet touch of lace about the high neck. Her mousey hair was still done for the night and contained several long brown kid curlers about her forehead. Her face was pale and a little petulant as of one who has a grievance. She might have been one of Cruikshank's drawings come to life.

"I heard every hour strike until five," she said, "and my neuralgia very nearly made me scream."

"Oh, you poor dear old thing. I am sorry! Why didn't you come and call me? I don't know what I could have done but at any rate I could have listened to your tale of woe and it always does one good to keep someone else awake when one can't sleep, doesn't it?"

She bent over the devoted companion and put her head gently against her breast as if it were the head of a child.

"Oh dear, oh dear," whimpered Mrs. Keene, "I shall never be able to get up in time for breakfast and I do so hate being unpunctual."

"Don't worry, dear little Brownie. I tell you what. You and I will have breakfast here. Shall we? I want to talk to you about a most important thing and afterwards you shall have a little sleep and then Helene shall dress you. What do you say?"

"Dear Beatrix, you're very kind. I should like nothing better, but----"

"Don't but. No sooner said than done," and Beatrix rang for a stewardess. "Now, here are your dressing gown and slippers. Jump,--that is, struggle out of bed and I'll have you all ready by the time breakfast comes."

Mrs. Keene's attack of neuralgia had been very painful. She had really heard several hours slip by, but, for the pleasure and ego-warming of having Beatrix wait upon her and say kind things she would most willingly have undergone twice the pain and almost total sleeplessness. Beatrix knew this. Without conceit or the smallest suggestion of inflated vanity, she was aware of the fact that she was making her little old friend and flatterer quite happy. Her training among sycophants had made her an expert in playing upon the feelings of those about her. The unbelievable and unhealthy wealth which had placed a golden halo round her head had cultivated in her the gift, peculiar to Royalty, of dealing out easily given favors, little acts of kindness which bound her subjects more closely. This dangerous knowledge acquired as a child made her as dexterous in striking answering notes as though she were a professional pianist. Her instrument was temperament and she was a past-mistress in reading character.

The stewardess took the order, hurried to carry it out, and presently found "Mrs. Franklin" arranging her companion among many cushions on a sofa near the table. A message had been sent to the major-domo that the two ladies would be absent from the dining-saloon.

"Well," said Beatrix, pouring out tea, "well, Brownie, and how do you like the sea?"

Mrs. Keene had removed her curlers and so had regained her sense of propriety. Curlers somehow stood to her as very intimate things. She felt in them as most nice women do when they are caught by men with their hair down. "My dear, I shall never be anything but scared to death away from land. This is a very beautiful yacht, of course, with every modern convenience and invention, but I dread to think what might happen to her in a storm. I am sure that I shall not be well again until I put my foot on solid earth."

Beatrix gave a rather excited laugh. "Then you will be well again this afternoon," she said.

Mrs. Keene turned eagerly. "You don't mean that we are going to land, that this dreadful cruise is coming to an end _this afternoon_?"

"Oh, yes, I do."

"But, Mr. Franklin? Has he----?"

"Mr. Franklin doesn't count in the scheme of things," said Beatrix coolly, "I've made up my mind to get off the _Galatea_ and there it is."

Mrs. Keene's first flush of pleasure and relief faded before her next thought. "But your Aunt Honoria and Mrs. Vanderdyke,--what will they say?"

"Everything that human beings can find to say and then some, my dear, but I don't think I shall go home at once," said Beatrix airily. "This seems to be a good opportunity of seeing a little of our United States,--of which I only really know Fifth Avenue. I think I shall get a good touring car, take Ida Larpent and we three will go for a joy-ride. That will give me time to think out a plan of action. It goes without saying that I shall have now to blow the gaff before Franklin does. There will be a certain amount of satisfaction in getting in first. After that,--well, my dear little long suffering Brownie, Aunt Honoria will lead the family against me and unless I can get a really splendid brainwave you and I will go into exile to gloat, like Napoleon, on our brilliant misdeeds,--martyrs on the altar of adventure. And I don't mind telling you in strict confidence that all my courage oozes away at the bare idea. I've been an awful little fool, Brownie, there's no getting over it."

To her great surprise, Mrs. Keene felt a curious glow of reckless triumph in being included in Beatrix's wild scheme. Even she, almost the last living representative of the mid-Victorian era, had become used to this sham marriage. Modernism is strangely infectious. All the same an overwhelming curiosity sent personal comfort into the cold and summoning up all her courage she put a question that had begun to burn her like a mustard plaster. "What has happened?" she asked. "Have you had further trouble with Mr. Franklin? Has he tried----"

Beatrix lifted a cover from a dish. "Try some of these delightful looking scrambled eggs, Brownie dear. I've heard they're very good for neuralgia."

A little flush suddenly swept over the elder woman's face. She had taken advantage of the princess's condescension and received as usual a well-deserved snub. Greatly to her relief--she had an inherent dislike of apologizing--Ida Larpent sailed in, looking like a French actress on a holiday.

"May I come in?" she asked, a little too late. "I was anxious about you, dear child, and so was Mr. Fraser."

Beatrix got up. She was not amazed at Mrs. Keene's curiosity. She sympathized with that. She felt it incumbent upon her, however, to register disapproval for the sake of the future. "You're both very kind," she said. "There's nothing the matter. Come to the library. Send for Helene as soon as you're ready to dress, Brownie, won't you? Au revoir." She nodded, took Mrs. Larpent's arm and went out.

Poor little Mrs. Lester Keene. When _would_ she remember that she was in the service of plutocracy!

"How would you like to break the monotony of cruising by coming on a motor tour?" asked Beatrix. The sun set her hair on fire.

Mrs. Larpent shut the library door quickly. "But, how do you mean? Is Mr. Franklin going to bring the cruise to an end?" She also had decided upon a plan of action,--and the scene of it was the yacht.

"No," said Beatrix laughing, "but I have. I'm going ashore this afternoon with Mrs. Keene and Helene."

"Ashore--this afternoon?"

"Why not? There's no reason why you shouldn't be the only woman on board, I suppose. It's a free country. But if you'd care to come with me, do. We may have some fun."

"Thanks most awfully," said Ida, trying quickly to make order out of chaos. "Yes, we ought to have great fun. I don't know much of America." But what would Franklin say? Would he let her remain alone on the _Galatea_? If that could be worked the rest seemed easy. But it would mean, she knew, breaking with Beatrix, who was, of course, an asset. It was the choice between a good thing and one that might be made of incalculable excellence. Mentally she plumped for Franklin, her knowledge of men and her confidence in herself and her beauty. "Have you told Mr. Franklin yet?"

"Yes, vaguely," said Beatrix. "But as I haven't the faintest idea where we can land I'm on my way to see him now and clinch the matter. I don't think there will be too much time to pack. Be in the gym in half an hour and let's have some exercise." She turned at the door and a smile lit up her face. "It'll be a tremendous joke cutting about the country without any man to look after us. Four lone women on the long trail? Why, we shall _ask_ for trouble."

Her merry laugh remained in the room and Ida Larpent added a chuckle to it. "Enjoy your joke, my child," she said to herself, "but count me out. If I have to work a miracle I'll stay on the yacht and in good time, with ordinary luck and great tact, I may have something to laugh at too."

*XXIII*

Franklin was in his room talking to the Captain about a fishing expedition when Beatrix knocked at the door.

"Come in ... and if we lie at anchor for a couple of days we can ship some grub on the big launch..." He stopped on seeing Beatrix, who stood framed in the doorway, the most bewitching picture he ever hoped to see.

"Am I disturbing you? ... I'll come back presently."

"Oh, no, please!" said Franklin. "We've finished."

Beatrix had no intention of leaving whether she disturbed or not. "Good morning, Captain," she said, "What a wonderful day!"

"Good morning, Mrs. Franklin. It's good to be alive in such weather, isn't it? ... Very good, sir. I'll see about the fishing trip at once." He picked up his cap, dropped the ash of his cigar into a silver tray, bowed to Beatrix and took himself off, wondering for the hundredth time what sort of marriage this was in which these two young people treated each other as though they were casual acquaintances.

"Won't you sit down?" Franklin pushed an armchair forward.

"No wonder you like this room," said Beatrix. "May I wander round for a moment? How jolly these Yale groups are, and I see you play polo,--the only game that makes me wish I were a man. And what's this uniform? The National Guard?"

"Yes, I hold a commission."

"I didn't know that. Very versatile, aren't you? And that's a tarpon, isn't it? What a big fellow. Probably gave you some trouble."

"About four hours," said Franklin. Good Lord, what was this extraordinary girl made of! Yesterday she had fought him like a tigress, to-day she was as sunny and calm as the weather.

She sat down on the edge of a table, pushing back a box of cigars and half a dozen well-smoked pipes. "I've come to have a little friendly talk," she said, "if you can give me ten minutes."

"I'm absolutely at your service."

"Thanks. Don't stand there. It makes me feel formal. And please go on smoking." She gave him one of those smiles that made obedience a delight. "That's better. I want to tell you that, except for one incident, I shall look back on these days on the _Galatea_ with real pleasure. You're sorry that you committed assault and battery, aren't you?"

"Very sorry," said Franklin. What else could he say with those frank laughing eyes upon him.

"Yes, I'm sure you are. I was too, but will agree to forget, because otherwise you've been so nice and kind."

Franklin bowed. He knew that he was a fool, but he felt that she had decorated him with an order. What was behind all this?

Beatrix threw back her golden head and burst out laughing. "I'll tell you," she said, reading his thoughts on his face. He had not troubled to become socially expert in disguising his feelings. She got up, ran one of the bachelor chairs near to Franklin, sat down and bent forward. Artificiality, self-consciousness and that touch of the precocious that she took an impish pleasure in adopting in a crowd, all left her. "Look here," she said, "I'm going to be very honest with you, for a change. Can you bear it?"

"Go ahead," said Franklin, boyishly. It seemed to him that he was looking at and sitting close to a new girl,--the girl described to him by Malcolm in that emotional outburst of his.

"I'm awfully, really awfully sorry I played the fool and let you into all this, Pelham. I took a horrible advantage of you and I'm beastly ashamed about it."

"Oh, that's all right," said Franklin, who would willingly have gone through it all again to be treated so charmingly.

"You say that because, at this moment, you and I are friends and have put our cards on the table, but I know jolly well that I've given you a very bad time and have got you into a hateful mess."

"That's true enough," he said. "But why not fall in with the only possible plan to put us both out of it?"

"You mean marry you?"

"Yes." He did his best to hide his eagerness.

She shook her head, and put her hand lightly on his arm, "My dear man, I can't. It isn't fair to you. I think it's, well, immense of you to have thought of it but I draw the line at divorce. If you had to go through all that horrid business I'm perfectly certain it would be on my conscience all my life."

Franklin saw his chance to put up a bloodless fight. "But why should there be a divorce?"

"I don't follow you," said Beatrix.

"Let's be married for the sake of everybody concerned and remain married."

Beatrix looked at him squarely and bravely. "I'll tell you why not," she said, after a pause. "Deep down somewhere in me there's a little unspoiled fund of romance and sentiment. I'm looking rather wistfully forward to marriage as the turning point in my funny life. I want it to be the best thing that I shall ever do. I want it to be for love."

"And you don't think that you could ever love me?" asked Franklin, trying to keep his voice steady.

"No," she said, simply, "I don't. And what's more, I'm not your sort of girl, I know that perfectly well."