Chapter VII: Part 7

"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."

"Speak, you fool, speak!" cried Franklin inwardly. "Get off your stilts and lay yourself at her feet and give up this crazy idea of breaking her splendid spirit and blurt out that you love her to desperation and would gladly go to the devil for her."

But the moment passed,--one of those innumerable moments in life which, if instantly seized, turn pain into joy, misunderstandings into complete agreement and are capable of changing the destiny of nations.

Beatrix got up and went back to her place on the table among the pipes. "No," she said, with an involuntary sigh, "I've still to meet the right man and you the right girl. We mustn't smash our lives because I've dragged you into a perfectly inconceivable muddle,--and that's putting it mildly. No, I've got to face the music and take my punishment, much as I hate it."

Franklin kept his ego away from her. Her frankness, her childlike simplicity beat him just as badly as her imperious moods. His pride, and the knowledge that she would laugh at him if he confessed himself, made it impossible to speak. But she tempted him almost beyond endurance. He had never loved her so much as he did at that moment. "Well," he said, "what do you want me to do?"

Beatrix laughed softly. "How extremely nice you can be when you try," she said. "When you fall in love I hope the girl will be a real corker."

"Thanks very much," said Franklin.

"I'll tell you what I want you to do. Run in this afternoon and put me ashore, will you?"

"Yes."

"Thank you. I've thought it all out. I shall get a car,--two cars, one for the baggage,--and go for a short tour. While I'm on the road with Mrs. Keene and probably Ida Larpent, I shall write as short a letter as possible to mother,--whew, the mere thought of it makes me hot all over,--and give her the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Then, one fine day, I shall walk in upon the family and give myself up to justice. Aunt Honoria has the very jolly idea of taking me into exile for a year during which, I suppose, she is optimistic enough to think that I shall 'find' myself. What I shall really do during that appalling time will be to write the confessions of a spoilt girl for the use of millionaire parents."

"It will make good reading," said Franklin.

"I'll see that it does," said Beatrix a little grimly. "One chapter, at least, will have a scathing attack on the sycophancy of the fashionable girls' school." She held out her hand. "Thank you again, Pelham Franklin, sportsman, for all you've done for me. I shall never forget."

Franklin sprang up and faced her. He was beaten then. He was to fail in breaking in this amazing girl. He was not the man marked out by fate to find the woman in Beatrix, to be the cause of her abdicating a sham throne, to give that good woman Aunt Honoria the longed-for opportunity to offer praise to God. Right. He would take his beating.

He grasped her hand. "You're sure you can be ready to land this afternoon?"

"Quite."

"Very good. I'll make it so. Mrs. Larpent will go with you, of course."

"Just as you like. And Malcolm?"

"Yes. I'll try being alone for a change." He let her hand go and stood back, waiting for whatever she might do or say next.

Beatrix laughed again. She rather liked the queer boyishness of this man, the awkwardness, the inarticulation; and it flashed across her mind as she looked at him, strong and clean-cut and sun-tanned, that there might perhaps have been a different conversation if he had not bent over the end of her bed and rapped out the offensive words that were rooted in her memory.

"Well, then, I'm off to the gym," she said, "for the last time. How happy you'll be to be rid of women."

And out she went, as graceful as a young deer.

*XXIV*

Franklin locked his door.

He knew very well that within ten minutes Ida Larpent would be upon him and that inevitably, being told by Beatrix of the latest move, Malcolm would be down to see what he could do. He had no wish to see anyone at that moment, not even his best friend.

He quietly loaded and lit a pipe, sat down in his favorite arm-chair, shoved his hands into his pockets and his long legs out and settled down to think. He hadn't done such a thing since the night of his father's death when for the second time in his young life grief had seized him by the throat and there did not seem to be one speck of light on his black horizon.

He went back to the night in New York, which was still within easy reach, when he and Malcolm had caught sight of Beatrix and Sutherland York. He was then his own master, heart-whole, a complete individualist, in the almost uncanny position of being free from responsibility, at the beck and call of no living creature. He was then one of the very few men in civilization who was able to go through life unattached either to a business or a cause. He was able to buy almost everything that caught his fancy. The one thing that all the money in the world cannot purchase he was lucky enough to possess. He had health. He was sound in wind and limb.

He followed himself into his antler-hung studio and stood again looking round its crowded walls, suddenly and for the first time impatient of his games, realizing that his toys were empty and meaningless. Malcolm's surprising outburst about Beatrix rang again in his ears. He remembered that it had drawn from him a sort of prayer. "My God," he had said, "I wonder when _I_ shall begin to live!"

Then he went over the ground from New York to the Vanderdyke House in the new car which had provided him with a momentary thrill. He had gone reluctantly because his interest in meeting Ida Larpent again was not keen. Their friendship had been very pleasant and agreeable but it had served its purpose. And then he saw himself, the super-individualist, as sceptical of Fate as all young men are, come down into the hall to be met by Beatrix with her urgent plea for help.

Without hesitation or motive, without thought or fear of consequences he had given his help and in an instant had lost his detachment, his splendid isolation, and rendered himself liable to responsibility, signed on to life's roll-call as the slave of a cause.

The amazing irony of it all only came to him in its utter nakedness as he sat there, locked into his own room, summing up the subsequent rush of events. In one careless moment he had flung his freedom away for the girl in whom he had never been able to squeeze up any sort of interest, the girl who had been the unconscious cause of his discontent and self-disgust, the girl to whom he had intended to give the spurs, who had set the torch of love to his breast and who was now to be allowed to go free and unpunished merely because she disarmed him with a smile.

He got up and walked about.

It might be that what people call Fate,--he was vaguely inclined to believe that their word for it was not the honest one,--had suddenly, in the multiplicity of its daily work, become interested in his particular case and in that curious and almost ineradicable way, given him a very good reason for beginning to live,--or was it one of the haphazard incidents that come into the lives of human beings from out of the clouds, not in the nature of tests or trials, but as mere accidents out of which to shuffle in the best possible manner?

He drew up short.

What was going to happen if he let Beatrix go? Her name and his, her family and his own, would be the centre of such a scandal as the papers had not been able to batten upon in his memory. That mattered. He liked and respected the Vanderdykes. He was intensely jealous of Beatrix's good name. He valued his own and detested publicity. He didn't care whether it would be a good thing for her character for Beatrix to spend a year out of the stir, excitement and flattery of society. He loved and wanted her. He would be half content if he could bring her to the point of common sense and make her his wife in its mere empty meaning. That step achieved there were others that might lead to the fulfilment of his incessant dreams, if not through love then through tolerance and the acceptance of things.

Fate or accident, was he going to permit this wilful, nimble-minded, imperious girl, this child spoiled by a system, to make a fool of him again? "No, she shan't," he said. "I'll put up another fight and break her by other methods. We'll both begin to live and face things. I'll see this through."

He threw out his arms and took a deep breath, unlocked his door, went on deck, saw that the chairs were empty under the awning and made for the gymnasium. As quick as lightning he had made his plans.

There was Ida Larpent, introspective and calculating, in one of her most artful dresses and a soft wide-brimmed hat, sitting on a rolled-up mattress, with her gleaming fingers interlocked. There was Malcolm Fraser, in white flannels, with rounded shoulders and head bent forward, riding a fixed bicycle for dear life with his eyes on the dial in front of him,--and there, in blue knickers and a silk shirt with wide open collar was Beatrix perched straddle on the electric horse, with her hands on her hips, riding like a cavalryman. Her eyes were dancing, her lips parted and her face alight with health.

"Hello, Pel," she cried out, "here we are. Get into whites and come and show us the way on the bars."

A wave of sheer honest passion flooded Franklin's brain. Assuredly he would fight and go on fighting to win this girl.

Malcolm staggered off the bicycle. "Never was so glad in my life of an interruption," he said, panting. "This is not a poet's job."

And Ida Larpent rose slowly and touched a button on Franklin's coat. "Come out and talk to me," she said, under her breath.

Franklin went into the middle of the gym. "I'm not staying," he said. "I just came to say, Beatrix, that the launches will be ready at three-thirty. Can you be packed by then?"

"Oh, yes," she said, breaking into a gallop. "Too bad to have to go, isn't it?"

"Go? Go where?" asked Malcolm, staring at Franklin.

"Ashore, old man. Beatrix is sick of the _Galatea_ and is taking her party off the yacht this afternoon."

"Her party?" The words came sharply from Mrs. Larpent.

"Her party,--yes," said Franklin, "so sorry," and he gave her a little bow which permitted of no argument.

Malcolm was staggered. "Meaning me,--too?"

"Naturally, my dear fellow," said Franklin. "The ladies must have a man to look after them. Don't forget, three-thirty."

The first officer was on the bridge. Franklin made for the Captain's state-room. McLeod, in his shirt sleeves, with a pipe between his teeth, was reading a magazine.

"Don't move," said Franklin. "Just listen. Make a beeline at once for the nearest place where my wife and her friends can be put ashore. Then have the big launch ready. Load it with all the luggage except my wife's. Have hers ready to dump into the other launch, but don't lower it. Put Jones in charge and get Mrs. Larpent, Mrs. Keene, Mr. Fraser and the French maid into the launch. As soon as she's well away, the first officer will take a signal from me to pass on to you on the bridge. I'll raise my right hand above my head. He will do the same. That will mean full steam ahead and out to sea. Jones will land his party and come after us. Is all that clear?"

"Quite clear, sir, thank you!" said the Captain.

"Good," said Franklin.

As one man left the state-room the other got up and put on his coat and cap. There was a smile of approval on his face as he did so. "A very pleasant idea," he thought, "to run away with one's wife."

*XXV*

Lunch was a strange meal that day.

Mrs. Larpent was angry. Her plans lay all about her feet like a pack of cards. If there was one thing she resented more than any other it was to be coerced. The cruise might have been so useful. In his present state of mind, as she wrongly judged it, she had seen a way to bind Franklin to herself more closely than it had appeared possible in her most optimistic moments. She had been jarred by what Beatrix had said that morning as to going ashore but had determined to make a huge effort to remain aboard. Franklin's attitude in the gymnasium, however, made it quite plain that he did not want her. She was to go with the rest. It was the most bitter disappointment of her life. Her heart as well as her pocket was hurt, and both needed comfort. It required all her courage to enable her to play up to Beatrix's incessant light-heartedness during the meal.

Mrs. Lester Keene made very little attempt to disguise her joy at her impending release. Her own personal comfort came in front of her anxiety as to what must happen to Beatrix.

Malcolm Fraser was worried and puzzled. His sympathy was equally divided between his friend and the girl he loved. The cruise, which he hoped would bring them together, was a failure. Propinquity and sea air had refused to work for once. He was intensely sorry. He was in the dark as to what had happened but he knew that Franklin was hard hit because he wanted to be alone. It was a sure sign. He refused to ask himself what was going to happen. There must be trouble and scandal and heart-burnings and probably punishment and he regarded them all as the spoilers of life.

He knew enough of Beatrix to be certain that in leaving the yacht in this abrupt manner she intended to give herself up to her people and never see Franklin again if she could help it. What a pity!

Franklin was quieter even than usual, but there was something in his eyes that made Beatrix curious. Her quick observation missed nothing. Just before lunch came to an end she looked squarely at him, with a straight face and said, "You're going to begin to enjoy yourself now, aren't you?"

"By Jove, yes," he said, with a ring of sincerity in his voice which set Malcolm puzzling again.

And then the imp sat itself on Beatrix's shoulder. "I wonder you ever bothered to get married," she said, with a little laugh.

All eyes turned upon her. Her audacity was epoch-making.

"It isn't good for man to live alone," said Franklin quietly.

"But you agree with modern thinkers that married people need a holiday from time to time, is that it?"

"Something like that," he replied, showing his teeth.

Beatrix looked round the table. She saw the same expression on the faces of all her party. "When shall we all meet again, do you suppose?"

"The sooner the better," said Franklin, with that touch of old-fashioned courtesy that he must have inherited from his grandfather. "Let's make an engagement to dine together one night at Sherry's during Christmas week. There may be a good deal to talk about by that time."

"I'll be there," said Malcolm.

"And I," said Mrs. Larpent, who had already begun to set the machinery of her brain at work. Many things might be made to happen before Christmas.

"I shall have great pleasure," said Mrs. Keene.

"But, my dear Pelham," cried Beatrix, with mock amazement, "am I to be a grass widow all that time?" She got up before Franklin could find an answer. "Come along, Brownie. Let's go and see how Helene is getting on with the packing. Hope the stewardess is doing good work for you, Mrs. Larpent. Your lovely frocks need careful handling, don't they?"

Franklin waited until they had gone. Then he turned to Malcolm. "Come on deck, old man. You've got to know something."

They went forward and stood in the sun. The line of coast was much nearer than it had been for days. It needed no glasses to see its formation now and the yellow line of beach on which a good-tempered sea was breaking.

Malcolm leaned on the rail side by side with the man with whom he had been at school and university and on many a long trip since. They had been as close as brothers, these two, with no secrets. They had looked into each other's eyes over camp fires in many places far away from the contentious hell of cities and had talked on far into the night of life and death and the great hereafter. They knew each other in and out, realized each other's good points and weaknesses. The everlasting loyalty of friendship that passes the love of women was theirs.

"I knew that you were not going to wind up this cruise, whatever has happened, without a yarn," said Malcolm.

"Not likely," said Franklin. "We don't do those things."

Malcolm waited while Franklin lit a cigar. Christmas was,--he jotted the months off on his fingers. There were six. A good place Sherry's. It ought to be a merry party. Beatrix would see to that,--if she were not with Aunt Honoria in exile.

"I kissed Beatrix last night," said Franklin abruptly. "I had to. She was in my blood.... You know her. She blazed. There was a quick spat out here after dinner. She ordered to be put ashore, called me some extremely well-deserved names and played bridge as if she were at peace with the world. Old man, she's everything you said she was and a whole heap more. I wish to God I'd never met her,--and thank God I have.... This morning she came to my room. I had no intention, by that time, of obeying her orders as if I were a chauffeur. I was too damned angry. But she translated herself back into the simple kid that she was when you put her skates on and sat at her feet. She made pulp of me. I agreed to everything she asked. She was nearer liking me than I ever hoped she would be,--I suppose because she got her way so easily. It's a habit. When she'd gone I did some thinking. I don't know what will come of it,--probably nothing, because men don't hit women as they sometimes deserve. But I made up my mind to have another hard try to win her, to fight like the very devil to keep her and break her in. She got me into all this by a trick. Very good. I'm going to take a leaf out of her book. Two can play that game. You're going ashore with Mrs. Larpent, Mrs. Keene and the maid. I do myself the honor to escort my so-called wife as soon as the other launch is ready. It never will be ready. Do you get me? The _Galatea_ puts out again with the honeymoon couple--alone."

Malcolm took a long breath. "Ah!" he said. "Now you're talking."

"Yes," said Franklin, bringing his hand down hard on the rail, "and now I begin to fight. You have a cat's eyes and see in the dark. You hear things that other people don't catch. When I tell you, standing here in broad daylight, that I believe I'm marked out to make this girl find herself, that it's for me and no other man to bring her out of her casing of stucco, you'll know that I'm not talking highfalutin; you'll understand. In other words,--I'm not much of a hand in using 'em,--I don't think all this is just an accident. I'm going to try and carry out my job. D'you see?"

"I see," said Malcolm. "That's why I argued with her to come on the _Galatea_. Good luck, Pel, and when we meet at Sherry's in Christmas week--don't forget to let us all know the day--I hope to drink to Mrs. Franklin." He held out his hand.

"I hope to God you may," said Franklin, taking it.

"I hope so too if you wish it as much as all that."

They both turned. Beatrix had just come up, dressed for the land.

"Don't _I_ shake hands with anybody?" she added whimsically.

"With me," said Franklin.

"And me," said Malcolm.

And she gave them a hand each and divided one of her best smiles between them.

*XXVI*

At half-past three Captain McLeod stopped the engines of the _Galatea_ and the big launch was lowered. Under the supervision of Mr. Jones the baggage belonging to Mrs. Larpent, Mrs. Lester Keene, Malcolm Fraser and the French maid was loaded into her, leaving plenty of room for the passengers.

Beatrix came on deck to find everyone ready. Franklin met her. He looked as imperturbable as usual but his heart was going nine to the dozen. "You're not going with the others, if you don't mind," he said. "Your things shall be put into the smaller launch. I want to take you ashore myself."

"Highly honored," said Beatrix gaily. "Will all my baggage get into the other launch?"

"Easily," said Franklin.

"What a lot there is of it,--enough for a regular honeymoon!"

"Yes. I was thinking so.... Excuse me while I say good-bye to the ladies." He went over to Mrs. Larpent, giving a quick glance to see that the first officer was on the watch.

"Good-bye," said Mrs. Larpent, softly. "I hate leaving the _Galatea_--and you."

"Thanks. I'm awfully sorry too."

"I shall probably go and stay with friends at Southampton but a letter sent to my apartment will be forwarded if at any time you make up another party and need a fourth for bridge."

"Oh, that's splendid! Good-bye then."

She held his hand, gave him a look that was intended to convey everything that she would have said if they had been alone,--and did,--and then went down, was handed into the launch by Mr. Jones in his best manner and took her place.

Beatrix leaned on the rail. "I wish I had a kodak," she called out. "You look like Lady Jane Grey."

Mrs. Larpent smiled up at her. "I feel like the devil, my dear," she said to herself.

Then Franklin gave his hand to Mrs. Keene. "Good-bye," he said. "I'm sorry you haven't had a good time."

"I can't honestly say that I have, but you've been extremely kind, Mr. Franklin. Thank you."

And once more Jones proved his right to be called a lady's man.

"You look more hopeful already, Brownie," laughed Beatrix.

"Well, so long, Malcolm."

"So long, Pel."

"You know where to find me."

"Right."

Malcolm sat next to Mrs. Keene to give her his moral support, and waved his hand to Beatrix. "You'll find us on the quay," he said.

"All right, Malcolm. Don't wander off till I come."

"Let her go," sang out Mr. Jones and away they went.

And then Beatrix turned to Franklin. "Thanks, once more," she said.

Franklin's heart was up in his throat. "I can bring them back with a shout."

She shook her head.

"A woman may always alter her mind."

"I'm not a woman yet."

"No, that's true."

She laughed. His set face was as amusing as his naive remark. "Well, it was very jolly. I've got quite fond of the _Galatea_. I shall miss the sun coming through the portholes in the morning and all my exercise in the gym."

Franklin raised his hand high above his head. The first officer did the same.

"I ought to know where to find you with a letter," said Beatrix. "Probably mother may want a statement from you as soon as I let the cat out of the bag. Whew! Won't there be a row!"

She began to wonder why Franklin didn't answer. She saw that he was standing with his chin up and his shoulders squared and an amazing look in his eyes. Was it laughter, anger? "Why," she said, "we're moving! Or is it my imagination?"

"No, on we go again," said Franklin.

"But--what do you mean? On where? The other launch isn't lowered yet, and my things----"

"Our honeymoon begins to-day," said Franklin.

For one instant Beatrix was unable to understand. She saw her luggage unmoved, the launch away out of hail, the coast receding, she heard the strong beat of the engines, looked round at the first officer near the bridge, the sailors standing about, and Franklin ready to spring at her if she made a wild attempt to leap overboard. She smothered a cry of rage, stood for a moment in front of Franklin with blazing eyes and distended nostrils, and then going off at one of her sudden tangents,--beckoned to the first officer. She would show these men that she was game.

"As you see, I've changed my mind about going ashore. Will you please have my things taken back and tell the stewardess to unpack them. Thanks, so much."

The first officer saluted and gave orders. Several men moved smartly to carry them out. From the bridge the Captain watched the launch slide against the quay, and grinned as he imagined the utter amazement of her passengers at the sight of his vessel with her dignified nose turned seaward. A smart breeze, lively water, unclouded sun, a clear horizon,--what a picture the _Galatea_ must make from the shore, he thought.

"A contemptible trick," said Beatrix, looking at Franklin as though he were a leper. Other things came to her lips, savage, unrestrained, white-hot things,--not another living creature would have dared to treat her like this, not one,--but the first officer was in ear-shot as well as some of the crew. Blood and breeding told and so with one of her most gracious smiles she turned and swung away, singing a little song. Without a maid, without a companion, without a friend, she was a prisoner on this yacht-world, at the mercy of the man who had given her vanity an unhealing wound. Her one hope, her one most eager hope, was that she would reach the drawing-room before her tears could be seen.

Franklin watched her go. To his tremendous love was added pride and admiration. She had called him a sportsman, but what could he call her?

"A contemptible trick,--yes," he thought. "But this is my job. Fate has marked me out to make a splendid woman of this spoiled girl, and I'll do it."

*XXVII*

Mr. Jones, with half a smile playing round his elastic mouth, and an irresistible twinkle in his small, blue, nimble eyes, quickly overhauled the _Galatea_, saw the launch properly hoisted and reported to the first officer.

"Well, that was a little bit of orl-right," he said, rubbing his handkerchief round the wet leather-lining of his cap. "Neat, very neat."

"Did they say anything when they twigged the idea?"

The whole of Mr. Jones' cockney face puckered into a grin. "Yes, I don't think," he said. "The old hen cackled as if she had lost her pet chicken. A good little soul. I believe she'd 'ave took a flyin' leap back into the launch if Mr. Fraser 'adn't 'eld her."

"What about Mrs. Larpent?"

"Ma boy, the siren's langwidge under her breath would 'ave lit a pile of shavings. Oh, she's 'ot stuff, that Larpy, and no mistake. Personally, I'm bally sorry she's off. It was better than readin' a novel to watch 'er sittin' about with a social smile on one side of her face and a Board meetin' on the other. The way she was layin' bird lime for the Boss! Clever? Nor 'arf,--and, moreover, what a nice leg for a stockin', eh?"

The first officer nodded sympathetically. "Yes," he said, "you're right. What about M.F.?"

Mr. Jones mopped his forehead and ran his handkerchief round the inside of his collar. The afternoon was warm. "I only 'ad time to chuck one glance at Peter Pan," he said, giving Malcolm the nick-name by which he was known on board, "somethin' in his eyes puzzled me. I dunno, but he 'ad the look of a little feller who'd 'ad his finger caught in a door and didn't mean to say anything about it. Well, it broke the bloomin' monotony, anyway, and the boss 'as my warmest congrats. How did Goldie take it?"

The first officer rather resented this precocious but good-hearted person's love of nicknames. "Mrs. Franklin changed her mind," he said, with some stiffness, "and went along to the drawing-room singing."

"Um," said Mr. Jones, with a disbelieving sniff. "Nevertheless, she can 'ave me. I'd break my neck and die 'appy for one of them heart-twistin' smiles of hers. All the same I shall miss Frenchy, we were gettin' on fine. Well, such is life."

The two men separated, the first officer to relieve the Captain, Horatio Jones to go below for a cup of tea. Both intended to discuss the ins and outs of the affair in full detail later on. The whole ship's company was intrigued as to the odd way in which Mr. and Mrs. Franklin "went on." It was almost the one topic of conversation. For constant gossip a yacht easily rivals a suburb, an army post or a convent.

Franklin had carried a deck chair into the sun forward a little while after Beatrix had gone to the drawing-room, and he remained there reading Nicolls on "Big Game in Bechuanaland" for an hour. He concentrated grimly on that delightful Irishman's account of his hunting expeditions, but not one word of several chapters reached his brain. Beatrix, Beatrix, Beatrix,--all the words became her name, on every page he could see nothing but her face and her slim, graceful, alluring figure. Questions as to what he was to do, to say, to think, rose out of the pages. Finally he shut up the book and, with an empty pipe between his teeth, sat gazing at the line of horizon which rose and fell, and built up a dream in which he and she went hand in hand as far as he could see. He was startled and brought back to the difficult task to which, like a sort of crusader, he had bound himself, by the voice of the deck steward. "Mrs. Franklin would like you to come to tea, sir." Mrs. Franklin! By Jove, he would sacrifice everything he had in the world if only those words were true. He got up, curious and eager, and went back amidships on the starboard side. In front of a wicker table Beatrix was pouring out tea while she talked to Captain McLeod. She had changed back into appropriate clothes and looked the last word in smartness in a black straw hat with a black and white ribbon, a suit of white flannel and white shoes with black toe caps. The reason that there was no sign of redness round her eyes or of swollen lids was because she had refused to give Franklin the satisfaction of seeing these things by shedding tears. No one would ever know the strenuous fight that she had put up, alone in the drawing-room, to achieve this end.

It gave Franklin a thrill of pleasure to see her sitting there, so perfectly at home, so completely mistress of herself and the situation, and the smile of welcome that she gave him made him wonder whether he was not back in his dream.

"Captain McLeod has condescended to patronize the tea table for once, Pelham."

McLeod got up and placed a chair for Franklin. "Hardly that," he said, with her note of invitation in his pocket.

"Good for you, McLeod," said Franklin, tacitly agreeing with Beatrix that, under the circumstances, the presence of a third person made things easier.

"Lemon and one lump, isn't it?" She made it so.

Franklin was not surprised that she knew. He had proved the keenness of her observation.

"Captain McLeod, these are cheese sandwiches,--very nice."

"Thank you." The skipper was not much more a lady's man than his owner, although he had stumbled twice into matrimony, and he felt preposterously at a loss for small talk; but if, now that the guests had gone, the monotony of feeding in the mess was to be broken so pleasantly sometimes, he was glad. He had confided to the first officer days before that Mrs. Franklin was "the best-looking thing in girls that he ever wanted to see."

In the middle of her acting to play hostess to the two men who had obviously planned the trick that kept her on board and whom she hated for it, an uncomfortable glimpse of self-analysis told her that she was rather enjoying the excitement and the stimulation of her effort and that her love of adventure and new experiences was being fully gratified. "You weird person," she said to herself, "what are you made of?" And even then her brain began to work on the germ of an idea that might lead to her escape. Jones might be bribed. Her blood began to dance at the thought of it. What joy to do the double on Franklin! "I don't mean to be unkind," she said, "and of course there can't be any more bridge unless Captain McLeod can be induced to play a three-some--"

"Indeed, yes, gladly."

"But it is a relief to be without Mrs. Keene, by way of a change, and the others. You must have the gift of second sight, Pelham."

Franklin said nothing, but he caught her eye and bowed to show her more eloquently than he knew how to express it in front of the Captain that he admired her pluck.

Beatrix caught his meaning. There were one or two good points about this man. But she sailed on and talked and laughed and said several charming things to the Captain that went well home. If Jones proved loyal or cowardly perhaps McLeod might be flattered into helping her to triumph over Franklin. It was as well to make friends, at any rate.

But all the while the coast line was growing more and more faint and the water between herself and the protection of the two women wider and wider. Well, her desire to see life had led her to this almost inconceivable position, and she was certainly continuing to see it. There was some satisfaction in that.

It was only when the Captain had gone, and the deck steward had taken away the table, that silence fell. For a little while those two young people who had come together by accident remained sitting self-consciously, wondering what to say. Franklin hoped that Beatrix would re-open the question of his trick so that he could renew the old argument as to the all-round wisdom of marriage. It was the one burning subject of his thoughts. Beatrix sensed this and so determined to talk, if anything at all were said, of a hundred other things. She had no patience with his eagerness to escape from scandal at such a price. The silence remained, broken only by the unceasing throb of the engines, the swish of the sea and the song of the breeze, until finally Beatrix broke it. "Come over to the rail," she said, "and let's watch the sun go down."

Franklin followed her, everything in him blazing with love and the ache to touch.

All the west was draped with red, and the sun, conscious of having given great joy to the fading day, sank with the indescribable dignity of a beneficent monarch to his rest. Sky and water paid homage as he went and the very breeze seemed to hold its breath to watch the passing.

"Isn't it wonderful?" whispered Beatrix, touched with the beauty and magic of it.

"Yes," said Franklin.

"I often wonder how there can be skeptics in the world with such a proof as this of the great Father. Don't you?"

"Yes," he said again.

"The sun, the moon, the stars, spring, summer, the fall,--everything so regular, so honest, so gentle, so awful, so human and spiritual and divine. Why look at anything but nature for a revelation of God?"

Franklin forgot the sunset and looked at this girl of many sides and moods. She had surprised him so often that he half-expected to discover in her expression the self-consciousness of a pose. Instead he saw the wistful, humble look on her lovely face that he had seen on the faces of French peasant women who, standing in the fields in which they worked so hard for a bare living, bowed their heads at the sound of the Angelus, and once again he was back in his dream with her hand in his, standing on the threshold of a home, listening with infinite joy to the laughter of little children.

It was not until the sun had gone and the last redness in the sky had faded that he heard her sigh, and saw her shiver a little and turn away.

*XXVIII*

The met again at dinner.

The chief steward, after giving the matter very considerable thought, had taken several leaves out of the table, thus making the happy pair "more cosy-like" as he put it. Beatrix and Franklin were equally glad to find that they were not going to sit in solemn state at the opposite ends of a long and narrow board. It would have added difficulty to a position already difficult enough.

Franklin had waited outside the dining saloon until Beatrix put in an appearance. The orchestra, with quite unconscious irony, was playing the Entrance of the Gods into Valhalla from _Das Rheingold_. The stewards were in their places. With an irresistible touch of mischief and her senses alive to the grim humor of it all, Beatrix laid her hand on Franklin's arm and went into dinner as though the saloon were a stage, and the curtain had risen on a crowded auditorium. She deliberately switched her mind into a belief that she was playing the part of a girl who had been forced by her family into a marriage of convenience with a man whom she hardly knew and that the scene in which she was to take part was comedy, one with an underlying note of tragedy in it. She told herself that she was required to portray a girl of high courage and spirit who was to convey the impression of being perfectly at ease although her heart was full of fright. She did this in order to string herself up to go through an ordeal with pluck and to prevent Franklin from having the satisfaction of imagining that he was forcing her to do something that went against the grain. Not for one instant did she intend to let Franklin see how intensely she resented being compelled to remain on the yacht or permit him to feel that he was winning. As to that she had absolutely made up her mind.

Franklin was glad beyond words to fall in with her mood,--as he took it to be. Not being psychologically inclined he was unable to deduce the meaning of it. He simply told himself that she was fearless and daring and added these things to the credit list of her splendid points which was growing larger and larger. He led her to the table, placed her chair, sat opposite and looked at her over an arrangement of roses. She was in a white dress with a string of pearls round her neck,--a dress so simple and clean in its lines as to prove the hand of a master in its making. She sat with a straight back, her chin up, her golden hair shimmering. She reminded Franklin of a daffodil.

He utterly failed to find any answers to his questions as to what he was to do with her now that he had her alone, how he was to proceed to bring about the end that obsessed him, or in what way he could persuade or coerce her out of her supreme and all-controlling individualism. He was not one of those curious men who, like Micawber, the master of the silly art of self-deception, drug themselves into a belief that all is well for the sake of wandering in a temporary paradise to which they have paid no entrance fee in the way of work and service. He was fundamentally incapable of indulging in that form of mental delusion which enables children to turn the floor of a nursery into a battlefield and slothful people with the artistic temperament to wallow in the triumph of a great achievement before they have even commenced to lay the foundations of it. He had the gift of seeing straight. He could find no point in looking at life through the wrong end of a telescope. He was, in a word, honest. While, therefore, he delighted in seeing Beatrix playing the role of his wife so perfectly and enjoyed her almost affectionate manner and charming smiles he remained coldly truthful to himself and the position in which they both stood and realized that he was, if anything, farther away than ever from, the fulfilment of what he had called his "job."

All through dinner Beatrix talked well and quietly about plays and books, as to which Franklin had very little to say. So with uncharacteristic tact she switched off to shooting and fishing and all was well. She liked hearing him give forth on his own subjects and was amused to find how much more he knew of the ways and habits of birds and beasts than those of women. She made up her mind to see what she could do with Mr. Jones as soon as possible.