“That is rather his affair, is it not?” she said drily.
“Precisely,” her companion agreed. “Precisely! I should not, perhaps, have made the remark. Sickness, however, interests me very much. I have the misfortune not to be strong myself, and my own ailments occupy a good deal of my attention.”
She looked at him curiously.
“You suffer from nerves, don’t you?” she enquired.
“Hideously,” he assented.
“And yet,” she continued, still watching him in a puzzled fashion, “you made that extraordinary voyage through the air to catch this steamer. That doesn’t seem to me to be at all the sort of thing a nervous person would do.”
“It was for a bet,” he explained confidentially. “The only occasion upon which I forget my nerves is when there is a bet to be lost or won. At the time,” he went on, “my deportment was, I think, all that could have been desired. The sensations of which I was undoubtedly conscious I contrived to adequately conceal. The after-shock, however, has, I must admit, been considerable.”
“Was it really so terribly important,” she enquired, “that you should be in London next week?”
“The War Office made a special point of it,” he assured her. “Got to join up, you know, directly I arrive.”
“Do you think,” she enquired after a brief pause, “that you will enjoy soldiering better than pseudo-diplomacy? I don’t exactly know how to refer to your work. I only remember that when we were introduced I was told that you had something to do with the Secret Service.”
They were leaning over the side of the steamer, and she glanced curiously at his long, rather sunken face, at the uncertain mouth, and at the eyes, carefully concealed behind a pair of green spectacles. He seemed, somehow, to have aged since they had first met, a year ago, in Washington.
“To tell you the truth,” he confided, “I am a little tired of my job. Neither fish nor fowl, don’t you know. I took an observation course at Scotland Yard, but I suppose I am too slow-witted for what they call secret-service work over here.”
“America wouldn’t provide you with many opportunities, would it?” she observed.
“You are quite right,” he replied. “I am much more at home upon the Continent. The Secret Service in America, as we understand it, does not exist. One finds oneself continually in collaboration with police inspectors, and people who naturally do not understand one’s point of view. At any rate,” he concluded, with a little sigh, “if I have any talents, they haven’t come to the front in Washington. I don’t believe that dear old Sir Richard was at all sorry to see the last of me.” “And you think you will prefer your new profession?”
“Soldiering? Well, I shall have to train up a bit and see. Beastly ugly work they seem to make of it, nowadays. I don’t mind roughing it up to the extent of my capacity, but I do think that the advice of one’s medical man should be taken into consideration.”
She laughed at him openly.
“Do you know,” she said, “I can’t picture you campaigning in France!”
“To tell you the truth I can’t picture it myself,” he confessed frankly. “The stories I have heard with reference to the absence of physical comforts are something appalling. By-the-by,” he went on, as though the idea had suddenly occurred to him, “I can’t think how your patient can rest, anyhow, after an operation, on beds like there are on this steamer. I call it positively disgraceful of the company to impose such mattresses upon their patrons. My bones positively ache this morning.”
“Mr. Phillips has his own mattress,” she told him, “or rather one of the hospital ones. He was carried straight into the ambulance from the ward.”
“Mr.—er—Phillips,” Crawshay repeated. “Have I ever met him?”
“I should think not.”
“He is, of course, a very great friend of yours?”
“I don’t know why you should suppose that.”
“Come, come,” he remonstrated, “I suppose I am an infernally curious, prying sort of chap, but when one thinks of you, a society belle of America, you know, and, further, the patroness of that great hospital, crossing the Atlantic yourself in charge of a favoured patient, one can’t help—can one?”
“Can one what?” she asked coolly.
“Scenting a romance or a mystery,” he replied. “In any case, Mr. Phillips must be a man of some determination, to risk so much just for the sake of getting home.”
She turned and recommenced their promenade.
“I wonder whether you realise that it isn’t etiquette to question a nurse about her patient,” she reminded him.
“I’m sure I am very sorry,” he assured her. “I didn’t imagine that my questions were in any way offensive. I told you from the first that I was always interested in invalids and cases of illness.”
She turned her head and looked at him. Her glance was reproving, her manner impatient.
“Really, Mr. Crawshay,” she said, “I think that you are one of the most inquisitive people I ever met.”
“It really isn’t inquisitiveness,” he protested. “It’s just obstinacy. I hate to leave a problem unexplained.”
“Then to prevent any further misunderstanding, Mr. Crawshay,” she concluded, a little coldly, “let me tell you that there are private reasons which make any further questioning on your part, concerning this matter, impertinent.”
Crawshay lifted his cap. He had the air of a man who has received a rebuff which he takes in ill part.
“I will not risk your further displeasure, Miss Beverley,” he said, stopping by his steamer chair. “I trust that you will enjoy the remainder of your promenade. Good morning!”
He summoned the deck steward to arrange his rugs, and lay back in his steamer chair, eating broth which he loathed, and watching Jocelyn Thew and Katharine Beverley through spectacles which somewhat impaired his vision. The two had strolled together to the side of the ship to watch a shoal of porpoises go by.
“I see that you are acquainted with our hero of the seaplane,” Jocelyn Thew remarked.
She nodded.
“I met him once at Washington and once at the polo games.”
“Tell me what you think of him?”
She smiled.
“Well,” she confessed, “I scarcely know how to think of him. I must say, though, that in a general way I should think any profession would suit him better than diplomacy.”
“You find him stupid?”
“I do,” she admitted, “and in a particularly British way.”
Jocelyn glanced thoughtfully across at Crawshay, who was contemplating his empty cup with apparent regret.
“You will not think that I am taking a liberty, Miss Beverley, if I ask you a question?”
“Why should I? Is it so very personal?”
“As a matter of fact, it isn’t personal at all. I was only going to ask you if you would mind telling me what our friend Mr. Crawshay was talking to you about just now?” “Are you really interested?” she asked, with an air of faint surprise. “Well, if you must know, he was asking questions about my patient. He appears to be something of a hypochondriac himself, and he is very interested in illnesses.”
“He has the air of one who takes care of himself,” Jocelyn observed, with a faint smile. “However, one mustn’t judge. He may be delicate.”
“I think he is an old woman,” she remarked carelessly.
“He rather gives one that impression, doesn’t he?” Jocelyn agreed. “By-the-by, there wasn’t much you could tell him about your patient, was there?”
“There really isn’t anything at all,” she replied. “I just mentioned his condition, and as Mr. Crawshay still seemed curious, I reminded him that it was not etiquette to question a nurse about her patients.”
“Most discreet,” Jocelyn declared. “As a matter of fact,” he went on, “I have scarcely thought it worth while to mention it to you, because I knew exactly the sort of answer you would make to any too curious questions, but
there is a reason, and a very serious reason, why my friend Phillips wishes to avoid so far as possible all manner of notice and questions.”
“You call him your friend Phillips,” she remarked, “yet you don’t seem to have been near him since we started.”
“Nor do I intend to,” he replied. “That is the other point concerning which I wish to speak to you. You may think it very extraordinary, and I offer no explanation, but I do not wish it known to—say, Mr. Crawshay, or any other casual enquirer, that I have any acquaintance with or interest in Phillips.”
“The subject is dismissed,” she promised lightly. “I am not in the least an inquisitive person. I understand perfectly, and my lips are sealed.”
His little smile of thanks momentarily transformed his expression. Her eyes became softer as they met his.
“Now please walk with me for a little time,” she begged, “and let us leave off talking of these grizzly subjects. You’ve really taken very little notice of me so far, and I have been rather looking forward to the voyage. You have traveled so much that I am quite sure you could be a most interesting companion if you wished to be.”
He obeyed at once, falling easily into step with her, and talking lightly enough about the voyage, their fellow passengers, and other trifling subjects. Her occasional attempts to lead the conversation into more serious channels, even to the subject of his travels, he avoided, however, with a curious persistency. Once she stopped short and forced him to look at her.
“Mr. Jocelyn Thew,” she complained, “tell me why you persist in treating me like a child?”
Then for the first time his tone became graver.
“I want to treat you and think of you,” he said, “in the only way that is possible for me.”
“Explain, please,” she begged.
He led her again to the side of the ship. The sea had freshened, and the spray flew past them like salt diamonds.
“Since it has pleased you to refer to the subject, Miss Beverley,” he said seriously, “I will explain so far as I am able. I suppose that I have committed nearly every one of the crimes which our abbreviated dictionary of modern life enumerates. If the truth were known about me, and I were judged by certain prevailing laws, not only my reputation but my life might be in serious danger. But there is one crime which I have not committed and which I do not intend to commit, one pain which I have avoided all my life myself, and avoided inflicting upon others. I think you must know what I refer to.”
“I can assure you that I do not,” she told him frankly. “In any case I hate ambiguity. Do please tell me exactly what you mean.”
“I was referring to my attitude towards your sex,” he replied.
There was a faint twinkle in her eyes.
“That sounds so ponderous,” she murmured. “Don’t you like us, then?”
“There are circumstances in my life,” he said, “which prevent my even considering the subject.”
She turned and looked him full in the eyes. Her very sweet mouth was suddenly pathetic, her eyes were full of gentle resentment.
“I do not believe,” she said firmly, “that you have done a single thing in life of which you ought to be ashamed. I do not believe one of the hard things you have said about yourself. I am not a child. I am a woman—twenty-six years old—and I like to choose my own friends. I should like you to be my friend, Mr. Thew.”
He murmured a few words entirely conventional. Nothing in his expression responded in the least to the appeal of her words. His face had grown like granite. He turned to the purser, who was strolling by. As though unconsciously, the finer qualities of his voice had gone as he engaged the latter in some trivial conversation.
CHAPTER VIII
Table of Contents
That night at dinner time a stranger appeared at the captain’s table. A dark, thick-browed man, in morning clothes of professional cut, was shown by one of the saloon stewards to a seat which had hitherto been vacant. Crawshay, whose place was nearly opposite, leaned across at once with an air of interest.
“Good evening, Doctor,” he said.
“Good evening, sir,” was the somewhat gruff reply.
“Glad to see that you are able to come in and join us,” Crawshay continued, unabashed. “You are, I believe, the physician in attendance on Mr. Phillips. I am very interested in illnesses. As a matter of fact, I am a great invalid myself.”
The doctor contented himself with a muttered monosyllable which was not brimful of sympathy.
“This is a very remarkable expedition of yours,” Crawshay went on. “I am a man of very little sentiment myself—one place to me is very much like another—so I do not understand this wild desire on the part of an invalid to risk his life by undertaking such a journey. It is a great feat, however. It shows what can be accomplished by a man of determination, even when he is on the point of death.” “Who said that my patient was on the point of death?” the doctor demanded brusquely.
“It is common report,” Crawshay assured him. “Besides, as you know, the New York press got hold of the story before you started, and the facts were in all the evening papers.”
“What facts?”
“Didn’t you read them? Most interesting!” Crawshay continued. “They all took the same line, and agreed that it was an absolutely unprecedented occurrence for a man to embark upon an ocean voyage only a few days after an operation for appendicitis, with double pneumonia behind, and angina pectoris intervening. Almost as unusual,” Crawshay concluded with a little bow, “as the fact of his being escorted by the most distinguished amateur nurse in the world, and a physician of such distinction as Doctor—Doctor—Dear me, how extraordinary! For the moment I must confess that your name has escaped me.”
The heavy-browed man leaned forward a little deliberately towards his vis-à-vis. His was not an attractive personality. His features were large and of bulldog type. His forehead was low, and his eyes, which gave one the impression of being clear and penetrating, were concealed by heavy spectacles. His hands only, which were well-shaped and cared for, might have indicated his profession.
“My name,” he said, “is Gant—Doctor James H. Gant. You are not, I presume, a medical man yourself?”
Crawshay shook his head.
“A most admirable profession,” he declared, “but one which I should never have the nerve to follow.”
“You do not, therefore, appreciate the fact,” Doctor Gant continued, “that a medical man, especially one connected with a hospital of such high standing as St. Agnes’s, does not discuss his patient’s ailments with strangers.”
“No offence, Doctor—no offence,” Crawshay protested across the table. “Mine is just the natural interest in a fellow sufferer of a man who has known most of the ailments to which we weak humans are subject.”
“I suppose, as we have the pleasure of your company this evening,” the captain intervened, “Miss Beverley will be an absentee?”
“Miss Beverley at the present moment is taking my place,” the doctor replied. “She insisted upon it. Personally, I am used to eating at all times and in all manner of places.”
There was a brief silence, during which Crawshay discussed the subject of inoculation for colds in the head with his neighbour on the other side, and the doctor showed a very formidable capacity for making up for any meals which he might have missed by too rigid an attention to his patient. The captain presently addressed him again.
“Have you met our ship’s doctor yet?” he enquired.
“I have had that honour,” Doctor Gant acknowledged. “He was good enough to call upon me yesterday and offer his assistance should I require it.”
“A very clever fellow, I believe,” the captain observed.
“He impressed me some,” the other confessed. “If any further complications should arise, it will be a relief for me to consult him.”
The subject of the sick man dropped. Crawshay walked out of the saloon with the captain and left him at the bottom of the stair
s.
“I’ll take the liberty of paying you a short call presently, Captain, if I may,” he said. “I just want to fetch my wraps. And by-the-by, did I tell you that I have been fortunate enough to find a pair of rubbers that just fit me, at the barber’s? One of the greatest blessings on board ship, Captain, believe me, is the barber’s shop. It’s like a bijou Harrod’s or Whiteley’s—anything you want, from an elephant to a needle, you know. In about ten minutes, Captain, if I shan’t be disturbing you.”
The captain found the purser on deck and took him into his cabin.
“I saw you speaking to Doctor Gant in the gangway,” the former observed. “I wonder what he really thinks about his patient?”
“I think I can tell you that, sir, without betraying any confidences,” the purser replied. “Unless a miracle happens, there’ll be a burial before we get across. Poor fellow, it seems too bad after such an effort.”
The captain nodded sympathetically.
“After all, I can understand this hankering of a man to die in his own country,” he said. “I had a brother once the same way. They brought him home from Australia, dying all the way, as they believed, but directly he set foot in England he seemed to take on a new lease of life—lived for years afterwards.” “Is that so?” the purser remarked. “Well, this fellow ought to have a chance. It’s a short voyage, and he has his own doctor and nurse to look after him.”
“Let’s hope they’ll keep him alive, then. I hate the burial service at sea.”
The captain turned aside and filled his pipe thoughtfully.
“Dix,” he continued, “as you know, I am not a superstitious man, but there seems to be something about this trip I can’t fathom.”
“Meaning, sir?”
“Well, there’s this wireless business, first of all. We shall close it up in about thirty-six hours, you know, and in the meantime I have been expecting half a dozen messages, not one of which has come through.”
“Young fellow of the highest character, Robins,” the purser remarked drily.
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