Wheeler did not speak; and presently she went on:
“I can only just remember my mother—I can just remember her as someone very pretty and frightened looking—she used to cry a great deal too. We lived in England then—in London, and then— one day she just wasn’t there any more. I didn’t understand why. I suppose I was too young, but she had died, of course … and then I was the one who cried. I can remember that, and how angry my father was because I cried. … And then one day we went on the sea—to France—and when the boat got there a woman came to meet us. I hated her. She had such hard eyes. And then my father said good-bye to me, and I went away with the woman in a train —to Paris. I think I was about eight then….” She knit her brows as if in an effort to remember the details of that nightmare journey and her own loneliness and despair.
And, although it was so long ago, it seemed as if she could still feel the swaying of the train and see the austere figure of the woman who had sat beside her, the woman who had hardly spoken at all except to say: “If you don’t stop crying, Elizabeth, I shall punish you when we get to Paris.”
“Go on,” Wheeler said.
Rocky started. For a moment she had forgotten her surroundings and the man to whom she was talking.
“I don’t know why I should bother you with all this,” she said defensively; but she went on because in a way it was a relief to speak of the things she had kept locked in her heart for so long, even to someone who would not perhaps be very sympathetic.
“I was taken to a school,” she said. “It wasn’t a very good school, and the girls didn’t like me. They used to laugh at me because I was so miserable, and sometimes—at night—if I was asleep they would wake me up and pretend to be ghosts. They used to dress up in sheets and whiten their faces.” She shivered. “I expect it sounds silly to you, but I was so terrified. … I told Madame— the woman who fetched me from Calais—and she only laughed too. I don’t think she liked me, either, very much. … I was at that school for eight years—in the holidays too. Once I tried to run away, but I only got as far as the end of the street, and then someone recognised me and I was brought back. I was punished for that too—locked in my room with only bread and water to eat.” She looked again at Wheeler. “It sounds like an old-fashioned melodrama to you, I suppose—like a Victorian novel or something, but it’s all quite true. I found out afterwards that my school fees were not paid, and that’s why I was so badly treated. … All my life I shall see that room—the one they locked me in. They wouldn’t let me have a light when it got dark, and outside there was a plane tree, and when the wind blew its branches used to knock against the window, like someone trying to get in.” She drew a long breath, staring before her with memory-haunted eyes. “And all those years nobody ever came to see me—not my father or anyone In the holidays everyone went away except me and Celeste—she was a kind of housekeeper—but she was afraid of Madame too, because once she had stolen something, and Madame found out about it and was always threatening her with the police if she didn’t do exactly as she was told. Celeste was kind to me—as kind as she dared to be—but it was so—lonely! … I must have been nearly seventeen when one day I was told to put on my best frock and to brush my hair because there was a visitor to see me, and it was my father. Madame was all sugary to me then, and to him too—because, as I found out afterwards, he had paid the money he owed her—but I wasn’t pleased to see him; when I looked at him I could see my mother and hear her crying. … And he said: “Well, Elizabeth, you’re a pleasant surprise—you’d be quite pretty if you were decently dressed.’ … And then he said he was taking me away to live with him, and that he hoped I’d be a good girl and do as I was told.” Rocky laughed quiveringly. “I hadn’t any pluck then,” she explained. “Not like I have now. So we drove away in a taxi-cab, and Madame waved to us from the window. I remember when I saw her standing there I put my tongue out at her, and then I was terrified, afraid of being punished, but my father only laughed and said that he had always hated the old virago himself. … We went to some apartment in the Rue St. Honore, and it all seemed wonderful to me after the dreadful dormitories at school. It wasn’t my father’s furniture, but I didn’t know that, and we had lunch— he let me choose anything I liked, and I remember I had sausages. You know those little French sausages they fry in batter—and two ices. Funny, but I’ve always remembered that.”
And now she looked so like an eager child again that Wheeler winced as his eyes rested on her face as she went on.
“And then he took me to the shops and bought me some new clothes—lovely clothes.” She seemed suddenly to come awake; and she added in breathless apology: “But you don’t want to hear all this; you must be dreadfully bored.”
“Please go on,” he said quietly.
“Well—a lot of people came to our apartment that night—there were a good many men as well as women, and they were all so nice to me, though at first I was terribly shy and would hardly speak a word—but all the same I was happy, happy for the first time for eight years; you see, it was all so different—my bedroom was lovely, with an eiderdown quilt, and I was always warm, and never alone —and even when I found out the truth—that my father was running a gambling-saloon to get money out of the people who came there, I wasn’t really shocked, because I didn’t understand what it meant. I just thought it was clever of him, because sometimes he gave me some of the money to spend on myself, and until then I had never had any money of my own at all. I used to go to a proper hairdresser’s, and I had my nails manicured, and though I was never supposed to gamble with the other people, I used to have dinner with them first and we always had wine, and my father was so kind to me—especially when anyone was there … and then—” She drew another long breath. “Then I met Louis—he was a French boy—the son of a rich manufacturer, and he had quite a lot of money. We liked one another from the first, and— quite soon—he told me that he was in love with me and wanted to marry me as soon as he came of age—he was twenty, then, and I was nineteen. When I told my father he looked so pleased that— somehow I felt afraid; and then, when I said, ‘But I’m not in love with him,’ he said that that didn’t matter, and that if I was a wise little girl I should go on being friends with him and letting him be in love with me and letting him come to the apartment.” Rocky shivered as if with sudden cold. “I don’t know what really—happened—after that; but one night—I had gone to bed—it was long after midnight, and I heard loud angry voices, as if people were fighting, and then it sounded as if chairs were being overturned … and then—then—I—heard—the sound of—a shot …
She was trembling from head to foot, her hands gripped together as if for support.
“I got up,” she said very slowly, and almost whispering, “and I went to the saloon—but someone—came to the door and barred the way so that I couldn’t see what was happening—someone stopped me from going in.”
“I did,” Wheeler said.
Rocky looked at him.
“You did?”
“Yes.”
There was a tragic silence before she struggled on once more, as if the story must be told to its end.
“Then perhaps you know the rest better than I do! Louis had shot himself—or had been shot—I never knew. And then my father told me to go to my room and to stay there quietly and not to make a fuss, and I sat there for—oh, for a lifetime it seemed, till I couldn’t bear it any longer, and then I opened the door and looked out. It was so quiet everywhere, and yet there were lights burning in all the rooms. I went to the saloon—it was all in disorder, as if people had been fighting, but though I walked through every room they Were all empty—I can’t tell you how terrifying it was—like being the only person alive in all the world. I did not know what to do, but I changed my evening frock for an ordinary coat and skirt and packed a few things, because I meant to run away as soon as it got light.” She drew a deep breath. “It’s funny,” she said after a moment, “but I was more frightened then—of the pl
ace where I had been quite happy—really—than I had ever been of Madame or of boarding-school. … It seemed as if daylight would never come, but at last I could hear the sparrows twittering in the gutters. I don’t know if you have ever watched the dawn quite alone—but it seemed like years and years till people began to move about in the street and I knew I could go without exciting too much curiosity. … I put on my hat and took my suitcase, and then—there was a funny little sound at the front door—as if someone was outside, and then I heard something being put through the letter-box—and an envelope fell on to the mat. I waited till I was quite sure the person had gone away again—you see, it was too early for the postman—and then I crept out and picked the letter up. My name was on the envelope—Mademoiselle Chandler—and inside there were notes worth about three hundred pounds—that was all.” She looked at Wheeler, her eyes dark and memory-haunted. “It may sound foolish to you, but that frightened me more than anything, and made me quite sure that something—dreadful had happened, but I took the money—I only had a few francs of my own—and then I ran away. I remember as I crept down the stairs they seemed to creak—like the plane tree did when I was locked in that dark room at school, and though I never met a soul till I reached the street, the house seemed to be full of eyes that were watching me. … I went to Celeste—Madame had died by that time, and Celeste was living in one room taking in needlework. She let me stay—and later that day in the papers—we saw—about Louis. … He had been found dead—in a street a mile away from my father’s apartment. I showed it to Celeste—she didn’t say very much—but that night we packed up and left Paris and went into the country to some people she knew. They were poor, and they were glad to take us in because I could pay. We were there about two months—and nothing happened—though at night I used to lie awake and imagine I could hear footsteps outside and voices—and I thought someone had come for me—and then—quite suddenly—I thought about going abroad. I gave Celeste enough money to keep her till I came back—and yet—all the time—I don’t think I ever meant to— go back—” She stopped once more; and Wheeler asked:
“And will you go back?”
“I don’t— know” Rocky whispered.
Return journey! Return journey! … What was it Sir John had said? … She could not remember, for it seemed a lifetime ago that she had known him, and had been so happy, believing the past to be safely buried behind her.
“You had a cable,” Wheeler said in his quiet voice.
“Yes, from Celeste—she said that someone had been to the house —making enquiries—she told me not to come back,” she laughed brokenly. “I can’t now—can I? As I haven’t any money—”
And then, as if the full enormity of her position broke suddenly upon her, she started up with a smothered sob. “I wish I was dead,” and she fled from the room and out on to the deserted deck.
Wheeler was after her in a flash.
“Rocky!”
She fought desperately against his arms as if she were beside herself. “Let me go—let me go.”
And then quite suddenly she relaxed, her slim body sagging helplessly against him.
“That’s better,” Wheeler said quietly. He dragged up a chair and put her into it, standing beside her; and then for a long time neither of them spoke till he said, as if nothing unusual had happened, “Have a cigarette,” and when she did not answer or raise her head, he lit one for her and put it into her hand.
It was very quiet everywhere, for it was long past midnight—a perfect night without a ripple on the sea and myriads of stars in a velvet sky.
Then at last Rocky said in a small far-away voice:
“I’m very—-sorry … I won’t be silly again.”
“I shouldn’t,” he answered. “It won’t do any good, and I’m sure you don’t want to spoil the voyage for the rest of us. We get to Port Said tomorrow, you know, and you’ve promised to come ashore with me.” And then, as her face went down into her hands again, he said: “Don’t be a coward now, Rocky—when you’ve been so brave.”
She looked up at him.
“Brave? Then you don’t—hate me?”
“Hate you? I’m only so—terribly sorry.”
Her face was so pathetic in its strained pallor.
“It wasn’t my fault,” she said. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“I know.” He stooped and took her hand, drawing her to her feet. “We’ll just walk round the deck once and then you must go to bed.”
“I don’t want to go to bed—I couldn’t sleep if I did.”
“Well, I do” he said, smiling. “And you’ll sleep all right.” He kept her hand in his as they walked round the deck; and she thought dully, “You’re very kind—I wish I could thank you,” but it was only when they reached the door of her cabin that she could manage to say:
“I don’t know how to thank you—I don’t know what I should have done without you—I can never thank you.”
“Oh yes you can,” he said in a deliberately matter-of-fact voice. “You can thank me here and now by giving me your word of honour to be a good girl and not worry. Just put everything right out of your head till tomorrow, and then we’ll talk again—will you promise?”
Rocky answered in a low voice: “Tomorrow you won’t want to talk to me again—you’ll have thought things over, and you’ll be quite different.”
“No,” he said; and then, as she did not speak, “Give me your word of honour, Rocky—promise me!”
“I promise,” she whispered.
Wheeler gave a sigh of relief.
“Then good night, my dear.”
The sudden tears sprang to her eyes at the kindliness of his voice. “Oh, thank you,” she breathed, and her door closed between them.
In the morning it seemed more than ever like a dream.
Rocky lay in bed, waiting to be told that her bath was ready, trying to collect her thoughts and to remember what had really happened last night.
Her money had been stolen, and she had told Richard Wheeler the story she had intended to hide so faithfully.
And Wheeler had been kind—kinder to her than anyone in her life before, and he had said that today he would take her ashore.
“But I don’t really want to go,” she told herself dejectedly.
Her head ached and her limbs felt heavy.
“If anyone told me it was a hundred years ago since last night, I should believe them,” she thought; and with a sigh she got out of bed and slipped on her dressing-gown.
The sun was shining, and, peering through the porthole, she could see that the ship was already tied up, and she could hear a babble of native voices.
Mrs. Bingham knocked and then put her head round the door.
“I forgot to tell you that you can’t have a bath this morning, Miss,” she said; “because we’re in port.”
“Oh,” Rocky said disappointedly; she had looked forward to a bath—the hot sea-water always took away her tiredness.
She washed and dressed and went down to breakfast, feeling a little unhappy at the thought of meeting Clive; but to her surprise he said nothing about going ashore, though she thought there was something a little formal in his manner as he wished her good morning. The Second Officer’s chair was empty and Mrs. Bumpus was having breakfast in her hat and coat, evidently determined not to waste a moment.
It was Constance who volunteered the first remark.
“I’m going ashore with Mr. Lacey.”
Lacey was a quiet, middle-aged man, who was reputed to be a great authority on precious stones; it was rumoured in the, ship that he kept two photographs of a woman in his cabin, who was generally supposed to be his wife, but as he never mentioned her there seemed to be some doubt as to whether he was married or a bachelor.
Rocky seized the opportunity to say, with rather forced gaiety, “And I am going ashore with Mr. Wheeler.”
And then as she saw Clive Durham’s face pale a little her heart twisted remorsefully; but he made no comment.
>
Miss Esther stopped to say a word on her way out.
“Of course you’re all going ashore?”
She was dying to tell them that she was to be escorted by Sir John, and also that, as her sister was still unable to leave her bed, she would be unchaperoned.
Like Rocky, she, too, was still wondering whether last night had been only a dream; not that anything special had happened except that she had spent the entire evening in Sir John’s company on deck, and that she had been unutterably thankful to find, when at half-past eleven she peeped guiltily into her sister’s cabin, that the elder Miss Pawson was peacefully asleep.
Constance stifled a yawn; she was not particularly looking forward to her day with Lacey, but she had decided it would be preferable to another “Cook’s Tour,” as Clive called it.
“I suppose we shall all knock up against one another on shore,” she said. “There’s not much to see, and we shall be pestered to death by natives trying to sell us rubbish. I bought a cigarette-case coming out—it was supposed to be amber, but it’s no more amber than I am.” She pushed back her chair and rose, following Miss Esther up the stairs.
Rocky fidgeted uncomfortably when she found herself alone with Clive; and he said abruptly:
“You look as if you’d got a headache.”
She flushed a little.
“I had when I woke up, but it’s better now.”
There was a short silence before he said:
“So you didn’t go to bed early last night after all.”
“What do you mean?”
His unhappy eyes met hers accusingly.
“I mean that I saw you on deck with Wheeler—hours after you had said good night to me.”
She tried to smile. “Well, I couldn’t sleep—and, anyway, there’s nothing so dreadful in being on deck with him, is there?”
“You always pretend to dislike him.”
Rocky made no answer, and at that moment Wheeler crossed the saloon and stopped beside their table.
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