Return Journey

by Ruby M. Ayres

  Miss Esther flushed beautifully, though she only said: “You silly child—it’s time you got dressed, isn’t it?”

  “Can I help you, Miss?” Mrs. Bingham asked, but Rocky shook her head.

  “Thank you, but I can manage quite well, and as I came along the passage just now I heard Mademoiselle calling for you, so you’d better go to the rescue.”

  “May I stay?” Miss Esther asked.

  “Of course,” Rocky said. “Sit down on the bed and don’t be shocked when you see my costume.”

  She dived under the bed and produced a cardboard box. “I’m going as a laughing fawn in green tights,” she explained.

  “But how lovely!” Miss Esther said, and she watched with breathless admiration while Rocky wriggled her slim body into the quaint costume.

  Green tights—green, long, pointed shoes—a short doublet made entirely of brown and green leaves sewn together—a tiny cap with pointed horns, and a long silver lute complete.

  “I can play it a little too,” Rocky announced with pride. “Just a few notes that are supposed to be a woodland call. I’ll show you— no, I won’t,” she added in comic contradiction. “I’ll wait till it’s time for the procession. Now! … how do you like me?”

  “You look just a—perfect—darling,” Miss Esther said, and she suddenly rose and laid her hands on Rocky’s shoulders, bending to kiss her. “You look the darling you are,” she added softly.

  Rocky kissed her quickly in return before she swung round to the mirror. “Everyone doesn’t think so,” she said, with forced gaiety. But her reflection pleased her. “I really—quite look the part, don’t I?” she asked, and then she laughed. “Do you think the old ladies will be shocked?”

  “I think you’ll get the prize,” Miss Esther answered.

  Someone tapped on the door.

  “May I come in?”

  “That’s Clive,” Rocky said quickly; and then, raising her voice: “No, you can’t come in, but we shall be out in a minute. Are you dressed?”

  “I’m darned uncomfortable!” he answered.

  That was too much for Rocky’s curiosity, so she opened the door and peered out. “Oh, you beautiful creature!” she gasped; and then, quite spoiling her enthusiasm: “What are you meant to be?”

  “I’m an Indian prince,” Clive explained a little shamefacedly; and then he said with husky emotion: “You beautiful darling!”

  “Do you like me?” Rocky asked; and then before he had time to answer she said briskly, “Well, we shall see you at dinner,” and closed the door in his admiring face.

  Miss Esther looked at her apologetically.

  “I couldn’t help hearing what he said,” she ventured. “That boy is very fond of you, Rocky.”

  Rocky sighed. “I’m afraid he is,” she admitted. “But I’m not very fond of him—not in that way, I mean.”

  There was a short silence before Miss Esther asked, “What do you think about—falling in love, Rocky? I mean—have you ever been in love?”

  Rocky shrugged her shoulders.

  “I don’t know what I think about it,” she said. Sometimes I think it must be rather—beautiful, and then—sometimes I think it must be—just the opposite. People so often seem to fall in love with the wrong people,” she added a little pathetically.

  “Yes,” Miss Esther agreed. “But then—you can’t help that, can you? I mean—it wouldn’t be any use making up your mind to fall in love with someone just because—because he seemed to be—the right person!” Rocky did not answer and she went on slowly, “It seems so amazing to me that—if—when you like someone very much—they shouldn’t like you too—just as much—the ideal thing would be that they should— don’t you think so, Rocky dear?”

  “But it doesn’t happen that way,” Rocky said, and a little line of pain wrinkled her brow, before she added with determined cheerfulness, “Don’t let’s talk about it—we can’t alter things, so we may as well leave them alone.”

  Miss Esther’s slim fingers nervously pleated the long folds of her nun’s frock.

  “No, we can’t alter them,” she agreed quietly, and then they were both silent, each occupied with their own thoughts, and Rocky was thinking as she stared at the slim boyishness of her figure in its green costume, “I wonder if he will think I look nice? or if he won’t bother even to look at me?” And then at once she was telling herself, “What does it matter? I don’t care.” But she did care, terribly.

  And then the first bugle for dinner rang through the ship and she said quickly, “We’re forgetting that Sir John invited us all for cocktails in the smoking-room. Come along—let me just powder your cheeks first—just a little—— There! now you’re perfect! Come along!” She picked up the silver lute and took Miss Esther’s hand. “We’re going to have a marvellous time,” she said determinedly.

  The smoking-room was already in an uproar when they arrived, and Mademoiselle Savoire was the centre of a critical group who were expressing great admiration for her nautch-girl’s costume, although Rocky heard an elderly woman say in an aside to her husband, “Did you ever see such a fright? I knew she’d wear something of the kind.”

  Rocky tugged at Miss Esther’s hand.

  “Oh, look! … Sir John is in costume too. Isn’t he a picture?”

  Sir John was certainly a most stately figure in velvet knee-breeches with paste buckles, silk stockings and a ruffled shirt-front.

  He came towards them and bowed with great dignity.

  “It’s the best I could do,” he apologised with a twinkle. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to be—but I thought it would ruin the party if I turned up in an ordinary dinner-jacket.”

  “I know what you are,” Rocky told him quickly. “You’re The Ancestor.” She gently pulled Miss Esther forward. “What do you think of our White Nun?” she enquired.

  Sir John’s eyes rested on the elder woman’s agitated face. “I think Miss Esther very charming—as always,” he said, and taking her hand, he bent and touched it with his lips.

  “Do nuns allow that sort of thing?” Constance enquired pertly. She was dressed as Little Bo-peep, complete with a crook and a woolly lamb, purchased in the shop, and was really looking very handsome.

  “Where are the Bumpus couple?” someone enquired, and the depressed Edith explained that they were not putting in an appearance until dinner-time.

  “I’m dying to see them,” she added in the flat sort of voice which was her nearest approach to enthusiasm.

  Cocktails were brought and there was much laughter and criticism as new people appeared on the scene.

  “There’s nobody to touch you,” Clive told Rocky, but she only smiled while her eyes looked in vain for Richard Wheeler.

  Didn’t he mean to come at all? she wondered; and knew that however hard she might try to be happy and to enjoy herself, his absence would spoil everything.

  What had she done that he should so deliberately avoid her again? Gina’s soft voice suddenly broke in upon her thoughts.

  “Oh, yes—I was asked to the party—Rocky asked me—so very sweet of her—but I am dining with Mr. Wheeler—poor man! He was to be so lonely that I say ‘I dine with you. …”

  “Of course she would ask herself,” Constance commented to Rocky. The second bugle sounded above the clamour of voices, and Sir John said:

  “I think, in order to carry out the spirit of the evening, we must go down to dinner in the old-fashioned way, arm-in-arm.” He bowed to Miss Esther. “May I have the honour?”

  Miss Esther took a half-step towards him and then stopped. “My sister,” she said hesitatingly.

  “Miss Pawson has gone down with the Captain,” Clive informed her. “And the Captain is coming to the party, too.”

  Everybody cheered and applauded, but Rocky did not say that it was she who had told the Captain of the difficulty they were expecting with Miss Esther’s sister, and that he had said at once, “Leave the lady to me, my dear—I’ve had far more difficult tasks to
combat.”

  And when they reached the dining-saloon, Sir John and Miss Esther leading the way, there was Miss Pawson at the head of the table looking a little flushed and self-conscious, with the Captain standing beside her waiting for the party to be completed.

  But Wheeler’s table was unoccupied.

  It was the first thing Rocky noticed, as she drew her hand from Clive’s and took her seat. The table had been enlarged for the occasion, and was decorated with paper caps and air balloons and crackers.

  “What a lovely party!” Miss Esther said, and shot a glance of anxious enquiry at her sister, but Miss Pawson was smiling graciously as she listened to something the Captain was saying to her.

  Suddenly there was a burst of applause and much clapping as two quaint figures, arm-in-arm, came slowly down the stairs—Jack and Jill—stout comical figures, dressed as children. Mrs. Bumpus in a short frock and flat-heeled shoes and a sun-bonnet, and Mr. Bumpus, grinning from ear to ear, in a small boy’s sailor suit.

  For an instant Miss Pawson looked shocked, and then as she saw that the Captain was laughing and applauding, she feebly followed suit and Miss Esther heaved a deep sigh of relief. It was a wonderful party, she thought.

  “Wonderful,” Rocky agreed expressionlessly; and Miss Esther whispered that she had never enjoyed herself so much.

  There were speeches from everyone—a most absurd toast for the ladies from Mr. Bumpus, who had drunk enough wine to be eloquent, and who daringly referred to his wife as the “one love of my life”—a remark which called forth desperate cheering—and then Miss Esther whispered to Sir John, “Rocky ought to make a speech—she got up the party—she’s done everything.”

  Sir John rapped on the table.

  “Miss Rocky Chandler will reply for the ladies,” he said.

  There was more cheering, but Rocky shook her head.

  “I can’t—I’ve never made a speech in my life—oh, please——”

  But she was over-ruled and presently she was forced to stand up, very flushed and with the silver lute tightly clasped in one hand.

  “She can play it too,” Miss Esther whispered to Sir John, whereupon he rapped the table again and announced that Miss Rocky Chandler would precede her speech by playing an air on the fairy lute.

  Rocky looked at him appealingly, but her protest was drowned by a chorus of voices, and at last, with a little gesture of despair, she raised the silver lute to her trembling lips.

  And at the sound of the first liquid notes a silence fell on the big dining-saloon, and Richard Wheeler, who was coming down the stairs with Gina Savoire beside him, stood quite still, his hand on the stair-rail, listening.

  For some reason which she could not have explained, the little air which Rocky had taken such pains to learn was the Love Call from Rose Marie; and in spite of her nervousness she played it exceedingly well and without making a single mistake, until, raising her eyes, she saw Wheeler watching her.

  “You’ll belong to me—I’ll belong to you——”

  Clive and the other young people at the table had taken up the well-known refrain and were singing the words so that it passed unnoticed when Rocky suddenly stopped playing, and Wheeler moved and, with Gina beside him, crossed the saloon to his table.

  “And after that effort I absolutely refuse to make a speech,” Rocky said tremulously, and Miss Esther touched Sir John’s arm.

  “Don’t insist, please,” she whispered, so Sir John gallantly rose from his chair and announced that after the very excellent way in which Rocky had already entertained them, he felt they could not impose further upon her generosity.

  And soon afterwards the party broke up.

  “Don’t forget you promised me the first dance and the supper dance and every other dance I asked for,” Clive whispered, and Rocky nodded.

  “All right—the band has started to play.”

  They went out on deck, her hand in his.

  “Wasn’t it hot in the dining-room?” Rocky said. She drew in a deep breath.

  “It’s not much cooler here,” Clive answered. “Come along— they’re playing a waltz and you know you love waltzing.”

  But one of the committee seized upon them to say that the procession was forming for the judges to decide which were the best costumes and that they must come at once.

  “You’ll walk round with me, won’t you?” Clive said.

  “If you like,” Rocky answered, and wondered why she suddenly felt so weary.

  It was a gay procession—headed by Sir John and Miss Esther. Pierrots—Indian princes—a pathetic looking scarecrow—a charlady—a newspaper boy—and many others.

  “They’re the best costumes I’ve ever seen on board,” Rocky heard someone say after they had gone the round of the promenade deck three times. She leaned rather wearily against the smoking-room door.

  “Tired?” Clive asked.

  “Of course not.”

  And then the judges announced their decision.

  “Lady’s first prize for a costume bought on board—Miss Rocky Chandler.”

  “Hurray!” Clive shouted at the top of his voice.

  “Lady’s first prize made on board—Miss Esther Pawson.”

  This time it was Rocky who led the cheering in her shrill voice, and then when the excitement had died down the names of the other prize-winners were announced—the prize for the best pair going to Jack and Jill.

  “And now I can take off this stifling turban,” Clive said when the ceremony was over; he threw it aside and drew Rocky towards the band. “Don’t let’s waste any more time,” he whispered.

  And Rocky danced and danced, chiefly with Clive, but once with the Captain and twice with the Second Officer.

  When anyone else approached her, Clive said at once, “This is my dance,” till the dowagers who sat round the deck watching with eagle eyes for any signs of an “affair” whispered to one another that it was quite obvious that Clive and Rocky would be engaged before they reached Colombo.

  “Such a mistake, my dear—you never know who people really are when you meet them on board ship!”

  It was past midnight when Rocky managed at last to slip away from Clive; she had never felt so tired in her life, and her head was aching intolerably.

  She had allowed herself to be persuaded to drink champagne at supper-time, and champagne always made her head ache.

  Clive had wearied her too. “Don’t you think if I am very patient, you will ever care for me?” A dozen times he had asked the question until she felt as if she must say, “Oh, leave me alone, please leave me alone!”

  Under cover of darkness she crept up the stairs to the boat-deck —deserted as far as she could see, except for a couple standing arm-in-arm looking at the stars—and found a chair in a dark corner.

  Wonderful to be alone and quiet for a little while. She could hear the music still playing—her own haunting melody, now, from Rose Marie. And suddenly the bitter realisation arose in her heart that although she had done her best, she was more unhappy than ever in her life before—though she had danced and talked nonsense, all the time her heart had been cold and empty. But now there was no longer any need for the Laughing Fawn to pretend, and with a passionate gesture of defeat she tore the little cap with its pointed horns from her head, and, leaning forward, hid her face in her hands.

  “You’ll belong to me—I’ll belong to you——”

  The distant strains of the music seemed to be mocking her through the summer night, but she shed no tears—her eyes felt hot and dry as if they could never weep again, and then suddenly a hand was laid on her shoulder and a voice said, “Why, Rocky! All alone!” … and Sir John Stannard was standing beside her.

  Rocky made no attempt to hide her tear-stained face—perhaps because she did not mind Sir John seeing her distress, or because she instinctively knew that he would understand—and she made no comment when he drew up a chair and sat down beside her.

  “A very successful evening,” he said, witho
ut much enthusiasm; but Rocky felt that he wanted to give her time to recover her composure, and he did not seem at all surprised when she answered with concentrated passion:

  “It’s been a—hateful evening.”

  There was a little silence before he said in his kindly way: “Don’t you think it’s often like that? We make great preparations for something, and expect it to be—all that the most exacting heart can desire, and in the end we’re just a little disappointed?” And then, as a stifled sob broke from her, he laid his hand over hers. “What’s the matter, my dear?” he asked. “It’s not like you to cry.”

  “I—kn-know.” Rocky did her best to control her voice, but she was not very successful, and after a moment she burst out chokingly: “As if it’s my fault. I told him the truth, and I thought he understood, and now—he won’t speak to me or——” She suddenly realised the betrayal of her words, and she rushed on: “I’m sorry. I know it’s silly to get upset when—when I’ve got the prize and— and everything——”

  “Everything?” Sir John asked gently.

  Rocky wiped her eyes, but the tears still fell, and presently Sir John said, almost as if she had been his daughter, Rocky thought achingly: “Supposing you tell me about it? Do you feel you can trust me sufficiently to tell me? And it does help, you know—to confide in someone.”

  “I do trust you,” Rocky said, and then suddenly she found herself pouring out the whole unhappy story which she had told to Richard Wheeler—of her life in Paris, of her own innocent share in the tragedy which had ended in flight and finally to this voyage, and—at last—to Wheeler’s recognition of her.

  “You see, he was there—when it happened,” she added in a helpless voice.

  “And—then?” Sir John asked very quietly, as she stopped. Rocky drew a long breath.

  “He was kind to me when I told him everything—when I tried to explain, but now”—her voice broke once more in spite of her gallant effort to speak calmly——”now he won’t speak to me or—or look at me, and it wasn’t my fault—it wasn’t my fault.” She turned her quivering face to Sir John. “I suppose I shall never get away from it, shall I? There’ll always be someone—turning up just when I think I’m going to be happy—someone who knew my father—and who recognises me. I shall never be able to live it down, and people will always be suspicious about me, and— and——” She found it impossible to go on; and Sir John said: