The Lady With Carnations

by A. J. Cronin

  The lunch, which was extremely good, passed off cheerfully. Katharine’s spirits were still soaring, and she kept the conversation bowling merrily.

  Soon, however, Southampton drew upon them, and almost immediately they ran into the harbour station, where a long line of stewards in white jackets and peaked caps stood at attention with the high black wall of the Pindaric rising sheer behind. Though no longer strange, something in the spectacle, the portent of adventure, the prelude to another crossing of that great mysterious ocean, evoked an answer of excitement in Katharine. Familiarity had not staled the sensation for her. Out on the platform she sniffed the sea air with a lively anticipation, and, taking Nancy affectionately by the arm, led the way up the covered gangway to the ship.

  It was in a sense a triumphal progress. Katharine had travelled by the Pindaric so often that the whole ship’s company knew her and greeted her with that immediate and deferential recognition which was sweet as honey to the knowledgeable little Nancy, since she shared it.

  “Do you own this ship, by any chance?” she inquired as they marched along the alleyway behind one of the pursers and a procession of stewards.

  “If I do, it’s yours,” Katharine answered, smiling.

  They had large cabins, with a communicating door, on C deck. Madden’s was on the starboard side, opposite, farther aft. At once Nancy was engaged by the collection of telegrams, messages, and flowers which awaited them, while Katharine talked to Mrs Robbins, the stewardess who invariably looked after her. A moment later Mr Pym, the chief purser, came along. He was a portly red-faced man with protuberant eyes and in addition a slight squint which he cleverly turned into a sidelong beaming look.

  “Well, well,” he declared, holding Katharine’s hand in his with an air of happy privilege, “ it’s fine to have you with us again, Miss Lorimer. And you’ve brought your niece, too. I hope we’ll have a good crossing. Anything I can do, Miss Lorimer, you know you’ve only got to say the word.”

  “You can put this in your safe for a start,” said Katharine, taking the miniature from her case.

  He accepted it with fitting respect. “Ah, yes, I read about your purchase, Miss Lorimer. You may trust me to take care of it.” He rubbed his hands together softly and retreated sideways, like a benign crab, towards the door. “ Meanwhile I’ll send you along a little fruit. Nothing nicer in the cabin than a little fruit.”

  This was a famous aphorism of the famous Mr Pym, but repeated only to his favoured guests. He had, in fact, scarcely gone before a steward arrived bearing a basket of the most lovely hothouse fruits.

  “How do you do it, darling?” Nancy reflected airily. “ Service for ladies. Reception a la duchesse. Everything too marvellous.”

  Katharine’s expression altered at Nancy’s tone. “I don’t know,” she answered rather shortly. “I don’t ask them to do it. And they know there’s precious little of the duchess about me.”

  “Nothing nicer,” continued Nancy in a perfect burlesque of the chief purser, “than a little fruit in the cabin. And your niece, too. She’s fond of fruit, I trust? Ah! I hope you’ll have a nice crossing. With a little fruit in the cabin.” She laughed, that sharp little laugh in which there seemed a hidden scratch. “Isn’t he a ridiculous old bird, Katharine?”

  But Katharine did not laugh. She reddened, and for a second her brows drew down. “ I don’t like that, Nancy,” she said steadily. “The old bird, as you call him, is one of my best friends. He’s shown me endless kindness since I made my first trip. I was not much older than you then, but too shy and nervous to speak to a soul. He took me in hand and introduced me to people. He helped me find my feet. He was decent to me. And he always has been decent. As for his being ridiculous, a great many famous people, I may tell you, are glad to call Pym their friend. He’s a real person.”

  “Darling Katharine,” cried Nancy instantly, her cheapness gone, her whole attitude apologetic. “I didn’t mean anything. I didn’t know you felt that way about him. As for his kindness, and all this attention, it’s gorgeous—simply wonderful for me.”

  There was a pause, then Katharine’s smile broke through again.

  “That’s all that matters, then. I knew you couldn’t mean it. And if you’re happy, so am I.”

  A few minutes later they went up to the promenade deck, where Upton stood with Madden awaiting them. Now the imminence of departure was in the air. Already a steward was beating the gong. People began to move towards the gangways.

  “I’ll have to be going presently,” said Upton with quite a prodigious sigh. “Promise me you’ll take care of yourself and all that, Katharine.”

  “Of course I will, Charley.”

  He looked so woebegone, as he always did on such occasions, that her heart went out to him. His devotion to her was so constant, undemanding, and so absurdly sentimental it sometimes moved her, as it did now, to an impulse of real tenderness.

  “Dash it all,” he went on, “I always feel so dismal when you’re away. If you’re gone too long this time, hanged if I don’t take another trip over and fetch you back.”

  A long blast on the ship’s siren and a throb of life vibrating through the hull expedited an awkward moment. Upton said good-bye to Nancy and Madden, then, pressing Katharine’s hand in his, turned quickly and hurried down the gangway. Something rueful in his retreating figure plucked at Katharine. She moved away from Nancy and Madden, who now stood close together by the rail watching the slow edging of the ship from the quay, and climbed slowly to the boat deck above.

  Here, on its deserted stretch, quite damp from the soft sea mist, she began to pace up and down, her mood fallen unexpectedly towards the verge of sadness. The ship, closely pinioned by two tugs, was veering gradually towards the Solent. Soon, however, a quicker and more powerful pulse activated her. The dun-coloured water rushed past with greater speed, the swooping gulls slipped far astern into the churning wake, the land began to fade. It was a moment curiously touching and impressive, and though Katharine did not break the spell by attempting to analyse her sensations, she had the impression of sweeping into another world whose shapes were phantomlike and sad. But its desolation, at last, was broken by a step matching her own. Swinging round, she found Madden beside her, and immediately her despondency dropped from her, and she was pervaded by a sense of comfort in his companionship.

  “Nancy sent me up,” he explained. “She’s gone down below to straighten out.”

  She nodded, pacing beside him in friendly silence.

  “Oughtn’t you to have a coat on?” he asked at length. “It’s cold for you up here.”

  “No, I like it,” she answered.

  Again there came a silence, which, as though bringing himself to it, he broke with disturbing suddenness.

  “That fellow Upton,” he began, “he’s a good sort. He looks easy and slack, but he’s a regular fellow for all that.” He paused significantly. “And he’s up to his ears in love with you.”

  Katharine, taken aback, made no reply, but continued to walk beside him.

  “I’ve been figuring things out in my head,” he went on, his expression meditative, even troubled. “ It’s pretty fair cheek on my part. I’ve known you only a short while, but that doesn’t prevent me from feeling as if I’d known you all my life. And I can’t help thinking…”

  He broke off. Another pause. Stealing a glance at his worried face, which appeared, nevertheless, concentrated and full of purpose, she smiled faintly and inquired.

  “Well?”

  “Well, it’s like this, Katharine. I’ve seen a good bit of you lately, and it’s struck me you don’t get as much out of life as you ought to. You’re never tired of doing things for other people. It’s give, give, give with you all the time, but—darn it all!—you never seem to get. Maybe it’s because I’m so happy with Nancy I want you to be happy, too; I don’t know. But I think it’s time something was fixed up about you. I’m making too long a speech altogether! All I want to say is, why don’t you
marry Upton and let him take care of you for good?”

  For a moment she did not answer. If anyone else had spoken to her on such a subject, she would have been deeply offended. But now she was not offended. She was half-nonplussed, half-pleased. It was, of course, ridiculous for him to talk to her like a grand-uncle, yet she could not help being moved by his obvious solicitude—or perhaps affection was the better word—for her.

  “No,” she replied at last, “ I can’t see myself letting poor Charley take care of me.”

  “Why not? He’s rich enough.”

  “Does that matter?”

  “I guess it helps some.”

  She shook her head. “It wouldn’t help me. You see, I’m quite old-fashioned, incurably romantic, and dreadfully stupid. If I had made up my mind to marry, money wouldn’t matter a scrap to me. It just happens that I don’t love Charley.”

  Again there came a pause. Her answer drew him up, yet seemed to give him little satisfaction.

  “Well,” he said slowly, that vague frown still between his eyes, “if that’s the case, you can’t get past it.”

  “No,” she answered quietly.

  They walked the deck in silence after that, hearing the thrum of the wind against the superstructure of the deck and the sounding of the waves upon the hull far beneath them. Then, as the early darkness came upon them and the ship’s lights broke out like stars, she left him and went below.

  Chapter Eight

  Dinner that evening was informal and unprolonged, since Captain Ireland never appeared on the first night out and none of the seasoned passengers troubled to change. But, judging by their table companions—Jay French, the cosmopolitan journalist, Edward Brett, an architect of international reputation, and Lady Blandwell, who was bent on her first lecture tour of the United States—the crossing promised to be amusing.

  The next day came, and shipboard life began its measured yet exciting course. The sea, obedient to Mr Pym’s injunction, was calm. Katharine fell into her usual routine as though she had known no other than a maritime existence. In the morning there was gymnasium, followed by a plunge in the swimming pool of Ionian marble—known euphoniously as the Olympian Bath. Nancy, inclined to indolence, would have lain abed, but Katharine, always a demon for exercise when afloat, dragged her up for medicine ball, a workout on the rowing machine, a gallop on the electric horse. After luncheon they wrapped themselves in rugs and lay in a sheltered nook of the promenade deck reading or watching the slow recession of the billows. Often, at Katharine’s suggestion, they took tea there rather than in the orchestrated magnificence of the Palm Lounge. A cocktail before dinner and a motion-picture show afterward completed the easy order of the day.

  Katharine’s main object was to make the trip memorable for Nancy. Her own first crossing, as she had already indicated, had been an occasion of wonder and delight which lived imperishably in her recollection. Yet though she tried to bring to Nancy something of the same sensation, as time went on she could not repress a vague feeling of disappointment. Nancy seemed difficult to delight, and wonder was a quality she did not know. She was too young to be blasé. It was absurd that she should be bored. But her attitude to life appeared cool and unamazed. And for the first time it dawned on Katharine that although scarcely more than a decade separated the ages of Nancy and herself, they were divided, in point of character and outlook, by a gulf that might have been a generation.

  Hurt, Katharine tried to bridge it. She fancied she might be offering more of her society to Madden and Nancy than they desired. Yet, though anxious now to leave them to themselves, she was always pressed into making a threesome of the party, which increased, more often than not, to quite a crowd. It was another of Nancy’s attributes to insist on having people around her.

  But Katharine was perhaps mistaken in her assumptions. Superficially Nancy had all the modern attributes, it is true, yet deep down there lay another, and a subtler, cause of her preoccupation. Her failure—for so she judged it—at Manchester had left a rankling wound, and now, subconsciously, her mind was fixed ahead, eager to wipe out the stigma of defeat by a great, a marvellous, success. Though saying nothing, she thought continually of her opening in New York, weighed minutely the possibilities of her part. She had the habit, too, of abruptly disappearing from view, usually in the evenings, for the purpose of studying her script. Her attitude was so casual no one thought much about these private vigils. Yet to Nancy they were vital and intense.

  It so happened, then, on the evening of Thursday, the fourth day out, Nancy vanished to her cabin about nine o’clock, once more intent on her part, leaving Madden to take Katharine to the picture show alone. It was a dark and gusty night. The films, a knock-about comedy followed by a much scarred travelogue, were dull. Moreover, the swell, taking the ship abeam, had set up a slow, uncomfortable oscillation. These two circumstances combined to make the attendance sparse. Yet Katharine had never enjoyed herself so much. She sat in the semi-darkness, acknowledging the bright flicker upon the screen with the surface of her mind, happily aware of Madden’s presence beside her and of the laboured yet exciting straining of the ship through the rising forces of the sea. Presently Madden turned to her with that smile she knew so well.

  “Seems to be getting slightly rough,” he murmured. “How do you feel?”

  She shook her head, answering his smile with a glance of humorous hardihood. “Never felt better in my life.”

  “You don’t want to go below?”

  “Not unless you do!”

  She was turning back gaily towards the screen when a sudden thought struck her and made her pause. Why should it please her to sit through this second-rate cinema performance in all the discomfort of a gale? She realized with a flash of dismay that it was because Madden was here. Yes, the last thing she desired was to surrender the curious elation of this moment. Her smile faded. She tried instinctively to think. But she had no time for that. Almost immediately complete and startling enlightenment came upon her.

  He had put out his hand to steady her chair, which, un-battened, was now threatening to join the others in their foolish seesaw dance. And the next instant the ship yielded to an extra heavy roll which sent Katharine violently against him. Unbalanced, she lay in his arms, her cheek against his cheek, her breast against his side. For a few seconds he held her closely to prevent her falling while the ship hung over at an angle. Everything whirled about her, the ship, the sea, the universe itself. Then as the vessel righted itself he restored her gently to her seat.

  “What do I get for that?” he inquired blandly. “The Albert medal for saving life at sea?”

  She did not speak. To save her life she could not have uttered one word. She sat, pale to the lips, her body rigid, paralysed by that blinding revelation which had struck her, unsuspecting and defenceless, like a lightning stroke. She loved Madden. She loved him with her whole soul. Everything was clear, illumined and terrible, her joy in his society, her desire for his happiness, even her way of looking and hoping for his smile, all clear, clear and agonizing as a scene long hidden in darkness and now revealed by one electric flash so white and burning it seared the unsuspecting eye. A deathly vertigo assailed her. She thought suddenly that she would faint. Clenching her hands fiercely, she fought the weakness off. She remained motionless, trembling within, unseeing, stricken.

  At last the film wound itself out. The lights went on, and the survivors blinked at one another in mutual congratulation. Katharine, her head lowered, at once made her way towards the deck. Madden followed her. Outside she paused. Hardly anyone was about. The very quietness of the place made it more difficult for her. She could not look at him; she felt her soul must be naked in her eyes. And yet imposed upon her was the dreadful necessity of concealing everything, everything which ravaged her.

  “I think I’ll go below.” How she forced her voice to a semblance of normality she never knew.

  “Why go yet?” he answered, smiling. “ You know Nancy begged us to leave her to
study her part. Let’s walk round the promenade deck.”

  His tone was perfectly natural. She could not judge whether he read her horrible distress. She kept her eyes averted, repeating:

  “I must go down. It’s getting late.”

  “It isn’t that late, and we’ve hardly had any exercise to-day. And you like it, don’t you, out on the deck, with the wind blowing guns?”

  By the most incredible effort of her will she steeled herself to look at him. The friendly perplexity in his eyes hurt her dreadfully.

  “You go yourself,” she said. “ Those stupid movies have tired me out.”

  “Well, if you feel that way about it,” he smiled doubtfully, “I’ll say good-night.”

  “Good-night.” She made it natural at last; then, forcing her stiff lips to a casual smile, she turned and hurried towards the staircase, leaving him on the deck alone.

  On C deck she paused, her hand against her throat, the thudding of her heart choking her. She could not face Nancy yet; she must first collect herself, firm her resolution into an irrevocable mould. The thought of Nancy gave her a new pain, wrung from the situation another pang. Quickly she went forward along the alleyway and out through the break of the forecastle. In the darkness she stumbled against winches and deck gear. She did not care. No physical hurt was comparable to the anguish of her mind. At last she reached the ship’s bows, and there, clinging to the rail, her body swept and battered by the wind, her being encompassed by vast empty blackness and the formidable thunder of the sea, her soul cleft by an ecstasy of pain, she yielded finally to an agony of tears.

  Chapter Nine

  By the following morning the wind had blown itself out, the sky was bright, and the sea, though brisk, had moderated. At ten o’clock, when Nancy joined Madden on the promenade deck, she was unaccompanied by Katharine.

  “Hello!” he exclaimed. “ Where’s the other partner?”