Part 2— Chapter XIX. (continued 2)

“Oh, well,” Katrine allowed, “that’s true! But Isabel lived before his days. Did you ever play a game of making up Isabel Carnaby conversations? It’s rather fun.”

“Not I... Couldn’t to save my life... Far too difficult.”

“Oh, it’s easy enough, given the right people, and the right hour. It would be no use starting it at the beginning of an evening when every one is stiff and strained, but it goes splendidly after supper. Isabel begins by giving a definition of some well-known term, and invites every one else to follow suit. It is a favourite game of Grizel’s, my sister-in-law. We always make her Isabel for she is such a beguiling little thing that she is not only witty herself, but spurs up every one else to be witty too. One night we took ‘Bores’ for a subject, and she said: ‘A bore is a person who remembers all that I say on Sunday, chews a mental cud over it, and throws up masticated morsels of my own conversation to confound my inconsistency on Wednesday.’ Then we all said: ‘That is quite true!’ and ‘Quite so!’ and she addressed each of us and asked: ‘And what is your idea of a bore, Mrs Seaton? Johanna, give us your definition of the term?’ and we each scintillated to the best of our ability, and then mentally adjourned into the kitchen and interviewed the old servant in her turn.”

“I should be so devoured with anxiety thinking out my own sally that I shouldn’t be able to appreciate my neighbour’s brilliance... Bores are a pretty prolific subject. I should like, just for curiosity, to hear your definition.”

“‘Katrine! let us now have your definition of the term,’” quoted Katrine mockingly. “There, you see, you are already starting the game on your own account. Why do you want to know?”

“So that I may act contrariwise, of course.”

“It is true... Isabel was right. Here you are already, back at our bacon! I am afraid, Captain Bedford, that you are very much absorbed in yourself.”

“Devoted to him! Of course. Why shouldn’t I be? Know him so well, don’t you know—understand his ways! Capital fellow, when you know him.—A woman asked me once whom I loved best in the world. I said: ‘Myself, of course.’ It was the bed-rock truth; it is the truth about most solitary people, if they would only admit it, but she was shocked.”

“I’m shocked, too. Even if it were true, I don’t think one should admit—”

“I don’t say it now. It would not be true. That was some time ago.”

Katrine’s thoughts flew back with instant recollection to the day before, to the quiet pocketing of the tortoise-shell trifle. She waited silently, holding her breath in the intensity of her anxiety, but no explanation was vouchsafed. She tossed her head with a restless gesture, and said tentatively:

“You—you are not in the least what I expected.”

“What precisely did you expect?”

“N-othing precisely, but everything different! I thought you’d be older for one thing, and would look more worn. Captain Blair said you were shy and silent.”

“Blair would say anything but his prayers. As a matter of fact I was paralysingly shy at dinner that night! Glad I concealed it so well. It was rather a formidable occasion meeting an—”

“Unknown girl! Was I?” Katrine hesitated on the verge of a question, eager yet bashful, and her companion concluded the sentence with mischievous assurance.

“What I had expected? Well! to an extent. I had seen your photographs, and they are as good as photographs can be, but the original always comes as a surprise. You look younger, and—there’s some red in your hair, isn’t there? It pretends to be dark, but this morning when you were sitting in the sun, I’ll swear it was red! And—if you’ll forgive me—your nose isn’t quite so classic as it was represented! I suspect that photographer of fakes.”

“He filled in the dips,” said Katrine tracing with a finger tip the delicate irregularities of her nose.

“I like dips,” said Bedford, and they laughed again. Katrine wondered if he also approved of the ruddy lights which the sun had revealed in her hair. She had noticed them once or twice as she stood before her mirror on bright spring mornings, but no one else had commented on the peculiarity. She herself had admired the dull-red gleam, she hoped he had done the same, but it was with an air of forced resignation that she spoke again:

“Very well, then, it is settled that I have red hair, and a bobbley nose. Please observe that I remain serene and unruffled. That proves that I have a sweet and modest disposition, and don’t care a pin how I look!”

“Or what you wear, or whether that gauzy thing round your head is arranged at a becoming angle or not! Can I help in any way? It seems troublesome to arrange!” said Bedford coolly as for the third time Katrine’s hand went up to pull forward the chiffon hood. She flushed in the moonlight, and pushed it back with an impetuous jerk.

“Now my hair will get rough. It’s not my fault if it blows into ends.”

“I like ends,” said Bedford once more.

Katrine thanked Providence that her ends curled, and did not blow over her face in lanky streaks as did the ends of other women. Sometimes when she had been out in the wind she had felt it a pity to brush them back. She felt a glow of thankfulness for her own fair looks, which was inimitably removed from an ordinary conceit. To look pleasant in the eyes of others—that gave one joy. To-morrow she would wear a blue dress...

“It’s against my upbringing to be untidy,” she said demurely. “At home I have walked between a double fire. The vicar’s wife on one side, and my Sunday School girls on the other. Both would have been scandalised by ‘ends,’ both expected me to be a model of neatness and decorum.” She heaved a great sigh of relief. “Oh, I’m so thankful not to be a model any more! It’s lovely to begin life again, away from criticism, to be free to do and think what I like!”

He stared at her, his eyes intent and searching beneath puckered brows. It was a handsome, almost a beautiful face into which he looked: the softened light, the happy mood, even the floating ends of hair combined to give it an air of unusual youth. Nevertheless there were lines written thereon which told their own tale. Katrine noticed his scrutiny, and questioned him thereon:

“What are you thinking about?”

“You,” he said simply. “We are talking about ourselves. You are so young in many ways, younger than your years, but you look—”

“Older?”

“Yes,” he said again, serenely unconscious of offence. “It’s not a girl’s face. There are the marks of trouble, of suffering...”

Katrine sighed. On her lips flickered a smile which was strangely pathetic.

“Or of lack of trouble!” she corrected. “Oh, I mean it. It sounds incomprehensible to a man, but a woman would understand. Trouble would be easier to bear than the grey, monotonous routine month after month, year after year, which women have to live in small country towns. Trouble is educational and ennobling; monotony cramps growth at the roots. I am twenty-six, but there were women ten years older, still young, still pretty, jogtrotting along the same path, year after year, year after year. Nothing had happened to them! No man can understand all that that means. Nothing had happened!”

Bedford straightened himself significantly.

“They should make things happen!”

“Perhaps in time to come they may, when they are more developed—they, and their parents! Many well-to-do parents think that their daughters ought to be contented to stay peacefully at home and arrange the flowers. I had a real duty, but in some families nearby there were three or four women-girls pottering! I went to see one of them on her birthday last year. When I wished her many happy returns she shrank, as if I had hurt her. ‘Another year!’ she said. ‘Three hundred and sixty-five days... And all alike!’ It was fear that she felt, poor soul; fear of the blank! You can’t understand.”

“Personally, no. Monotony has not been my cross. When a man is knocking about the world he is inclined to envy the people who can vegetate peacefully at home, but thirty-six years of stagnation is a killing business!” He looked down at her with steady scrutiny. “I am glad you had courage to cut yourself free before it came to that point.”

“But I am different... I told you so. I had my work,” protested Katrine, flushing, “and moreover something did happen. Fate came to my aid, and practically forced me away!”

“Yes?”

Once more Bedford leaned his elbows on the rail, and bent towards her with a keen interrogative glance. “Is it permissible to ask in what form?”

Why on earth need she blush? Katrine mentally railed at herself, but the more she fumed the hotter blazed the colour in her cheeks. Plying such a flag of betrayal it seemed obviously absurd to reply by a prim: “My brother married, and no longer required my services,” and in Bedford’s equally prim “Quite so,” the scepticism seemed thinly veiled. There was silence for several moments, while both gazed fixedly ahead. Without looking in his direction Katrine knew exactly the expression which her companion’s face would wear. The lips closed tight, drooping slightly to one side. The chin dropped, the eyes unnaturally grave. Strange how clearly his changes of expression had already stamped themselves upon her mental retina! She knew how he would look, what she could not guess was what he would think ... What would he think! That preposterous blush would surely suggest a reason more personal than a brother’s marriage. A love affair, a lover, but mercifully a lover in England, since she had already explained that Jack Middleton and his wife were her sole friends in India. Yes! that would be the explanation, a persistent lover—a lover who had been refused, a lover left behind to recover at his ease. Katrine’s self-possession was restored by this assurance. Certainly she had had lovers... She adopted what was evidently intended to be an “Isabel Carnaby air,” and demanded lightly:

“And now, Captain Bedford, it is your turn to confess your troubles.”

“I have none,” he said instantly. He looked full into her face with his twinkling eyes. “Or if I had—I have forgotten.”

Chapter Twenty Five.

The next morning broke hot and still. The breeze had died down and its absence was shown in pallid faces, and limp, exhausted attitudes. A few daring spirits waxed apoplectic over deck sports. Jackey, the mischievous, roamed from one deck chair to another, teasing, protesting, whimpering, and ultimately curled up in a corner of the deck, and falling asleep became instantly converted into a vision of exquisite childhood, all pink cheeks, golden curls, and rounded limbs. As for Katrine she felt very tired, very lazy, very thankful that her hair was curled by nature not by art, very content to lie back in her luxurious chair and be amused and waited upon by a man who appeared abundantly satisfied to be so employed. The voyage had turned, so far as she was concerned, into one long tète-à-tète, for Bedford had presented so impenetrable a front to would-be acquaintances, that he was now left severely alone to devote himself to her amusement.

Mrs Mannering joked and quizzed, Keith kept sourly afar, the passengers stared with mounting curiosity, and Katrine, who had lived all her life beneath the tyranny of “They say,” amazed herself by a sudden reckless indifference. Let them say! Let them stare! Let them laugh!—It meant nothing to her. These days were her own; not an hour, not a moment should be wasted though a whole world criticised.—It is a truism that in the growth of friendship a day at sea is equal to a week on shore; less than a week had passed since Bedford joined the ship, yet Katrine acknowledged to herself that they had reached a degree of intimacy which she at least had never before experienced. There was not a subject which had engrossed her attention, not a problem which had baffled, not a hope or a fear, an ambition or a dream, save only those which concerned Jim Blair, which she had not discussed at length with this friend of a few days, and each fresh discussion left her more conscious of help and sympathy, and of profound admiration for his broad-minded, open-hearted character. Now the high-water mark of intimacy had been reached when silence could be prolonged without apology, a vibrant silence broken at length by a remark which but put into words the point to which the thoughts of each had arrived. Katrine had at first been amused and delighted at this similarity of thought; later on she grew afraid.

This morning the great heat was not conducive to conversation. Katrine held a book on her lap, and from time to time flicked over pages, but she was too languid even to read; from time to time her eyes met Bedford’s and they smiled a wordless greeting. The morning was not half over, but already her eyelids drooped heavily; she shut the book, and composed herself to sleep.

Suddenly, startlingly, the torpid silence was rent in twain. A woman’s voice rose in a shriek—high, frenzied, appalled. As by an echo it was repeated on every side, until the very air vibrated with the sound. The serried rows of chairs were emptied, and thrust aside; white-faced, gasping, the passengers rushed to the rail, and hung over, desperately scanning the sea. The vibrant cry gained volume; its incoherence took shape, and became definite words—words among those the most dreaded in a life on sea...

“Man overboard!”

Katrine had leaped with the rest, had rushed to the gunwale to strain her eyes over the retreating line of foam left by the vessel’s progress. Startled she was, and shocked, but the true realisation of the tragedy was delayed until the moment when, afar off, clear in the blaze of the sun, two arms appeared suddenly above the waves, groped into space, flung themselves widely apart, and disappeared!

The sight of those helpless hands brought a terrible realisation; they tore at the heart. Every face on board the great vessel was blanched with horror: women wept and clung; men stood grim and silent, with lips tightly set.

At the first sounding of the alarm, a life-belt had been tossed into the sea, attached to a flag, which made a patch of colour to mark the spot of the disaster. It was horrible to see how far that mark was left behind, before, with a jar which sent a quiver throughout the ship’s great bulk, the engines reversed, in response to the order from the bridge. Meantime the fourth officer and his men were clambering with cat-like agility into the boat suspended over the stern-davits, which eager hands began to lower, even before the last man had reached his perch. Another moment, and the crew were bending to their oars, and the boat was speeding through the water towards that floating patch of red and blue; but there had been no further waving of hands; the straining eyes had caught no second glimpse of a dark head.

Katrine, shaking and gasping, felt the touch of a quieting hand on her arm, and releasing her hold of the gunwale, swayed backward with a sob of relief. She did not need to look; the strong, quiet touch was identification enough. She needed him, and he was there. She closed her eyes, gripping fast to the outstretched arm.

“Will he be able to swim? Can he keep up long enough?”

“I hope so. The life-belt is there. Even if he is not, men are brought back to life, you know, after hours of unconsciousness... He is bound to rise again...”

Katrine shuddered. A moment before she had been exhausted with heat; now hands and feet were icy cold. For the first time in her life she was brought face to face with death, and the violent change of scene, combined with the inability to do anything but stand still and watch, made a hard test of endurance. She managed to keep quiet, to refrain from the tears and sobs of the surrounding women, but she clung like a child to Bedford’s arms, and rested her head against his broad shoulder.

For the moment the action was as impersonal as if he had been a stone or a log; her physical condition necessitated a prop; she clung to the nearest support out of a natural, unthinking impulse, and just as naturally, just as simply, he cradled her in his arms.

The suffocating moments crawled by, the while the onlookers held their breath. The boat had reached the spot marked by the red flag, was drifting slowly round and round, the men’s faces bent low over the water, but there came no sign of the white, waving arms; the dark, ball-like head.

Katrine gasped a weak enquiry:

“I thought—three times? If it is one of the crew, surely he can swim?”

Bedford made no reply. She raised her head, caught sight of a set face, and cried again, with a still sharper edge of surprise:

“It is not a sailor! A passenger then? Some one—we know?”

Her thoughts flew swiftly over the familiar forms. A jovial head of a family, seated at her own table in the saloon; a young husband assiduously waiting upon a pretty new wife; the handsome pursuer of steamship flirtations,—one after another their figures rose before her. These were all young, thoughtless, daring; a moment’s recklessness might have precipitated them to their fate. An hour ago, five minutes ago, they had been nothing to her, less than nothing, now the mere tie of humanity rent her heart at the thought of their peril. She lifted her eyes to the face above her, panting breathless enquiries.

“Tell me! Tell me!”

“My—my dear girl,” stammered the man huskily, “My poor girl—” He passed his arm more firmly round her waist, “Yes! you know him, I did not mean to tell you yet, but I am afraid you’ll have to know! It’s Vernon Keith—”

“No! No!” Katrine fought with outstretched hands, striving to push him away. She no longer needed to lean; the shock had strung her into vitality, and a passionate denial of the tragic reversals of life. An hour ago she had beckoned to Keith as he passed by, and had fed him with chocolates. He had eaten, smiled, and grimaced, and she had rated him for his ingratitude. It was impossible that a man could eat chocolates, and take part in the trivial chit-chat of shipboard, and within sixty minutes be fighting for his life in those churning waves!

“It’s impossible!” she cried. “I was talking to him here, an hour ago. He was well—as well as usual... we talked—he smiled! It is impossible that he can be dead!”

“They may find him yet. It’s only a few minutes. Everything is possible. You can do no good by waiting, dear. Come and sit down!”

But Katrine thrust out her arm, pushing him away once more, shaking her head. How could she sit down? How think of herself? She leaned her elbows on the rail, and buried her head in her hands. Her brain was racing, she was shuddering with suspense, yet through all her misery her perceptions had grasped one word, and photographed it in lasting remembrance. “Dear!” Bedford had called her “Dear!”

For a minute there was silence. Then she spoke a few words in so low and trembling a voice that he had to bend to catch them.

“How? How did he—”

He caught his breath: she heard the sound, and divined that for this man the worst sting of the tidings lay in the necessity for telling it to her.

“He ... jumped! There were people about. They saw it. He was walking about, began to cough, leaned over the rail... Before they grasped what he was about—”

He stopped short, and Katrine answered with unexpected composure:

“I understand! It overwhelmed him suddenly,—a frenzy of impatience. He could bear no more. I understand—I think now, I could almost hope—” She turned suddenly and laid her hand on his arm. The hysteria of the last minutes had disappeared, she was weak and spent, and breathlessly subdued. “Take me away, please, where I can’t see!”

Bedford half led, half carried. Katrine found herself extended on a long chair drawn for’ard, to a spot where the bridge cut off all view of what was happening astern. She was cold, and he was rubbing her hands; his touch had a magnetic warmth, to which she surrendered with a vague content. The hands which she had noticed and admired had a beauty of touch, as well as line. She watched their movements with a mechanical interest. For the moment there appeared nothing strange in the fact that this comparative stranger was performing so intimate a task. She needed comfort, and he gave it; that was the simple, natural fact. Presently he raised his eyes to hers with an enquiring glance, and she made a pitiful attempt at a smile.

“I was his only friend on board. Was I—kind enough? Do you think if I had been kinder—?”

“You were an angel!” he assured her warmly, “and, humanly speaking, nothing could have helped! His brain was diseased. It was not deliberate intent, one is sure of that—just the impulse of a tortured animal, to end it all, and be at peace.”

Katrine nodded.

“He told me that at best it was only a question of months. We are well and strong. We can’t judge!” Katrine caught her breath on that last word, her brain pierced by the memory of that death in life which threatened her companion’s life. “At least,” she continued in a lower note, “you can! You have been tried, but you are stronger, more patient...”

Bedford’s face set; he turned aside, not answering, and they sat in silence during an interminable hour of waiting.

Nothing could be seen of the rescue party, but the sounds from the ship, above all, the lack of sound, told its own tale. There came no quick, acclaiming cry, no ringing cheer; only at last the dull splash of the oars, and the creak of the ropes as the returning boat was hoisted to the davits.

Bedford roused himself, crept silently away, and returning five minutes later seated himself as silently on the floor by Katrine’s side. She did not turn her head, nor question him by so much as a glance, but when once more the ship shivered beneath the throbs of the engine, and the waters raced back from the prow, the tears streamed down her face.

“I’m... not sorry I... I didn’t want him to be brought back to more suffering and—shame! But it seems cruel to go on as if nothing had happened,—nothing mattered! The only comfort is that for him, it must have been—quick... He was so weak. He rose only once. Say it was quick!”

“Very quick!” Bedford assured her. Not for his life would he have hinted at the awful explanation of that solitary rising, which was now generally accepted on board. He prayed that no one would enlighten her ignorance. Once again he stole away, and returned in a few minutes, carrying a cup of tea. Life must go on for the living, though death hovers at hand, and already the saloon was filled with a pallid crowd, who seemed to find unusual refreshment in the postponed meal. A cup of tea, a rest, a bath, then the passengers would dress for dinner, and brushing aside the cloud, declare that, poor beggar! he had not much to lose. By the morrow the incident would be discreetly banned...

Katrine drank her tea, grateful for it like the rest, her face white and disfigured by tears. During that long hour of silent waiting she had looked into life with a terrifying insight. So one could suffer at the fate of a stranger! How would it be for the one individuality which made the world? She shrank at the thought, telling herself, as the untried are pitifully wont to do, that such a possibility was beyond endurance, and therefore could not be; knowing full well in her heart that a time must surely come when she in her turn must feel the rack...

Vernon Keith had been the acquaintance of a week; for a week to come she would look involuntarily for the gaunt form; another week, and in the glamour of new surroundings his image would fade into obscurity; in a few months his very name might be forgotten. What she was suffering now was but shock and regret, impersonal, pitiful regret, but, if it had been another man—this man, for example, with the brown face, and the grey eyes, who now sat at her feet—?

Katrine sat up hurriedly, and pushed the hair from her brow. The hand which held the cup was shaking so violently that Bedford heard, and took it from her, to place upon the deck.

“Don’t you think you could lie down, and get a rest? Shall I bring Mrs Mannering? You ought to be perfectly quiet and away from the crowd—”

Katrine looked at him vaguely as though only half understanding the purport of his words.

“Perhaps. Yes. Later on. There was something I wanted to say...” She was silent for a moment, and then added with the simple inconsequence of a child, “I’m engaged, you know! Not definitely, but virtually. Engaged to be married to—a good man! You are good too. I wanted you to know.”

Bedford twisted the teaspoon in his fingers, laid it down at a new angle, lifted it again. His face was hidden, but Katrine saw the brown neck flame darkly red against the flannel coat. When he spoke, however, it was the most calm and level of voices.

“However good he may be, Miss Beverley, he is not good enough for you.”

A few minutes later he rose, and walked quietly away in search of Mrs Mannering.

Chapter Twenty Six.

The next morning Katrine slept late. Physically she felt tired and spent; mentally, despite the shock of Vernon Keith’s tragic end, she was conscious of a feeling of relief, as though a weight had been lifted from her mind.

Reviewing the events of the day before, she flushed to think of the inconsequent manner in which she had announced the fact of her understanding with Jim Blair. How had she come to do it? What exactly had she said? Her mental condition at the time of speaking had been so deranged that she had no clear recollection of the sequence of events. She hoped there had been nothing startling or unusual about the announcement, that Captain Bedford had not thought it unnecessary and uncalled for, but even if things were different from her hopes, she was still thankful that on that wave of impulse she had spoken and confessed the truth, for from the moment of her meeting with Bedford—not the formal meeting in the saloon of the ship, but that other speechless encounter in the streets of Port Said, she had felt oppressed by a sense of disloyalty, which no amount of reasoning could dissolve. The personality of Jim Blair, as revealed through the medium of pen and ink, had become suddenly a shadowy, intangible thing when compared with the magnetism of this live man’s presence.

Not once, but a hundred times over, had Katrine regretted the little bundle of letters securely packed in a box in the hold—those tender, humorous, pre-eminently sane letters which had taken so strong a hold of her imagination. She had packed them away for security’s sake, telling herself that she would receive others at Port Said and Bombay, and that on the way out to meet the very man himself, she would have no need of written words, but the Port Said letter had proved a disappointment, and a need had arisen! It would have meant much to her during the last days to have had those written words before her eyes.

After breakfast Mrs Mannering descended, bustling and energetic.

“Now then—up with you! No use lying here, and glumping over what’s past. One man’s gone. God rest his soul, and give him a better chance than he ever had here! but there’s another one waiting for you upstairs. If you’ve any sense you’ll be up and join him.”

Katrine sat up obediently, and began drawing on her long silk stockings.

“Mrs Mannering,—what’s your religion?”

Her companion started, stared, and laughed.

“Well! any way I can tell you yours! Narrow Church!” she said chuckling. “Eh, what? Hit it at once, haven’t I now?”

Katrine settled the heel of her stocking, and raised a flushed, disquieted face.

“I suppose so. Y-es! For myself. But I don’t expect every one to think the same.”

“Then, bless your heart! you’re not so narrow after all! Believe what helps you most, but allow other people the same privilege. Them’s my sentiments, my dear, and—for the rest!—we’ll find out some day, and there’ll be some rare old shocks for the sticklers who’ve got it all cut and dried, and expect creation to chant Amen. What put you on the religious tack? The thought of that poor sinner who went out yesterday?”

“Yes. I have been thinking—wondering where he—”

“Ah!” the woman’s voice struck a deeper note. “If we knew that, my dear, life would be simpler for us all. You’ll find some wise folks who’d tell you in detail, up to the fifth and sixth stages of development. I’m not taking any myself. I prefer to wait till it’s time to move on, and find out for myself, and meantime,—well! my lights may be dim, but they’re burning, my dear, they’re burning! There are people on earth who would laugh themselves sick at the thought of Nance Mannering talking religion; your good vicar would probably give me a wide berth, but I’ve got my own principles, and, please God, I’ll keep ’em... That’s a good man, that Bedford. He carries it in his face. Going to fall in love with you all right!”

“Oh, not” contradicted Katrine sharply. She stood up, shook back her tangled mane of hair, and began to brush it in long even sweeps. Her face was hidden, but her voice was charged with eagerness. “Never! He has known me only for a few days, and besides I’ve told him that there is—some one else! I’m not engaged; please remember that, but there is something,—an understanding, between me and another man,—enough in any case to make anything else impossible, on either side. There was no need to tell Captain Bedford; we are the merest acquaintances, but it seemed wise to explain...”

“Jest so!” agreed Mrs Mannering significantly. “Since, of course, we are all aware that forbidden fruit loses its charm.” The next moment, to Katrine’s disgust, she began humming to herself a succession of nursery rhymes: “Mary had a little lamb, Its fleece was w-hite as snow... Jack fell down and broke his crown, and Jill came tumbling—”

Chuckling she left the cabin, while Katrine tugged viciously at a knotted lock. “She can be nice enough when she likes, but sometimes I hate that woman!”

Up on the deck beneath the double white awnings the atmosphere was delightfully reassuring. A strong wind had arisen, and the water was dashing up against the sides of the vessel in powdery columns of foam. The mountains had disappeared and there was no land in sight. Katrine felt a distinct surprise; geographical studies had not prepared her to find the Red Sea so large!

By common consent the tragedy of the day before was banished from conversation, and the different little companies of friends were grouped about talking and reading after the ordinary morning fashion. Bedford came forward to greet Katrine, looking cool and big in his loose white clothes, and altogether unembarrassed and at his ease. As usual a string of children followed at his heels, foremost among them that “Jackey” who had been his devout admirer since the episode of his own defeat. They scowled at Katrine, as the cause of their hero’s defection, but he waved them away with good-natured decision, and led her forward to a corner of the deck where stood two chairs, and a small table on which was placed a mysterious cardboard box.

“You are going to be amused this morning,” he announced breezily. “Talk is forbidden, so I’ve borrowed a toy. A jig-saw in four hundred pieces. How’s that for high? You and I are going to get it out before lunch?”

Katrine’s aspect was not enthusiastic.

“Jig-saw! A puzzle, isn’t it? I have never tried. Isn’t it rather a fag?”

“You wait and see!” The brown fingers rained the wooden morsels upon the table. “You think it a fag, until you begin—then it’s a possession! There’s a man in the regiment who has ’em sent up from Bombay, and we have a sweepstake for the quickest solutions. I once sat up half the night, over three horses in a meadow; brown beggars, all of ’em, as like as three pins. Everybody’s bits belonged to everybody else, as much as to himself, and the rest was a mass of green stuff, cut in points, diabolically alike. This is a locked fellow; all the better for shipboard. It’s the dickens when they joggle. Plenty of colour, too. That’s good for a start.”

“Where is the picture?” asked Katrine innocently. She was bored at the prospect of the jig-saw, but relieved at the geniality of Bedford’s manner, and anxious to respond to his efforts towards amusement. It was a shock to hear that there was no picture, and that the mass of pieces before her were to be sorted with no clue whatever as to their meaning. “How does one begin?” was the awed question, and at that Bedford’s smile deepened.

“Cela dépend! I am rather interested to see. There are two ways, and you shall choose between them. You can look out all the edges, straight, you see, like this; study the grain of the wood, make up your frame, and gradually work towards the centre—that’s one way, and perhaps the most common. On the other hand you can abandon method, and dash for the colours, make up little blocks here and there, half a dozen at a time perhaps, and look out for a chance of fitting them together, leaving the frame to look after itself. You take your choice. Which will you do?”

Katrine bent over the pieces, turning them right side up with rapid fingers. She saw a mass of dull grey green, a second of baffling white and grey, a third of a pronounced white, and dotted among them welcome patches of blue and red.

“Colour, please!” she cried quickly. “Let’s dash for the colours, and trust to luck for the rest.”

“Right ho!” he said, sweeping the pieces towards him. Katrine had an intuition that he approved of her choice, but he made no comment, and together they bent over the detached fragments of blue and red, which appeared at this stage so dishearteningly alike. Katrine was utterly at sea, but Bedford’s greater experience soon scented a clew.

“The blue is sky, which goes on top; the light beggars are clouds. Here’s a quaint hunchback little chap. Look out for a scoop for him as a start.”

“Here’s a scoop!” cried Katrine, picking out another fragment, and wonder of wonders! it fitted,—absolutely, unmistakably fitted into every curve, so that there could be no doubt as to its right to be there. To fit a piece at the very first effort,—here was success indeed! Bedford cheered, Katrine hitched her chair nearer the table, rubbing her hands with an altogether ridiculous sense of elation. “How fine! And easy! Much easier than I imagined. Where’s the next?”

“The next is probably at the bottom of the Indian Ocean, or will pretend to be, until we’ve exhausted ourselves looking for it, and have gone on to something else, when it will jump out and, figuratively speaking, hit us in the face. It’s a way they have. What about this person?”

“Certainly not; you want a jagged edge. Nor that, it’s too square. I’m afraid you have not much eye for contour!”

“Nor you for colour! That shade’s too light... Here’s a fellow like a button-hook. Where’s his button? I knew an old maid who used to try each blessed bit in turn, until she’d gone through the whole fandango. If it shows a well-regulated mind to work at the rim, what does that mean in the way of perseverance?”

Katrine’s quest for the button was disturbed by the reflection that she had evidently proved herself devoid of a well-regulated mind. Regarded as a test of character, her “dash for the colours” would seem to prove a predisposition towards impulse and daring, the last qualities of which she was usually accused. Friends at home had agreed in pronouncing Katrine Beverley all that was prudent and cautious, and she herself had agreed in their verdict, yet surely those qualities had been upon the surface only, since it was this very prudent and cautious maid who had exchanged love letters with an unknown man—who was even now on her way across the world to meet him!

“I think,” said a small voice suddenly, “the other way is better after all. I think, if you don’t mind, I’ll try the frame!”

Bedford lifted his face. It was nearer to Katrine than it had ever been before; startlingly near; in the momentary glance she discovered wrinkles hitherto unnoticed, a fleck of brown in the iris of one eye. Bedford saw a wave of colour mounting to the roots of soft brown hair, eyes of dark blue, their beauty heightened by the contrast of that flush.

“Now I wonder,” he said thoughtfully, “I wonder just what mental excursion brought you to that decision! A moment ago you were so violently on the other track! Is it a journey that one might share?”

Katrine shook her head, stretching her hand to grope for the first straight edge, but the brown fingers swept them away, and a masterful voice cried:

“No, you don’t! You’ve made your choice, and you’ll stick to it. We’ll see this thing through as we’ve begun,” He studied her with twinkling, curious eyes, taking no pity on her embarrassment. “I’d like to follow that journey! What started your travels? Something I said? What did I say? Blessed if I remember. You take yourself very seriously, don’t you? It’s not a matter of life and death how one works out a jig-saw. Here’s the button! He’s been staring us in the face all the time. Now it’s a fork!”

Katrine was fumbling industriously at another corner of the table.

“I’ve fitted two bits of the red, but I haven’t an idea what it’s about. It seems divided into small squares.”

“A wall perhaps. Bricks.” Bedford examined the pieces with a practised eye. “Yes! evidently bricks. There was a bit somewhere with a rim of blue. That must be the junction with the sky. Let’s work at that.”

Katrine worked for ten minutes on end, resorted in desperation to the old maid’s expedient, and affixed each blue bit in turns to the obstinate red. When each persistently refused to fit, impatience seized her, and an impulse to dash her hands wildly over the board, when suddenly, inexplicably, a piece which had hitherto obstinately refused to fit, repented itself after the manner of jig-saw pieces, and slid meekly into its place, exhibiting thereby an enlightening boundary of brick wall against blue sky. The tingling eagerness to continue that line, to discover whereto it led, was a revelation of the inherent childishness of the human heart. Katrine jumped on her seat, scuffled among the pieces with claw-like fingers, breathed loud and deep, while Bedford looked on, smiling to himself, and flicking likely pieces towards her, so that to her might fall the satisfaction of continuing the chain. Above all things he was anxious to keep her amused, and to prevent her thoughts from turning to the tragic event of the day before. Last evening she had looked pitifully shaken. Mrs Mannering had reported a distressed night; he dreaded each fresh happening of the monotonous life which would link it with the day that had gone.

The first jar came with the partaking of the eleven o’clock deck lunch. Katrine’s face blanched suddenly as she raised it from the table to confront a steward, bearing the glass of milk and soda, and the bars of chocolate which were her own chosen refreshment. A shake of the head dismissed the man, but the mischief had been done. Impossible now not to recall how, twenty-four hours ago, she had beckoned a gaunt figure to her side, and insisted upon sharing with him her feast, goaded by his suffering air to put forth little womanly wiles, which he should be unable to refuse. Involuntarily she turned her head to glance along the deck. It was incredible that he should not be there! The tears rose slowly in her eyes.

“I say, I’ve made a discovery! This motley grey stuff is a mass of lilies! I’ve put three pieces together, and there it is as plain as a pikestaff—a lily complete, and others in the background. They’ll grow against the wall.”

“Do you believe in prayers for the dead?”

Bedford started, met deep, pleading eyes and realised that for the moment the jig-saw must wait.

“I don’t believe in the dead! Does that help you at all? Any prayers or thoughts which you have used here, with the intent of helping a fellow creature, can hardly be limited by the one sense of sight. I believe in prayers for the living.”

The distress in Katrine’s eyes changed into a soft radiance.

“Oh, I am glad you said that, I’m glad!” she cried. “That smooths out everything. I’m so grateful to you. It would be a comfort to me to feel I could go on—”

“Helping that poor soul? Of course it would. Send out your sweet thoughts, then they’ll reach him right enough, but for pity’s sake don’t cry! That doesn’t help him, and it seriously disturbs another man, on a lower plane. As a pure religious duty now, don’t you think you could range these lilies against the wall?”

“I’ll—try!” Katrine answered between a sob and a laugh. Veritably that puzzle was a godsend this morning, claiming her interest in absurd disproportion. There were periods of fruitless searchings when ennui and impatience hovered at hand, but inevitably at that very moment success intervened, and brought with it a renewal of zest.

Half a dozen blocks of substantial sizes were strewn about the table, but so far each remained separate and distinct, and seemed to have no connection with the other. Katrine, eyeing them impatiently, was once more inclined to regret her earlier decision.

“I wonder if this is really the best way! We don’t seem to get on. The background has to be fitted in some time, and it might be better to get it over. Slow and sure wins the race!”

Bedford lifted a jagged fragment in his hand, examined it carefully, and bent over the table as if looking for a place into which it might fit.

“The theory,” he said thoughtfully, “is correct. Like many theories! But the prizes of life are not for the prudent. If we worked out our problems step by step, you and I, we might avoid some difficulties; incidentally, also, we should miss something else!” He tilted his head, lifting narrowed eyes. “The thrill!” he said deeply. “We should miss the thrill.”

The unexpectedness of the word, the tone in which it was uttered, the expression on the face so close to her own, smote Katrine with the force of a blow. Literally she could not speak; her heart seemed to stop beating as she waited for his next word.

“People who choose the surer way have no doubt their own reward. The pattern works out before their eyes, bit by bit, step by step, each moment bringing with it the same satisfaction—no more, and no less. When one dashes for the colours, as you and I have agreed to do to-day, there is a time of blur and confusion, when the future is chaos, but that time passes, and gives place to a moment when suddenly, unexpectedly, the link is found... One link, an insignificant trifle, such as I hold in my hand, and presto! all is made plain... The pieces fit, chaos gives place to order, the picture is revealed. Then one can work confidently at the background. It is no longer uninteresting. It has its reason, its place.”

His voice had still that new, deep tone; the sound of it, the look in his eyes had a significance which could surely not refer only to a toy. For one long, tingling moment the blue eyes and the grey held each other, in a thrilling gaze, then they fell, and with swift, dramatic touches Bedford proceeded to illustrate his words. The jagged fragment held between finger and thumb fell into its rightful place, the great block of pieces to the right turned upside down beneath a flattened hand revealed an outline which fitted line for line, curve for curve, into the block to the left; the combined mass showed unmistakable anchorages for the small blocks scattered around. There revealed before Katrine’s eyes was the patch of sky, the line of the long red wall, the tangled bank of lilies; there also was a long sweep of unbroken white which now showed as a dress; a woman’s dress, with a delicate hand half hidden among the folds. More marvellous still, a glimpse of a delicate face looked out from the enveloping folds of veil. Where in the name of magic had that face managed to hide?

“It is a nun walking in a garden of lilies! What a pity she is a nun. She looks too sweet to live alone!” said Bedford carelessly, “Now the excitement is over, and we have all the grey bits to fill in. How dull!” cried Katrine in her turn. If he could be cool and calm, pride forbade that she should lag behind. She took an early opportunity of summoning Mrs Mannering to help in the construction of the picture, and for the rest of the morning the conversation was strictly impersonal.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

“We have had bright weather and dull, we have had smooth seas and rough, and now at last we have fog! It’s experience,” pronounced Katrine reflectively, “but,” she shuddered, “it’s an experience I’d as soon be without! There’s something eerie and gruesome about sailing through an invisible sea, where there’s not even enough air to breathe. One feels shut in! I think I’m a little afraid. Do you like it?”

“I have never met any one who liked a fog at sea, but I am not afraid. There’s no need for fear.”

Bedford smiled. He had discarded white clothing in favour of a grey suit, a cap to match was pressed down over his head, he was all grey to match the mist, even his skin seemed tinged with the same shade. Katrine shuddered again as she looked him over.

“And you are a mist man. You look unreal, like everything else. I think I am afraid of you, too! I shall go into the ladies’ room, and turn on the light, and read.”

“No!” Bedford laid his hand on her arm. “You will not! You will sit out here with me in the fog. You can sit in the glare of electric light every day of your life, but a fog on the Indian Ocean is an experience by itself... We are going to share it together. I’m quite real, I assure you, very real. I can take care of you. Come with me!”

His hand slid through her arm, and drew her along; his head was bent over hers, she met his eyes, and felt the protest die upon her lips. Without a word she followed where he led, took the seat pointed out, watched him draw up another, and place himself sideways before her, so as to form a shield between herself and the outer world. His face seemed startlingly near to her own; his hand on the side of his chair almost touched her knees. Katrine fixed her eyes upon it with a fascinated attention. A moment ago it had rested on her arm, the electric warmth of the contact still lingered; for a reckless moment she longed to clasp it, to put it back in its place; then remembrance dawned, and she shuddered again. The world was grey, without and within, nothing but mist and gloom. Seated as they were, she and her companion seemed solitary atoms in a world of fog; to right and left nothing could be seen but dense grey walls which seemed with every moment to press more nearly. The wide deck was empty; instead of the usual babble of talk and laughter there was silence save for the regular thud of the engines, and from time to time the sound of the horn. The effect of that silence was irresistible. Involuntarily the man and woman lowered their voices, and bent nearer; pale face to pale face.

“Are you afraid still?” Bedford whispered, and Katrine shook her head.

“Not afraid. Dazed—a little, I think. It’s so unreal. A world of dreams...”

“A world of dreams, and no one in it, but you and me.”

His hand was still there, and once again the mad, unreasoning impulse seized her to touch it, to grasp its support. So overmastering was the desire, that the physical effort at restraint left her faint and weak. She leaned back in her seat, and turned her head aside, her cheeks flaming with shame. To what had she come, the reserved, well-disciplined Katrine Beverley, that she should be capable of such a thought! What had become of her modesty, her pride; had she no decency left, no loyalty towards the man who had given her his heart?

Katrine’s brain formed bitter reproaches, but the vagrant heart brushed them aside. His hand! His arm! Compared to them all else was as dross. To lay her head for one hour on that broad shoulder, seemed the summit of all that life could give. She felt his eyes following her, searching her face, but dared not meet them. There had been music in the way in which he had spoken those last words; his voice had dropped to a lower note. So had Grizel’s beautiful voice deepened, when she had spoken to Martin. To one who had once heard those accents, their meaning was unmistakable. He loved her, and, God help her! she loved him in return with a passion which frightened her by its intensity. She had imagined that she was cold, that for her the raptures of love would be exchanged for a calm and moderate content; for twenty-six years she had preserved an unbroken front, and now all the stored-up forces of her nature arose and clamoured. Katrine realised with horror that her life had passed out of her own control, and lay in the hollow of this man’s hand. What he asked of her, she would grant; when he commanded, she would obey. There was no force in her to say him nay. If he claimed her, Jim Blair might go to the winds; all the world might stand on one side, and if this man beckoned from the other she would leave all to follow him... The time of self-deception was past, and with a desperate candour she faced the situation, and considered her own course of action. The only chance of safety lay in flight. Two days more, and the voyage would be over; if she could avoid Bedford for two days, there would be no more tête-à-têtes. Dorothea would be present, Jack, Jim Blair—all the little world of the station. Jim had promised a truce of three months. If she could avoid Bedford during that period, her instinct of loyalty would in some sort be appeased. She had promised Jim to keep an open mind for three months, and though his doom was already sealed, she shrank from the thought of putting another man in his place.

Three months’ separation and waiting, and then—

“What are you thinking of?” asked Bedford’s voice in her ear. So near the voice sounded, so low and gentle, that it was almost like the voice of her own heart, but for all its softness it held an insistence which compelled an answer. Katrine made a gallant effort at confession.

“I was thinking of the man to whom I am—engaged.”

“Virtually engaged!” corrected Bedford quietly. “But they were sad thoughts to judge by your face. Why should you have sad thoughts of a good man? It would hurt him to have you think of him so, for of a certainty his chief thought is for your happiness. Shall we dismiss him for the moment?—It’s lonely for me here by myself, when you wander away into dreams, and you look so wraith-like and unreal,—a typical spirit of the mist. If I were an artist I should like to paint you now. I wonder if you realise how beautiful you are?”

A glow lighted Katrine’s eyes; the glow which warms the heart of every true daughter of Eve who hears herself called fair.

“Am I? I’m glad! I—I think I’ve grown nicer lately,” she replied ingenuously. “At home no one admired me much; not half, not a quarter as much as they did Grizel, who is really hardly pretty at all. She used to laugh at me in the old days and say that I kept my good looks a secret, while she took people by the throat, and bullied them into admiration, but the last time she came down she said—?”

“Yes?”

“She said I had grown ‘unnecessarily good looking!’ and wanted to know ‘Why?’ I knew!”

Katrine laughed guiltily. “But I couldn’t explain. So I was cross.”

Bedford looked at her searchingly. For a moment he seemed on the point of repeating Grizel’s question, but he checked himself.

“You shan’t be cross, and you shan’t be sad, so long as I am here to manage for you!” he said confidently, and Katrine, looking at his broad shoulders and grave, purposeful face, felt with a thrill that no harm could indeed approach while this strong man was near.

The dank breath of the fog increased with every moment, driving the passengers into the brightly-lighted saloon, but to Katrine there was a glorious exhilaration in the darkness and the solitude. She realised that in time to come she would look back upon these moments, and treasure them in her heart. When her only meetings with Bedford should be in the crowded festivities of the little station, the isolation of this hour in the fog would live enshrined in memory, to be recalled with a passion of longing.

Silence fell, a silence caused not by poverty of thought, but by thought so charged with import that it dared not risk expression. Katrine felt with a certainty beyond argument that the longing of her own heart was echoed throb for throb, ache for ache by the heart by her side; that even as she desired with a passionate intensity to touch Bedford’s hand, and feel the embrace of his arms, so with an ever greater intensity did he also yearn for her. Such convictions are above reason. They are the language of the heart, which to sensitive souls is stronger than that of the lips. As the silence lengthened so did the mental communion grow and deepen, until with each second it appeared inevitable that speech must follow. Already with a mutual impulse they had faced each other, already the two hands had stretched out, when suddenly Bedford turned his head, raising it high, with a gesture alert, questioning, the action of a sentry, threatened with danger. Through the fog Katrine caught the pose, and felt a sympathetic thrill of anxiety. She reared her own head,—could it be fancy that her ear caught a new and unfamiliar sound? She bent forward, her attitude following his. Tense and motionless they peered into the darkness.

“What is it?”

Bedford’s voice, sharp and vibrant, called out the words, then with a deep cry he flung out his arms, and strained her to his heart.

“Katrine! Katrine! The End!”

She clung to him, every pulse in her body suspended in the awful grip of fear, for suddenly, awfully, the menacing sound had taken shape; the shape of a giant hulk which looming through the mist, staggered and crashed, while the thunders of Olympus roared about their ears. Tongues of flame followed the impact, the deck shook and reeled, and from a thousand throats went up a shriek to Heaven. A helpless unit among the number, Katrine stood and looked death in the face. The End indeed, but through it all, the clasp of a strong man’s arms!

Mercifully it is not to one man in ten thousand that there comes so terrific an experience, and those who make the exception are as a rule incapable of describing their sensations at the dread moment, for even as a mortal wound deadens the physical sensations, so does an overwhelming shock paralyse the mind. Consider it in cold blood, one moment, ye who read, seated comfortably in your homes,—a mysterious thunder crashing suddenly into ordered silence; the shivering reel of what has stood as solid ground, but which in a lightning flash is realised to be but a plank between safety and destruction. The heavens have fallen; the earth has rocked; and on all sides tosses the hungry sea... What wonder if, in its turn, the brain reels and loses power.

Katrine was conscious of nothing but an impulse to cling closer and closer, a terror of being separated from Bedford by so much as a second. If he were with her she could face what might come; without him madness was near.

With a second shock, hardly less awesome than the first, the towering mass fell back, and drifted into the fog; the deck shivered and heeled, as the water rushed through the yawning gap.

“All on deck! All on deck!”

The order rang from the bridge, but it was not needed. Already every soul on board the huge vessel was fleeing along the companionways and corridors. If death threatened, at least let it be death in the open, not the death of a rat in a trap! Ghastly and panting they reached the deck; ghastly and panting, but with magnificent control, they stood and waited the word of command from the figure on the bridge. Katrine raised her head from Bedford’s shoulder, and gazed into his face. The stewards were pacing the deck, turning on the electric switches. There was one near at hand which lit the two faces with a faint, unearthly light. The blue eyes and the grey gazed into each other, deep, deep, as they had done at the first moment of meeting, but now that gaze held a deeper meaning, a world of revelation, a world of regret!

Katrine had only one desire; she voiced it with the simplicity of a child:

“Stay with me! Don’t go away!”

“Never!” he cried, and tightened his grasp. “Whatever happens we’re together, Katrine. You’re mine. I’ll keep you—”

“Lower the boats!”

The order rang out, short and sharp. The stewards were handing round lifebelts. In the brightly-lighted saloons the women were being ranged together. A hand gripped Katrine’s arm, and Mrs Mannering’s voice rang out, calm and controlled:

“Miss Beverley! That’s good. I’ve been searching for you. Come, my lass, come with me! They are collecting the women in the saloon to be ready for the boats. We must do what we can to help. It’s not the first shipwreck I’ve been in, and here I am, safe and sound. We’ll be all right yet, but we must do our share. Come! take my arm.”

Katrine lifted a set face.

“I’m not going. Don’t tease me, please—there’s so little time. Leave us alone.”

Over her head the two exchanged rapid glances. Bedford nodded, a quick stern nod, with a glance in the direction of the boat; the woman nodded back, comprehending his message. She was bareheaded, cloakless as she had rushed out of the saloon a moment before; now with characteristic coolness she glanced around, and made a second announcement:

“There’s time yet. I can get some clothes and usefuls. You will stay here? Exactly here, so that I may know where to find you? There must be no chance of missing!”

Bedford nodded again, and she hastened away. Prom above sounded the rattle of the wireless, as it sent forth its message of distress. Leaning against the rail stood a youthful officer, little more than a boy. His face was set, but his pose was the acme of careless ease. He had taken from his pocket a silver case, and from time to time he lifted an unlighted cigarette to his lips, with a pathetic pretence of enjoyment. Bedford bent his head until it rested on Katrine’s hair.

“Katrine!”

She moved, so that her cheek took the place of her hair. There was unspeakable comfort in the soft, cold touch of his flesh against her own.

“Yes!”

“That’s the wireless! They are sending messages for help. We are in the direct channel. It will certainly come. We must hope on.”

Even as he spoke the deck shivered beneath his feet, and with a sickening lurch, tilted heavily on one side. Bedford threw out one hand and caught at the rail, holding Katrine firmly with the other. The young officer, thrown on one side, fell back into his nonchalant pose, and tremblingly lifted his cigarette, but his lips moved in an involuntary despair.

“My God! She’s going—”

Katrine caught the gasping words, and looked death in the face. It was coming. At any moment that shuddering lurch might come again, and the deck glide down into the sea. This man said so, and he knew. For the sake of example he preserved an appearance of composure, but he understood, and he despaired. With a sob of emotion she lifted her face to Bedford’s, and their lips met in a long, clinging kiss. It mattered nothing that there were people around, that the flaring lights lit up their forms; they were lost to every thought but of themselves and their love. Above the fear, above the terror, there clamoured in Katrine’s heart a desperate need of expression. All her life she had been dumb; she could not die without putting in words the one transcendent fact.

“I love you!” she cried. “Do you hear? Do you understand? If I must die, let me die in your arms. I tried ... but it was no use—I love you! There is nobody else—I belong to you!”

“My Katrine!” he cried trembling. “My girl—”

Prom above, the wonderful invisible machinery rattled and cracked; the first boat swung low from the davits was already being loaded with its complement of shrinking, trembling women. The flare of lights lit up their ashen faces turned up to the deck above as they floated, wraith-like, into the mist. A second boat creaked on the ropes and Mrs Mannering’s hand gripped Bedford’s arm.

“Now! Bring her along!”

Katrine resisted, but the strong arms bore her along until she stood ranged among the line of waiting women. Nothing but force should induce her to enter a boat alone, but she had not the physical strength to retain her position against the will of her companions.

Mrs Mannering had tied a shawl round her head. The pockets of her coat were filled to the point of bursting. She carried a bundle of small articles, which she proceeded to stuff into the pockets of Katrine’s cloak. A steward came up and fastened a lifebelt round her waist. Bedford took a second from his arm and himself fastened it round Katrine. She laid her cold fingers on his, drawing him back.

“You are going to send me away?”

He bent and laid his lips to her hand, but he went on fastening the straps. There was a relentlessness in his movements which struck ice to Katrine’s soul.

“You will send me away, and let me die alone?”

At that he winced, but still he continued his task.

“You must go first, beloved. If God wills, I’ll follow. The women must go first.”

Katrine laughed; a wild reckless laugh more terrible than tears.

“Why? Why? Because of a sentiment, a convention? Better save the men! They are the bread-winners, the heads of households. Save the lives that count, and let us drown. There are women enough—too many. We should not be missed. I have had no choice in life, but my death is my own. I will not go! I will stay with you.”

Mrs Mannering’s practical, commonplace voice struck sharply upon her ears.

“My good girl,” she cried. “You have not to think of yourself at this moment. You are not the only woman who would rather stay behind. Look at those poor souls over there who have to leave husbands and sons! Is it easier for them, or for you? There’s only one thing to be done—obey orders, and do your bit towards smoothing the way. When your turn comes, you’ve got to go, and I’ll see to it that you do!”

She squared her shoulders, and stationed herself grim and relentless by Katrine’s side. In the lurid light her face looked lined, and incredibly old, but she carried herself bravely, and showed not a quiver of fear.

Along the deck the band had marshalled, and the strains of a popular waltz floated with horrible gaiety on the air. Not a note fell flat, or out of time; stalwart and erect in their smart uniform, the men stood and played, and the conductor waved his baton as composedly as if they had been surrounded by a throng of merry dancers, instead of men and women threatened by instant death. Prom within the brightly-lighted smoking-room a man could be seen writing a letter. A few feet away a woman was playing bo-peep with a frightened child. Gradually, as Katrine stood waiting, her fear subsided, and there stole into her soul a mysterious courage and calm. Strung to its highest sensibilities the spirit within her absorbed the atmosphere by which it was surrounded, and nobly answered the call.

Imagine it! Dwell for one moment on the majesty of it—a crowd of men and women, each one braced up to his highest, strongest self; to a selfless self, stifling, for the sake of others, all signs of distress, obeying the ordinary conventions of society, giving place, the stronger to the weaker, with a smile and bow, as if that matter of preference were some society trifle, not a matter of bald life and death.

As surely as the music floated from the mouth of those brazen instruments, as the light streamed from the electric arch overhead, so surely did the spiritual influence of those brave deeds spread over the ship, and touch with fire every human heart.

Into Katrine’s soul in its turn stole some portion of this noble fortitude; she ceased to struggle, and stood silently by Bedford’s side awaiting her call. The women filed slowly by, were lifted one by one and swung into the boat. Suddenly Bedford turned towards her, grasping both hands. In his face she read that the parting had come.

“Katrine! Good-bye...”

Strong aims seized her, she was lifted high, dropped, and caught. There came to, her aid a merciful unconsciousness...

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Katrine lay dazed and senseless, a huddled mass in a corner of the boat, mercifully oblivious of the perilous lowering down the great hull of the ship, of the gradual leaving behind of all that was most dear. The climax of emotion through which she had passed, had exhausted for the time being all power of sensation. While not actually unconscious, her mind was torpid. Nothing mattered, her very powers of fear were at an end. What was past, was past, what would come, would come; nothing mattered the cast of a die!

In the boat were women, dazed like herself, others again weeping and lamenting; others, like Mrs Mannering, composed and brisk, showing at their best, when those from whom more might have been expected proved broken reeds.

It was all dream-like and unreal. Tossed on the waves in the crowded boat, the great hull of the ship looked a rampart of strength. To have left that stronghold to toss in this cockleshell—the dazed brain marvelled feebly at such inconsistency. High on the deck a confused mass of people moved to and fro, but their faces were indistinguishable, and soon vanished from sight. The sounds of a voice shouting peremptory orders mingled with the dashing of the waves, but soon that also became inaudible, as the boat floated farther and farther away.

Katrine sat motionless, oblivious of all that was happening around. The hood of her coat had fallen back from her head and her bleached face had a fixed, almost terrible beauty. Nancy Mannering glanced at her anxiously from time to time, and finally shook her strongly by the arm.

“Now! Brace up, Katrine!” cried the strong voice, “brace up! It don’t matter much what happens to you and to me, my dear. We are just women—unattached women at that—there are too many of our sort knocking around, but here’s some one here who does count—a little man for you to cuddle and protect! Heaven knows the kind he’ll grow up; he’ll be none the worse, any way, for remembering this night, and who knows! some woman may fare the better for your pains. Here, sonny! stop that row. Come to the pretty lady. She’ll nurse you, and tell you tales.”

A sturdy weight was deposited on Katrine’s lap; in the dim light she recognised the features of her former enemy, the redoubtable Jackey, all drawn and wet with tears. Separated from his father, overcome by the hopeless terror of childhood, he had lost his braggart airs, and appeared just a pitiful baby thing, longing to be kissed and held. His wet face nozzled into Katrine’s breast, his little legs in the ridiculous knickerbockers dangled limply over her knees, and the sight, the touch, awoke her to life. She gathered the child in her arms and crooned over him, and Jackey wreathed her neck with his arms, and pressed wet kisses on her cheek! Presently, gathering confidence, he began to question after the manner of childhood.

“How soon shall we be drowned? How much does it hurt to be drowned? As much as a tooth? Will the water be cold? Would it be brave to scream? Will you hold me tight, so that I can’t leave go? Must we say our prayers before we’re drowned?”

“We are not going to be drowned, I hope, Jackey. By-and-bye a big boat will come along and take us up, but you can say your prayers all the same. Pray for your father on our own big ship, and, and—”

“And the parrot, and the goat, and all Thy dumb creatures,” responded Jackey, who was evidently not without religious instruction. He mumbled petitions into Katrine’s neck. “God bless and keep my dear father, ’serve him from danger, make him a good boy. Bless the parrot. Keep Thy young goat. Let him be meek and gentle in spirit. Bless the man I kicked, and mend his legs so he can swim when the boat goes down!”

“Oh, Jackey,” sobbed Katrine wildly. “Oh, Jackey!” She strained the little form in her arms, and buried her face in his curls. So far children had not entered intimately into her life, and the maternal instinct had remained dormant, as it does with many women until the time arrives when their own child is laid in their arms, but now as Jackey’s soft, heavy little body nestled against her own, she realised with a new poignancy the possibility of yet another joy, another opening of the gates of life!

She rocked to and fro, murmuring soothing words, and Jackey cuddled close, vigorously sucked his thumb, then uncorked his lips to ask another question:

“Will the big ship come quick?”

“I hope so, Jackey! I think so.”

“Will our own ship go down? If it goes down to the bottom of the sea, will my Daddy be dead?”

He lifted his eyes to her face, big, innocent blue eyes, widened in breathless anxiety. Katrine winced before them, tortured by the thought that suffering could come so soon; that a babe like this should feel its shaft.

“If my Daddy is dead, can I have his penknife for my own?”

No! Jackey did not realise. Thank God for that. The babe was a babe still. Cradled in kind arms, comfortable and warm, he could dream his little dream, build his airy castles unperturbed by the pain of others. That one afternoon’s experience had taught Katrine to be thankful for a callousness which she would previously have condemned. Time enough for Jackey and his kind to realise the nature of death!

“You shall have a knife, Jackey; the best that Bombay can produce. And your Daddy, too, I hope. Couldn’t you go to sleep now, dear? Put your little thumb in your mouth, and shut your eyes, and pretend you are safe in your bunk. I’ll hold you fast.”

Jackey was tired, and the suggestion appealed. He wriggled to and fro, poked ruthlessly with elbows and knees, until he had fitted himself to his entire satisfaction, burrowed his head beneath the lapel of Katrine’s coat, and relapsed into limp and weighty slumber. Katrine was tired too; tired with a very extremity of fatigue, but not for worlds would she have relinquished the weight of that burden.

Presently Mrs Mannering held a flask to her lips and she felt the hot smart of brandy,—just one sip, and then the flask was withdrawn, for Nancy Mannering was jealous of her stores, not knowing for how long they might be needed. There were biscuits also in those capacious pockets, bars of chocolate, and fruit taken from the saloon tables, but no adult passenger in the boat was treated to these luxuries; they were reserved for the embryo men and women of the future.

The boat drifted on, the men for the most part resting upon their oars. It was not desired to float far from the ship, since the best hope of rescue lay in keeping in her vicinity. The fog was slowly lightening, and the flare of the electric lights showed a faint gold patch through the grey. Katrine kept her eyes fixed on that patch. So long as it continued, she could hold on to hope. If it died out, so would the light fade from her own life...

Sitting huddled in her seat, Jackey’s little form pillowed in her arm, Katrine’s thoughts reviewed her past life and marvelled at the strangeness of it. Paced with the possibility of death, all the years that were past counted for nothing as compared with the happening of a few short days. Martin, Grizel, the friends and companions of her youth—she repeated their names, and sought to visualise each countenance in turn. In vain! the likenesses refused to appear; even Martin’s face was blurred, or was it that she had not enough patience, enough interest, to spare for the effort? Bedford was the world; apart from him she was incapable of a regret.

The boat drifted on. Now the sailors had turned her head and were rowing slowly back towards the ship. The yellow blur still shone through the fog. The men discussed together as to the amount of damage that had been done, the possibility of keeping the hulk afloat. Nancy Mannering turned and spoke into Katrine’s ear:

“My dear, one word! ... You mayn’t suspect it, but I’ve a heart—. In a physical Sense, I mean, no sentiment; and it’s a poor thing. I don’t expect to be drowned, but a little more of this excitement, and it may play tricks. It’s all one, I’m not whining, but if I should pan out, and you get through, will you just write to my boy? Tell him I asked you, and that he is not to grieve. Bound to go somehow, some day, and, why not now? I’ve no particular wish to live on here, but you can tell him this—wherever I am, whatever comes next, there’ll be no peace for me unless he keeps straight! That I know, and he’d better know it, too.” She was silent for some moments, during which Katrine heard the quick intake of her breath, then: “And tell him,” she added with difficulty, “tell him I’ve always been an ostrich, hiding, not my head, but my heart. Somehow I couldn’t let it out, but,” her voice deepened to a full, rich note, “there’s never been a moment of his life, since he was born, when I wouldn’t have been flayed—slowly! for his good! Tell him his mother loved him more than her life.”

“I’ll tell him; I won’t write. I’ll travel the length of India, if need be, to tell him myself,” cried Katrine, deeply touched. To discover a hidden weakness in her jaunty, self-sufficient companion was to feel herself infused with new strength. She was needed, and the woman in her rose to the? demand. She hitched Jackey on one side so as to free her right arm, and fumbling in her companion’s pocket found and extracted the flask.

“Meantime, if you have no care for yourself, think of him, and be careful for his sake. What is the use of talking of love, if you won’t do even that for his sake? Be sensible for yourself as well as for other people!”

“Mr Dick, your common-sense is invaluable!” Mrs Mannering drank, smacked her lips, and grunted with satisfaction. “That’s good! That’s better. I needed that.” Then after a momentary pause. “Remember though, if I do come through, your work is to forget. No bringing up of deathbed confidences! ... Anything in the same line that I can do for yourself?”

“No,” answered Katrine shortly. If the end came, Martin and Grizel could console each other without help from her. And their figures were misty. Even Jackey himself counted for more at this moment, embodying as he did a great potential possibility of life. As for Jim Blair—ah! let Jim hug his false dreams: let him never awake!

The hours dragged on. The children slept; some of the women slept also, worn out by their fears. Katrine’s cramped arms still held their burden, but Nancy Mannering had turned herself round in her seat, presenting her broad back as a support.

“Let yourself go, my dear; lean your weight on me. Nothing like a support to your back. I was at the opera just before I sailed—six shillings’ worth of gallery, and never a rail at the back. Leaned back against a young lad’s knees, and he wriggled in seventeen fits. Prudery, eh? Or perhaps I was too old. Well! Well!”

The voice had its old jaunty tone, but the language in which she spoke was unintelligible. Opera! Katrine shrank at the sound. Face to face with death, the trivial happenings of life retreated to an illimitable distance. Was it possible that one had ever cared for such baubles—had counted them among the goods of life!

At the stern of the boat a woman was praying aloud, while those around joined in with tears and sobs. Katrine roused herself to listen, and caught fervid confessions of sin and wrong-doing. Her thoughts turned inward; she also ought to pray, to make confession. Drearily she asked herself what she had done, and failed to discover a tangible offence. Honestly she had endeavoured; honestly she had refrained. Looking back over her life she could find no shrinking from duty, no unfair dealing, no violation of a law. She had not “gone astray,” she had not been “vile and sinful altogether”; the woman’s abasement of self-blame left her untouched. The searchlight of conscience revealed sin indeed, but not of commission. Lack of level—that was the flaw—of whole-hearted, unselfish love which gave all and asked for no return; love which could transform the commonest events, and make of duty a joy!

Grizel possessed that love; a spring of tenderness and sympathy, welling within her heart. She had found it easy to live with a querulous old woman. “She doesn’t worry me: I love her!” Katrine heard again the tone of the deep, rich voice giving the simple explanation. She herself had placed Martin before all created things, but there had been no tenderness in her heart. With opened eyes she looked back on the critical, exacting sentiment which she had called love, and found it unworthy the name. Her arms tightened round the sleeping child. This then was the secret of life. Love—“the fulfilment of the law.” If life were spared, it would be the motive spring for which she would strive; given that, the rest would follow. The women at her side were imploring for forgiveness, and comfort in death. Katrine prayed for life. “More life: fuller life! Fill my mean heart—!”

Ten minutes later when the rescuing ship steamed into view the sight which should have brought exhilaration broke down the most sternly-kept composure. Men and women wept together, wept and laughed, and sobbed and clung, even the most composed giving way to their emotion now that the strain was at an end.

On she came, a stately form, summoned by the wondrous message of the air, racing through the water to the noble work of rescue. Nearer and nearer, until she was close at hand, and white faces looked down from the crowded decks. The nightmare of removal from the boat was accomplished in safety. Katrine felt her waist encircled by a tender arm, and heard a woman’s voice addressing her in tremulous tones. Her cramped limbs could hardly move, she was half-led, half-carried into a luxurious cabin, undressed, laid in a warm, fresh bed, fed with soup and wine. The women who waited upon her shed tears as they worked, but she herself was dry-eyed. She was thinking of that yellow glimmering light through the fog, the light of the ship which held her world,—the ship with a hole in her side...

But an hour later Nancy Mannering came to her bedside with a face working with emotion, to tell glad news. The passengers of the injured ship had been transferred to the C—, but the crew remained at their posts, for the water-tight compartments were bravely doing their work, and there was hope of keeping her afloat until Bombay Harbour could be reached. Meantime the rescuing vessel had her in tow.

“Shut your eyes, my beauty, and sleep!” said Nancy Mannering gently. “He’s off to his bed. I’ve seen him, and touched him, and heard his voice. He’s a real live man and no ghost, as to-morrow morning you’ll see for yourself, and if you ever say good-bye to him again,—well! you deserve all you may get.—Go to sleep, child, go to sleep, and thank the good God!”

But the next morning Katrine did not get up. She was prostrate with physical collapse, and there was no mental effort to spur her into action. She did not want to meet Bedford. Now that safety was assured, it was torture to remember her own words, and to realise that the first confession of love had come from her own lips, not his. She welcomed the weariness and pain which kept her a prisoner in the cabin; dreaded the meeting which must inevitably come. The dread and the shame, the excitement and the distress, increased her physical ailments; the doctor was summoned, once and again, before the day was over, and other methods failing prescribed a sleeping-draught to secure a night’s rest before landing. As a result Katrine slept heavily, but awoke to so crushing a headache that movement appeared out of the question.

No matter, Nancy Mannering assured her. It would be hours before the ship had disgorged her double complement of passengers, to say nothing of the luggage. She was to lie still, recover slowly, go on shore quietly later on when the fuss and racket were over. The captain had sent a special message to assure her of his consideration and help. Two other women were prostrate like herself. They also were to wait.

Katrine settled down again into a fitful sleep, through which the tramp of feet, the clamour of voices, the banging of luggage, beat confusedly upon her brain. From time to time Mrs Mannering crept in to look at her, and stole out unnoticed; it was not until late in the afternoon, when quiet reigned on the deck overhead, that she met opened eyes and a smile of welcome.

“I’m dreadfully lazy! I’m afraid it’s ever so late, but I can dress quickly now for my head is better. Is—?”

She stopped short, flushing, but Mrs Mannering was intentionally obtuse.

“Yes, all right! The poor old ship kept up to the end. They are getting out the baggage. Pray heaven it is dry! in any case we’ll be thankful for what we can get. It looked as if we might not have a rag to our backs. That good soul Anderson is looking after our part of the spoil; Captain Bedford would have done it, but it was all he could do to get through himself. Had to rush off to take up a company by the first train. They’ve been kept waiting for him by this upset. However, our rooms are booked at the hotel, and we can lie low for a few days till we get our breath.”

Katrine stared blankly. She had shrunk from the thought of meeting Bedford, yet it came as a shock to hear that he had gone on and left her behind. They had all gone on,—the passengers among whom she had lived so closely during those last weeks; but for Nancy Mannering she was alone in the strange new world. It was a lonesome feeling. She sat on the side of her bunk, smiling a difficult smile.

“Oh! Yes. That will be nice. And my friends have arranged for my journey. The agent will call—”

“Be hanged to agents! I’ve sworn by all my gods to stick to you till I see you safely landed with your friends. It’s only a few score miles out of my way, and that counts for nothing in this country. The good Bedford will see me housed when we arrive.”

“Scores of miles out of your way! For me? Mrs Mannering, it is too much! I can’t let you do it. You are the kindest, most unselfish of creatures.”

Mrs Mannering grimaced.

“Don’t be too sure!” she said dryly. “Curiosity poses under many forms. I’ve a weakness for being on in the last act. Well! dress yourself, and come along, and be sure to speak prettily to the captain before you leave. He’s behaved like a brick. There’s tea in the saloon.”

By six o’clock Katrine and her chaperon were safely housed in the hotel, appreciating as they had never done before the blessings of terra firma. The next morning their baggage was restored to them, practically undamaged, and what was to Katrine most important of all, a letter arrived from Jim Blair.

She sat alone in her room holding the unopened envelope in her hand, gaining courage for the ordeal of reading the loving words. Strange how deep a hold this unknown man had taken of her affections! Bedford she loved with the stored-up passion of her life, but even Bedford himself had not been able to lessen her tenderness towards the man who had come into her life at the moment when she needed him most, and brought solace to her sore heart. It was cruelly hard to be obliged to bring pain and disappointment to so generous a lover. She flinched and coloured at the thought of her own conduct as viewed from the outside—just the weak, commonplace story of the pretty girl who starts on a voyage which is to bring her to a waiting lover, meets another man en route, and is false to her tryst,—but it was typical of Katrine’s conception of the character of her unknown lover, that through all her troubled thoughts the conviction remained that Jim would understand,—that however he might suffer he would neither be bitter nor unjust.

She sighed, and bracing herself resolutely, tore open the envelope. The blood rushed to her face as she read the opening words:

“My Own Katrine,

“No! I am not breaking my truce. This little breathing space between the sea voyage and the start up-country doesn’t count in the scheme. It’s a No-man’s land, of which this man would be a fool if he didn’t take possession forthwith!

“Besides, beloved, there are things that I want to say; things that need to be said... Your journey is nearly over, our meeting is close at hand, and if the truth were known there’s more fear than expectation in your heart! I know you too well not to realise that—but the fear must go! Get it out of your head once for all, little girl, that you have anything to dread from me. I want you, I want you badly, but most of all I want your happiness. That sounds the sort of thing one reads in books—just a bit too lofty and impersonal to be true, but if you come to worry it out, it’s only a higher kind of selfishness. Once love with your own heart and soul, love some one, that is to say, more than yourself, and as the most obvious of consequences, happiness is impossible for yourself unless it has first and foremost filled that other heart. Don’t worry yourself by any idea that you are pledged to me, in honour bound, or any nonsense of the kind. You are not; you are as free as air. If you should happen to like another man better than me (you won’t!) I’d help you to him. If you don’t want me (you will!) I’ll stand aside. Dear little girl, be aisy! I’m on your side.

“That ‘mad’ letter of yours was delicious sense. The veritable Katrine revealed herself more therein than in any letter I have yet received. And your little discourse on tenderness—that touched me! It is a quality which, as you say, is wanting in the love of many men, and the lack of it leaves a record on the faces of weary women. But, after all, you know, the doing or undoing, whichever you choose to call it, is in the main the fault of some other woman in the past! Why do mothers spoil their boys instead of training them in the small domestic kindnesses and attentions which will be so valuable later on? If I had a son... upon my life I believe I’d spoil him too!

“Seriously though, Katrine, it must be pre-eminently tenderness which is filling my heart today, for I can imagine; I can understand! I am so sorry for you, poor, puzzled girl! Is that a good augury for the future?

“I shall come in to see you at the Middleton bungalow the day you arrive. No club meetings for me. Just an hour or two for rest and refreshment, and then—enter Jim Blair! Poor little girl, are you trembling in your shoes? If only I could convince you of my sincerity! Was it for nothing, Katrine, that my heart went out to you across the seas; was it for nothing that my cry touched your heart; was it for nothing that after years of block and difficulty, the way was opened out which brings you here to me? Go on in faith for one week longer!

“Jim Blair.”

The letter fell from Katrine’s hands and fluttered to the ground. She hid her face in her hands.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

The delight and excitement which is felt by most travellers on a first introduction to the East was dimmed in Katrine’s case by the pressure of events past and to come. The shadow of death had loomed too recently to be easily repelled. The thought of what might have been pierced knife-like through the thankfulness for what was, and recovered life seemed a frail and dream-like treasure hardly as yet to be realised.

Katrine found some comfort in the fact that she was not alone in absent-mindedness and lack of appreciation, since Nancy Mannering also was far from her normal self. She was restless, and on edge; at once excited and reserved, affectionate and chilling. She would sit through a whole meal in silence, and leave the table chuckling with laughter. She would drag Katrine out for drives through the hot, bright streets, play the part of show-woman with exaggerated fervour, and suddenly, for no apparent reason, stop short in the middle of a sentence, and refuse to speak again. Excitement, reserve, tenderness, and sarcasm, followed each other in rapid sequence, and added not a little to the strain of the waiting days, but Katrine bore patiently with the varying moods, realising that to a woman of intensely practical nature the very fact of having opened her heart in the hour of danger would be enough to close it more tightly than ever when that danger was past. “If we get out of this, your work is to forget!” Those had been Mrs Mannering’s own words, but, poor dear soul! she herself was evidently finding the task difficult, lashing herself for her ill-placed confidence! Moreover, she also had a meeting in store... Every time that Katrine’s reflections brought her round to this point, Mrs Mannering and her idiosyncrasies were forgotten in the whirl of her own thoughts. So far as was possible she tried to shut her mind to what lay ahead, to encourage, rather than fight against, the languor of mind and body which gave a dream-like unreality to life. As Jim Blair had said, this time was a rest by the way, a No-man’s land, when her chief duty was to rest and gather strength.

On the third day the two ladies started on their three days’ journey up country, under the most luxurious conditions which it was possible to attain. Everything had been thought of, everything arranged; agent and officials waited upon them with an assiduity which the older traveller, at least, had no difficulty in tracing to its source. Short of climatic exigencies the long journey was robbed of discomfort, but the length, the heat, above all the dust, made it nevertheless a trying experience to the English girl.