Mrs. Falchion Part 8

"Yes," said I; "and what do you wish me to do?"

"I wish to go in a disguise, of course; to dress in your cabin, if you will let me. I cannot dress here, it would attract attention; and I am not a first-cla.s.s pa.s.senger."

"I fear," I replied, "that it is impossible for me to a.s.sist you to the privileges of a first-cla.s.s pa.s.senger. You see, I am an officer of the s.h.i.+p. But still I can help you. You shall leave this cabin to-night. I will arrange so that you may transfer yourself to one in the first-cla.s.s section.... No, not a word; it must be as I wish in this. You are ill; I can do you that kindness at least, and then, by right, you can attend the ball, and, after it, your being among the first-cla.s.s pa.s.sengers can make little difference; for you will have met and spoken then, either to peace or otherwise."

I had very grave doubts of any reconciliation; the substance of my notable conversation with Mrs. Falchion was so prominent in my mind. I feared she would only reproduce the case of Anson and his wife. I was also afraid of a possible scene--which showed that I was not yet able to judge of her resources. After a time, in which we sat silent, I said to Madras: "But suppose she should be frightened?--should--should make a scene?"

He raised himself to a sitting posture. "I feel better," he said. Then, answering my question: "You do not know her quite. She will not stir a muscle. She has nerve. I have seen her in positions of great peril and trial. She is not emotional, though I truly think she will wake one day and find her heart all fire but not for me. Still, I say that all will be quite comfortable, so far as any demonstration on her part is concerned. She will not be melodramatic, I do a.s.sure you."

"And the disguise--your dress?" inquired I.

He rose from the berth slowly, and, opening a portmanteau, drew from it a cloth of white and red, fringed with gold. It was of beautiful texture, and made into the form of a toga or mantle. He said: "I was a seller of such stuffs in Colombo, and these I brought with me, because I could not dispose of them without sacrifice when I left hurriedly. I have made them into a mantle. I could go as--a n.o.ble Roman, perhaps!"

Then a slight, ironical smile crossed his lips, and he stretched out his thin but shapely arms, as if in derision of himself.

"You will go as Menelaus the Greek," said I.

"I as Menelaus the Greek?" The smile became a little grim.

"Yes, as Menelaus; and I will go as Paris." I doubt not that my voice showed a good deal of self-scorn at the moment; but there was a kind of luxury in self-abas.e.m.e.nt before him. "Your wife, I know, intends to go as Helen of Troy. It is all mumming. Let it stand so, as Menelaus and Helen and Paris before there was any Trojan war, and as if there never could be any--as if Paris went back discomfited, and the other two were reconciled."

His voice was low and broken. "I know you exaggerate matters, and condemn yourself beyond reason," he replied. "I will do as you say. But, Dr. Marmion, it will not be all mumming, as you shall see."

A strange look came upon his face at this. I could not construe it; and, after a few words of explanation regarding his transference to the forward part of the s.h.i.+p, I left him. I found the purser, made the necessary arrangements for him, and then sought my cabin, humbled in many ways. I went troubled to bed. After a long wakefulness, I dozed away into that disturbed vestibule of sleep where the world's happenings mingle with the visions of unconsciousness. I seemed to see a man's heart beating in his bosom in growing agonies, until, with one last immense palpitation, it burst, and life was gone. Then the dream changed, and I saw a man in the sea, drowning, who seemed never to drown entirely, his hands ever beating the air and the mocking water.

I thought that I tried many times to throw him a lighted buoy in the half-shadow, but some one held me back, and I knew that a woman's arms were round me.

But at last the drowning man looked up and saw the woman so, and, with a last quiver of the arms, he sank from sight. When he was gone, the woman's arms dropped away from me; but when I turned to speak to her, she, too, had gone.

I awoke.

Two stewards were talking in the pa.s.sage, and one was saying, "She'll get under way by daybreak, and it will be a race with the 'Porcupine' to Aden. How the engines are kicking below!"

CHAPTER VI. MUMMERS ALL

The next day was beautiful, if not enjoyable. Stirring preparations were being made for the ball. Boyd Madras was transferred to a cabin far forward, but he did not appear at any meal in the saloon, or on deck.

In the morning I was busy in the dispensary. While I was there, Justine Caron came to get some medicine that I had before given her. Her hand was now nearly well. Justine had nerves, and it appeared to me that her efforts to please her mistress, and her occasional failures, were wearing her unduly. I said to her: "You have been worried, Miss Caron?"

"Oh, no, Doctor," she quickly replied.

I looked at her a little sceptically, and she said at last: "Well, perhaps a little. You see, madame did not sleep well last night, and I read to her. It was a little difficult, and there was not much choice of books."

"What did you read?" I asked mechanically, as I prepared her medicine.

"Oh, some French novel first--De Maupa.s.sant's; but madame said he was impertinent--that he made women fools and men devils. Then I tried some modern English tales, but she said they were silly. I knew not what to do. But there was Shakespeare. I read Antony and Cleopatra, and she said that the play was grand, but the people were foolish except when they died--their deaths were magnificent. Madame is a great critic; she is very clever."

"Yes, yes, I know that; but when did she fall asleep?"

"About four o'clock in the morning. I was glad, because she is very beautiful when she has much sleep."

"And you--does not sleep concern you in this matter of madame?"

"For me," she said, looking away, "it is no matter. I have no beauty.

Besides, I am madame's servant,"--she blushed slightly at this,"--and she is generous with money."

"Yes, and you like money so much?"

Her eyes flashed a little defiantly as she looked me in the face. "It is everything to me."

She paused as if to see the effect upon me, or to get an artificial (I knew it was artificial) strength to go on, then she added: "I love money. I work for it; I would bear all for it--all that a woman could bear. I--" But here she paused again, and, though the eyes still flashed, the lips quivered. Hers was not the face of cupidity. It was sensitive, yet firm, as with some purpose deep as her nature was by creation and experience, and always deepening that nature. I suddenly got the conviction that this girl had a sorrow of some kind in her life, and that this unreal affection for money was connected with it. Perhaps she saw my look of interest, for she hurriedly continued: "But, pardon me, I am foolish. I shall be better when the pain is gone. Madame is kind; she will let me sleep this afternoon, perhaps."

I handed her the medicine, and then asked: "How long have you known Mrs.

Falchion, Miss Caron?"

"Only one year."

"Where did you join her?"

"In Australia."

"In Australia? You lived there?"

"No, monsieur, I did not live there."

A thought came to my mind--the nearness of New Caledonia to Australia, and New Caledonia was a French colony--a French penal colony! I smiled as I said the word penal to myself. Of course the word could have no connection with a girl like her, but still she might have lived in the colony. So I added quietly: "You perhaps had come from New Caledonia?"

Her look was candid, if sorrowful. "Yes, from New Caledonia."

Was she, thought I, the good wife of some convict--some political prisoner?--the relative of some refugee of misfortune? Whatever she was, I was sure that she was free from any fault. She evidently thought that I might suspect something uncomplimentary of her, for she said: "My brother was an officer at Noumea. He is dead. I am going to France, when I can."

I tried to speak gently to her. I saw that her present position must be a trial. I advised her to take more rest, or she would break down altogether, for she was weak and nervous; I hinted that she might have to give up entirely, if she continued to tax herself heedlessly; and, finally, that I would speak to Mrs. Falchion about her. I was scarcely prepared for her action then. Tears came to her eyes, and she said to me, her hand involuntarily clasping my arm: "Oh no, no! I ask you not to speak to madame. I will sleep--I will rest. Indeed, I will. This service is so much to me. She is most generous. It is because I am so altogether hers, night and day, that she pays me well. And the money is so much. It is my honour--my dead brother's honour. You are kind at heart; you will make me strong with medicine, and I will ask G.o.d to bless you. I could not suffer such poverty again. And then, it is my honour!"

I felt that she would not have given way thus had not her nerves been shaken, had she not lived so much alone, and irregularly, so far as her own rest and comfort were concerned, and at such perpetual cost to her energy. Mrs. Falchion, I knew, was selfish, and would not, or could not, see that she was hard upon the girl, by such exactions as midnight reading and loss of sleep. She demanded not merely physical but mental energy--a complete submission of both; and when this occurred with a sensitive, high-strung girl, she was literally feeding on another's life-blood. If she had been told this, she, no doubt, would have been very much surprised.

I rea.s.sured Justine. I told her that I should say nothing directly to Mrs. Falchion, for I saw she was afraid of unpleasantness; but I impressed upon her that she must spare herself, or she would break down, and extorted a promise that she would object to sitting up after midnight to read to Mrs. Falchion.

When this was done, she said: "But, you see, it is not madame's fault that I am troubled."

"I do not wish," I said, "to know any secret,--I am a doctor, not a priest,--but if there is anything you can tell me, in which I might be able to help you, you may command me in so far as is possible."

Candidly, I think I was too inquiring in those days.

She smiled wistfully, and replied: "I will think of what you say so kindly, and perhaps, some day soon, I will tell you of such trouble as I have. But, believe me, it is no question of wrong at all, by any one--now. The wrong is over. It is simply that a debt of honour must be satisfied; it concerns my poor dead brother."

"Are you going to relatives in France?" I asked.

"No; I have no relatives, no near friends. I am alone in the world. My mother I cannot remember; she died when I was very young. My father had riches, but they went before he died. Still, France is home, and I must go there." She turned her head away to the long wastes of sea.