Blue Voyage: A Novel (3 page)

“Eight o’clock, sir.”

“Then let me have it at seven-thirty.”

“Hot or cold, sir.”

“Cold.”

The footsteps went along the alley, another knock, the voice again, farther off. “The bath steward, miss,” a girl’s voice answering. A girl next door—that was good. Who was she? Another universe brushing its hair under an electric light, calmly, with vanity. And all of them crowded together in this small ship. What was it for? Everything seemed senseless. The ship throbbed, the bed curtains vibrated on their rings. The woodwork creaked gently, slowly, as the long ship rose to the sea. Thalassa! Thalassa! The wine-dark sea.

As he went out of his room the girl next door came forth also—the Irish girl. Shutting her door she eyed him with a sort of tentative candor, a smile withheld. A brown woolen scarf, brown woolen stockings, nice ankles. He felt shy and turned stiffly away, his head lowered a little. He heard her steps behind him, apologetic, unobtrusive, oddly contriving to say, “We’re not following you—no—no;” and his own steps, becoming lighter, replied, “We wouldn’t dream of assuming it.” Curious how such relations can spring into being!… He went fugitively up the stairs and onto the deck.

It had grown cloudy and cold. The clouds were bringing an early dusk. Whitecaps, on a dark gray sea:—lines of white on a sullen sea. Should he look up Purington? He walked to the companionway which led to the deck above, and there, of course, was the sign—“
Second Cabin Passengers Not Allowed on This Deck
.” Perhaps he would see Purington go by. He stood by the railing and watched a straggling procession of first-class men striding round the corner above. Their collars were turned up, hands in pockets. They eyed the sea with hostility. There was Purington. “Purington!” he called. But Purington didn’t hear. The words had been blown overboard. Two old ladies, passing, looked at him curiously, looked up at the first cabin deck, and smiled, as much as to say “Harmless!” … Disgusting old toads … Well, there was no rush about seeing Purington: he could wait. Besides, would Purington want to see him—a second-cabin passenger whom he didn’t know particularly well?… Perhaps not. He turned resolutely away and started to walk.

When he went down to dinner, he found himself sitting on the left of the Assistant Purser, who occupied the end seat. Old Man Smith was next to him, and opposite him were Mrs. Faubion (how delightful!) and another girl.

“No, sir,” the old man was saying with bantering severity. “I think you girls are too young to be traveling alone like this. It isn’t right.” He supped his soup loudly and intently.

“Too young! Well, I don’t know about Miss Dacey. But I’d like to tell you, Mr. Man, that
I’m married;
and if a married lady can’t travel by herself I’d like to know who can! And what right have
you
got, anyway, to talk to us like that—huh?” She glared at him with a comic imitation of anger.

“Married, eh? She says she’s married. I don’t believe she’s out of school … Besides, I’m old enough to be your father. I leave it to you, Mr. Captain, whether these girls aren’t too young to be traveling alone like this.”

The Assistant Purser, Mr. Barnes, red-faced and gray-eyed (sea-gazing eyes, thought Demarest—but they gazed for the most part at ledgers and passenger lists), was a little inclined to be stiff and pompous; reserved, perhaps. He laughed with uneasy amiability, looking from one face to another and crumbling his bread.

“But we mustn’t have a quarrel, must we, on the very first night of the voyage—what? Besides, where could Mrs. Faubion and Miss Dacey be safer than on a ship?”

“There!” cried Mrs. Faubion, triumphantly.

“I don’t know about a
ship
being so awfully safe though,” said Miss Dacey, wriggling and grimacing in a manner intended to be arch. “We know all about these sailors with a wife in every port—ha ha! Of course, I don’t mean
you,
Mr. Barnes!”

Mr. Barnes opened his mouth, a little taken back.

“Oh, of course not, Miss Dacey! How could you dream of such a thing!” He looked at Demarest, laughing. “The only ‘ports’ I know are New York, Liverpool and Southampton. So I suppose you credit me with three.”

Miss Dacey blushed furiously and gave another desperate wriggle. She was blue-eyed, anemic, with a long, thin mouth. She wore a bangle. Not more than twenty, thought Demarest.

“Now you know I didn’t mean that … How
mean
of you. I didn’t mean it at all. Though, of course, these
handsome
men——!” She gave a peculiarly vapid little laugh, and eyed Mr. Barnes sidelong.

“Now! Now!” cried Mr. Smith. “That’s enough! That’ll do for you. We can’t have our officers demoralized like this!”

“This is becoming a little
personal,
” said Barnes.

“Highly,” said Demarest. “You’re elected.”

Mrs. Faubion laughed absent-mindedly, looking rather hard at Demarest. She was handsome, saturnine, though her features were not particularly good. There was something brooding and dark about her which, combined with her extreme youth and brilliant vulgarity, intrigued him enormously. She was extraordinarily alive. And the fact that, although a mere girl, she was married, piqued him. What did she know? Certainly there was a good deal that was hard and blatant about her—and she had picked up, in America, an astounding vaudeville sort of accent. But at the same time there was something oddly unsophisticated in her somber eyes, a burning simplicity and candor. She looked now at Smith with amused suspiciousness, and asked him:

“Are you two traveling together?”

“Why, of course!” cried Demarest. “We’re father and son.”

“What! With different names! You’re kidding me. Is
your
name Smith?”

“Well, now, father, that’s a delicate question, isn’t it … Shall we tell the lady the truth?”

Smith laughed. “Go on—go on!”

“Oh, don’t be silly! I
know
you’re not father and son.”

She eyed him with a doubtful gleam, half smiling.

“Come now!” said Demarest, “don’t you observe the startling resemblance?… You see, it was like this.”

“
Yes,
it was!”

“Father, you see, had an unfortunate little affair some years ago—he has a peculiar psychological affliction—which caused him to spend two years in—er—jail. And when he came out, he changed his name.”

“
Really
!” cried Miss Dacey, leaning forward intensely. “How exciting! And
what
is the affliction?”

“Are you sure we ought to know about this, Mr. Smith?” asked the Purser, with a fine, grave air of concern.

“Oh—among friends——!” laughed Smith, flourishing his fork.

“Yes, it’s sad, it’s sad,” said Demarest, shaking his head. “No one knows what father has suffered—nor me either. You see, father is a kleptomaniac.”

“A
what
?” Mrs. Faubion cried. “
What
did you say?”

“He has, every now and then, an uncontrollable impulse to steal. Spoons and forks are a great temptation to him. We can’t let him go out to dinner alone—have to watch him every minute. And a restaurant or hotel! he goes simply cuckoo when he gets inside the door … It was a restaurant that undid him! A little restaurant on Sixth Avenue. And all for a couple of nickel-plated spoons!”

“Dear, dear,” murmured the Purser, “a year for each spoon, too! How unfortunate!”

“Oh, but be serious! You
aren’t
together, are you?”

She leaned back in the small swivel chair, and regarded him from an immense distance.

“Why, of course!… Don’t you believe me?”

“No! I’m from
Missouri,
” she replied savagely. “And I think you’re real rude.”

Smith poked Demarest with his elbow, not spilling the potato from his fork.

“Now see what you’ve gone and done—made the little girl mad. Just when I was getting on so well, too.”

“
Who
was getting on so well?” … Mrs. Faubion glowered.

“Of all the
conceited
men——!” contributed Miss Dacey, bridling.

“Ah, father, you shouldn’t blame
me
like this … Is it
my
fault?… Is the child father to the man … No; if you’d only
resisted
those nickel spoons—sternly—walked out proudly with empty pockets and a pure heart——”

“Well, you don’t have to
tell
everybody, do you?… You’ve spoiled my chances. What hope is there for me now?” He looked sadly at Mrs. Faubion. “Me, an ex-convict, a kleptomaniac!”

“What a
lovely
word,” said Miss Dacey. “Don’t
you
think so, Mr. Barnes?”

Demarest thought she was about to lay her head on Mr. Barnes’s plate—so yearningly did she gush forward. Mr. Barnes leaned back a little.

“Oh, a lovely word!” he agreed. “Still, as Purser of this ship, I suppose I ought to be careful—what?… I must warn you, Mr. Smith, that everything you say will be held against you. It’s a beautiful word; but I’m a dutiful man.”

Miss Dacey clapped her hands, jingling the bangle.

“Oh, doesn’t he talk nicely! Beautiful—dutiful! Just like poetry! Do you like poetry, Mr. Barnes? Do you like poetry, Mr. Kleptomaniac? Do
you
like poetry, Mr. I-don’t-know-your-name”?

“Demarest?… Certainly. If I can have a little beer and cheese with it, or a game of billiards after it!”

“How vulgar of you!… And you, Mr. Barnes?”

“Oh yes, yes!” cried Mr. Barnes.

“
I
don’t,” snapped Mrs. Faubion. “I think it’s all tosh. Me for a good dance, or a nice show, and plenty of jazz. On the beach at Wy-kee-kee!” She snapped her fingers lazily, dreamily, and gave a singular little “H’m’m!” like the dying-fall, cloying, of a ukelele.

“Twangle, twangle, little guitar!” said Smith. “I’m right with you, darling! Make it two!”

“Careful, father. Remember your years. Forgive him, Mrs. Faubion. He means well,—but you know—bubbles in the think-tank …”

“Yes, sir,” said Smith. “I sure do like a little jazz. Give me a good nigger orchestra every time. I remember once, at the Starcroft Inn, a dance hall—but no. No, I can’t tell it here. Too many ladies here.”

“Well! If
that’s
the way you feel about it!” … Mrs. Faubion folded her napkin, thrust it venomously into the ring, and rose. “Good
night
!” She walked away bristling. At the door she turned and looked hard at Demarest, who watching her. Their eyes met, then wavered apart. Smith laughed delightedly.

“That time, father, it was
you
.”

“
Don’t
call me
father
!—makes me feel too old.
Brr
!… On the beach at Wai-ki-ki … Some girl!… Have a cigar, Mr. Purser?… Mr. Demarest?” He beamed, offering cigars. Then he walked solemnly away, pinching the end of a cigar between finger and thumb.

“Jolly old boy that!” said Mr. Barnes. “Have you know him long?”

“Never saw him till today.”

“Jolly old boy!… Are you going, Miss Dacey? Have we fed you well enough?”

“Oh, beautifully, thank you, Mr. Barnes! Do you have to go and do that
awful
work now?”

“Yes, I’m afraid I do.”

“Good night, then!”

“Good night!”

“Daisy Dacey,” said Mr. Barnes to Demarest. “How’s that for a name, eh? And look at her card, she gave it to me. ‘Miss Daisy Dacey. England and the United States!’ Isn’t that a scream?”

“The Western Hemisphere and Mars,” murmured Demarest.

Feeling suddenly that they had nothing more to say to each other, they drifted shyly apart. The orchestra, which had just come in from the first cabin, finished arranging its music on tripods, and struck loudly, coarsely into “My Little Gray Home in the West.” Flute, violin, piano and double-bass. The flute player, a young man with a pale, fine girlish face and a blond cascade of hair, hooked his lip earnestly over the flute: uncous lip. How white his hands were, too, on the black flute.
My lit-tle gray ho-ome in the West
. A brick vault in the cemetery, overgrown, oversnarled, with gaudy trumpet vine, steaming in the tropic sun. Bones in the tropic dust. My little red house in the south. Bees and bones and trumpet flowers: nostalgia, Gauguin, heart of darkness … Mrs. Faubion passed him, singing “
My lit-tle gray ho’ome
——” her eyes wide and …
absorbent
. Demarest felt like turning up his coat collar against a draft. A tall, dark, romantic young man came after her, carrying her coat and a steamer rug. Victim No. 1. Daisy Dacey stood at the corridor door, engaged in lively conservation with the Chief Steward. She pirouetted, slid, waved her arms, giggled, and the Chief Steward looked down at her intently, preening his little black mustache abstractedly, as if he weren’t so much listening as watching, waiting. “Hello!” she cried to Demarest as he passed. “Hello!” sang Demarest mockingly. After he had passed, he heard her crying, amid the harsh music, “Never—never—
never
!” At the same time, thin and far away, he heard the ship’s bell hurriedly striking eight:
tin-tin, tin-tin, tin-tin, tin-tin
. What watch was this—Dog Watch? No. The Watch of the Great Bear. The Watch of the Lion. The Watch of the Sphinx. The Queen of Sheba would be sitting in his stateroom, on a small golden chair, clawing a pomegranate on a golden dish. “Naughty, naughty!” she cried to her Sphinx cub, wagging a finger. Then she put down her locked hands, crying, “Jump, Sphinx!” and the little gray sphinx leapt, expressionless, over the alabaster hoop. “Mad, mad. I’m completely mad.”

He walked twice round the deck in the wind and dark. It was cold. The deck was dimly lighted, and everything looked a little fantastic—enormous ventilators, mysterious people stepping out of mysterious doors, a submarine murmur of ragtime. A cluster of tiny lights far away to port indicated Long Island. As he crossed the shelter deck behind the smoking room he saw Pauline Faubion, and the Romantic Young Man, sitting, well wrapped, in steamer chairs. The Young Man was leaning his head very close to her, talking in a low confidential voice—she regarded him with solemn probing indifference. Why was it not himself who sat beside her, talking? Oh, he knew well enough why—though he knew also, with conviction, that Pauline would have preferred him to her present company … The sea was black, with hints of white, and the wind brought unceasingly from it the fluctuatingly melancholy and savage sound of charging waves.