Persons possessed of sluggish
livers and tender hearts find
two serious drawbacks to the
enjoyment of a cruise at sea.
It is exceedingly difficult to
get enough walking exercise;
and it is next to impossible
(where secrecy is an object)
to make love without being found
out. Reverting for the moment
to the latter difficulty only,
life within the narrow and populous
limits of a vessel may be defined
as essentially life in public.
From morning to night you are
in your neighbor's way, or your
neighbor is in your way. As a
necessary result of these conditions,
the rarest of existing men may
be defined as the man who is
capable of stealing a kiss at
sea without discovery. An inbred
capacity for stratagem of the
finest sort; inexhaustible inventive
resources; patience which can
flourish under superhuman trials;
presence of mind which can keep
its balance victoriously under
every possible stress of emergency--these
are some of the qualifications
which must accompany Love on
a cruise, when Love embarks in
the character of a contraband
commodity not duly entered on
the
papers of the ship.
Having established a Code of
Signals which enabled them to
communicate privately, while
the eyes and ears of others were
wide open on every side of them,
Natalie and Launce were next
confronted by the more serious
difficulty of finding a means
of meeting together at stolen
interviews on board the yacht.
Possessing none of those precious
moral qualifications already
enumerated as the qualifications
of an accomplished lover at sea,
Launce had proved unequal to
grapple with the obstacles in
his way. Left to her own inventive
resources, Natalie had first
suggested the young surgeon's
medical studies as Launce's unanswerable
excuse for shutting himself up
at intervals in the lower regions,
and had then hit on the happy
idea of tearing her trimmings,
and condemning herself to repair
her own carelessness, as the
all-sufficient reason for similar
acts of self-seclusion on her
side. In this way the lovers
contrived, while the innocent
ruling authorities were on deck,
to meet privately below them,
on the neutral ground of the
main cabin; and there, by previous
arrangement at the breakfast-table,
they were about to meet privately
now.
Natalie's door was, as usual
on these occasions, the first
that opened; for this sound reason,
that Natalie's quickness was
the quickness to be depended
on in case of accident.
She looked up at the sky-light.
There were the legs of the two
gentlemen and the skirts of her
aunt visible (and stationary)
on the lee side of the deck.
She advanced a few steps and
listened. There was a pause in
the murmur of the voices above.
She looked up again. One pair
of legs (not her father's) had
disappeared. Without an instant's
hesitation, Natalie darted back
to her own door, just in time
to escape Richard Turlington
descending the cabin stairs.
All he did was to go to one of
the drawers under the main-cabin
book-case and to take out a map,
ascending again immediately to
the deck. Natalie's guilty conscience
rushed instantly, nevertheless,
to the conclusion that Richard
suspected her. When she showed
herself for the second time,
instead of venturing into the
cabin, she called across it in
a whisper,
"Launce!"
Launce appeared at his door.
He was peremptorily checked before
he could cross the threshold.
"Don't stir
a step! Richard has been down
in the cabin! Richard
suspects us!"
"Nonsense!
Come out."
"Nothing will
induce me, unless you can find
some other place
than the cabin."
Some other place? How easy
to find it on land! How apparently
impossible at sea! There was
the forecastle (full of men)
at one end of the vessel. There
was the sail room (full of sails)
at the other. There was the ladies'
cabin (used as the ladies' dressing-room;
inaccessible, in that capacity,
to every male human being on
board). Was there any disposable
inclosed space to be found amidships?
On one side there were the sleeping
berths of the sailing-master
and his mate (impossible to borrow
_them_). On the other side was
the steward's store-room. Launce
considered for a moment. The
steward's store-room was just
the thing!
"Where are you going?" asked
Natalie, as her lover made straight
for a closed door at the lower
extremity of the main cabin.
"To speak to
the steward, darling. Wait
one moment, and you will
see me again."
Launce opened the store-room
door, and discovered, not the
steward, but his wife, who occupied
the situation of stewardess on
board the vessel. The accident
was, in this case, a lucky one.
Having stolen several kisses
at sea, and having b een discovered
(in every case) either by the
steward or his wife, Launce felt
no difficulty in prefacing his
request to be allowed the use
of the room by the plainest allusion
to his relations with Natalie.
He could count on the silence
of the sympathizing authorities
in this region of the vessel,
having wisely secured them as
accomplices by the usual persuasion
of the pecuniary sort. Of the
two, however, the stewardess,
as a woman, was the more likely
to lend a ready ear to Launce's
entreaties in his present emergency.
After a faint show of resistance,
she consented, not only to leave
the room, but to keep her husband
out of it, on the understanding
that it was not to be occupied
for more than ten minutes. Launce
made the signal to Natalie at
one door, while the stewardess
went out by the other. In a moment
more the lovers were united in
a private room. Is it necessary
to say in what language the proceedings
were opened? Surely not! There
is an inarticulate language of
the lips in use on these occasions
in which we are all proficient,
though we sometimes forget it
in later life. Natalie seated
herself on a locker. The tea,
sugar, and spices were at her
back, a side of bacon swung over
her head, and a net full of lemons
dangled before her face. It might
not be roomy, but it was snug
and comfortable.
"Suppose they call for the
steward?" she suggested. ("Don't,
Launce!")
"Never mind.
We shall be safe enough if
they do. The steward
has only to show himself on deck,
and they will suspect nothing."
"Do be quiet,
Launce! I have got dreadful
news to tell you.
And, besides, my aunt will expect
to see me with my braid sewn
on again."
She had brought her needle
and thread with her. Whipping
up the skirt of her dress on
her knee, she bent forward over
it, and set herself industriously
to the repair of the torn trimming.
In this position her lithe figure
showed charmingly its firm yet
easy line. The needle, in her
dexterous brown fingers, flew
through its work. The locker
was a broad one; Launce was able
to seat himself partially behind
her. In this position who could
have resisted the temptation
to lift up her great knot of
broadly-plaited black hair, and
to let the warm, dusky nape of
her neck disclose itself to view?
Who, looking at it, could fail
to revile the senseless modern
fashion of dressing the hair,
which hides the double beauty
of form and color that nestles
at the back of a woman's neck?
From time to time, as the interview
proceeded, Launce's lips emphasized
the more important words occurring
in his share of the conversation
on the soft, fragrant skin which
the lifted hair let him see at
intervals. In Launce's place,
sir, you would have done it too.
"Now, Natalie,
what is the news?"
"He has spoken
to papa, Launce."
"Richard Turlington?"
"Yes."
"D--n him!"
Natalie started. A curse addressed
to the back of your neck, instantly
followed by a blessing in the
shape of a kiss, is a little
trying when you are not prepared
for it.
"Don't do that
again, Launce! It was while
you were on deck
smoking, and when I was supposed
to be fast asleep. I opened the
ventilator in my cabin door,
dear, and I heard every word
they said. He waited till my
aunt was out of the way, and
he had got papa all to himself,
and then he began it in that
horrible, downright voice of
his--'Graybrooke! how much longer
am I to wait?'"
"Did he say
that?"
"No more swearing,
Launce! Those were the words.
Papa didn't
understand them. He only said
(poor dear!)--'Bless my soul,
Richard, what do you want?' Richard
soon explained himself. 'Who
could he be waiting for--but
Me?' Papa said something about
my being so young. Richard stopped
his mouth directly. 'Girls were
like fruit; some ripened soon,
and some ripened late. Some were
women at twenty, and some were
women at sixteen. It was impossible
to look at me, and not see that
I was like a new being after
my two months at sea,' and so
on and so on. Papa behaved like
an angel. He still tried to put
it off. 'Plenty of time, Richard,
plenty of time.' 'Plenty of time
for _her_' (was the wretch's
answer to that); 'but not for
_me_. Think of all I have to
offer her' (as if I cared for
his money!); 'think how long
I have looked upon her as growing
up to be my wife' (growing up
for _him_--monstrous!), 'and
don't keep me in a state of uncertainty,
which it gets harder and harder
for a man in my position to endure!'
He was really quite eloquent.
His voice trembled. There is
no doubt, dear, that he is very,
very fond of me."
"And you feel
flattered by it, of course?"
"Don't talk
nonsense. I feel a little frightened
at it, I
can tell you."
"Frightened?
Did _you_ notice him this morning?"
"I? When?"
"When your
father was telling that story
about the man overboard."
"No. What did
he do? Tell me, Launce."
"I'll tell
you directly. How did it all
end last night? Did
your father make any sort of
promise?"
"You know Richard's
way; Richard left him no other
choice. Papa
had to promise before he was
allowed to go to bed."
"To let Turlington
marry you?"
"Yes; the week
after my next birthday."
"The week after
next Christmas-day?"
"Yes. Papa
is to speak to me as soon as
we are at home again,
and my married life is to begin
with the New Year."
"Are you in
earnest, Natalie? Do you really
mean to say it
has gone as far as that?"
"They have
settled everything. The splendid
establishment we
are to set up, the great income
we are to have. I heard papa
tell Richard that half his fortune
should go to me on my wedding-day.
It was sickening to hear how
much they made of Money, and
how little they thought of Love.
What am I to do, Launce?"
"That's easily
answered, my darling. In the
first place,
you are to make up your mind
not to marry Richard Turlington--"
"Do talk reasonably.
You know I have done all I
could. I have
told papa that I can think of
Richard as a friend, but not
as a husband. He only laughs
at me, and says, 'Wait a little,
and you will alter your opinion,
my dear.' You see Richard is
everything to him; Richard has
always managed his affairs, and
has saved him from losing by
bad speculations; Richard has
known me from the time when I
was a child; Richard has a splendid
business, and quantities of money.
Papa can't even imagine that
I can resist Richard. I have
tried my aunt; I have told her
he is too old for me. All she
says is, 'Look at your father;
he was much older than your mother,
and what a happy marriage theirs
was.' Even if I said in so many
words, 'I won't marry Richard,'
what good would it do to us?
Papa is the best and dearest
old man in the world; but oh,
he is so fond of money! He believes
in nothing else. He would be
furious--yes, kind as he is,
he would be furious--if I even
hinted that I was fond of _you_.
Any man who proposed to marry
me--if he couldn't match the
fortune that I should bring him
by a fortune of his own--would
be a lunatic in papa's eyes.
He wouldn't think it necessary
to answer him; he would ring
the bell, and have him shown
out of the house. I am exaggerating
nothing, Launce; you know I am
speaking the truth. There is
no hope in the future--that I
can see--for either of us.
"Have you done,
Natalie? I have something to
say on my side
if you have."
"What is it?"
"If things
go on as they are going on
now, shall I tell you
how it will end? It will end
in your being Turlington's wife."
"Never!"
"So you say
now; but you don't know what
may happen between
this and Christmas-day. Natalie,
there is only one way of making
sure that you will never marry
Richard. Marry _me_."
"Without papa's
consent?"
"Without saying
a word to anybody till it's
done."
"Oh, Launce!
Launce!"
"My darling,
every word you have said proves
there is no
other way. Think of it, Natalie,
think of it."
There was a
pause. Natalie dropped her
needle and thread,
and hid her face in her hands. "If
my poor mother was only alive," she
said; "if I only had an elder
sister to advise me, and to take
my part."
She was evidently hesitating.
Launce took a man's advantage
of her indecision. He pressed
her without mercy.
"Do you love me?" he
whispered, with his lips close
to her ear.
"You know I
do, dearly."
"Put it out
of Richa rd's power to part
us, Natalie."
"Part us? We
are cousins: we have known
each other since we
were both children. Even if he
proposed parting us, papa wouldn't
allow it."
"Mark my words, he _will_ propose
it. As for your father, Richard
has only to lift his finger and
your father obeys him. My love,
the happiness of both our lives
is at stake. "He wound his arm
round her, and gently drew her
head back on his bosom " Other
girls have done it, darling," he
pleaded, "why shouldn't you?"
The effort to answer him was
too much for her. She gave it
up. A low sigh fluttered through
her lips. She nestled closer
to him, and faintly closed her
eyes. The next instant she started
up, trembling from head to foot,
and looked at the sky-light.
Richard Turlington's voice was
suddenly audible on deck exactly
above them.
"Graybrooke,
I want to say a word to you
about Launcelot
Linzie."
Natalie's first impulse was
to fly to the door. Hearing Launce's
name on Richard's lips, she checked
herself. Something in Richard's
tone roused in her the curiosity
which suspends fear. She waited,
with her hand in Launce's hand.
"If you remember," the brassy
voice went on, "I doubted the
wisdom of taking him with us
on this cruise. You didn't agree
with me, and, at your express
request, I gave way. I did wrong.
Launcelot Linzie is a very presuming
young man."
Sir Joseph's answer was accompanied
by Sir Joseph's mellow laugh.
"My dear Richard!
Surely you are a little hard
on Launce?"
"You are not
an observant man, Graybrooke.
I am. I see signs
of his presuming with all of
us, and especially with Natalie.
I don't like the manner in which
he speaks to her and looks at
her. He is unduly familiar; he
is insolently confidential. There
must be a stop put to it. In
my position, my feelings ought
to be regarded. I request you
to check the intimacy when we
get on shore."
Sir Joseph's next words were
spoken more seriously. He expressed
his surprise.
"My dear Richard,
they are cousins, they have
been playmates
from childhood. How _can_ you
think of attaching the slightest
importance to anything that is
said or done by poor Launce?"
There was a
good-humored contempt in Sir
Joseph's reference to "poor
Launce" which jarred on his daughter.
He might almost have been alluding
to some harmless domestic animal.
Natalie's color deepened. Her
hand pressed Launce's hand gently.
Turlington still persisted.
"I must once
more request--seriously request--that
you will check
this growing intimacy. I don't
object to your asking him to
the house when you ask other
friends. I only wish you (and
expect you) to stop his 'dropping
in,' as it is called, any hour
of the day or evening when he
may have nothing to do. Is that
understood between us?"
"If you make
a point of it, Richard, of
course it's understood
between us."
Launce looked at Natalie, as
weak Sir Joseph consented in
those words.
"What did I tell you?" he
whispered.
Natalie hung her head in silence.
There was a pause in the conversation
on deck. The two gentlemen walked
away slowly toward the forward
part of the vessel.
Launce pursued his advantage.
"Your father leaves us no alternative," he
said. "The door will be closed
against me as soon as we get
on shore. If I lose you, Natalie,
I don't care what becomes of
me. My profession may go to the
devil. I have nothing left worth
living for."
"Hush! hush!
don't talk in that way!"
Launce tried the soothing influence
of persuasion once more.
"Hundreds and hundreds of people
in our situation have married
privately--and have been forgiven
afterward," he went on. "I won't
ask you to do anything in a hurry.
I will be guided entirely by
your wishes. All I want to quiet
my mind is to know that you are
mine. Do, do, do make me feel
sure that Richard Turlington
can't take you away from me."
"Don't press me, Launce." She
dropped on the locker. "See!" she
said. "It makes me tremble only
to think of it!"
"Who are you
afraid of, darling? Not your
father, surely?"
"Poor papa! I wonder whether
he would be hard on me for the
first time in his life?" She
stopped; her moistening eyes
looked up imploringly in Launce's
face. "Don't press me!" she repeated
faintly. "You know it's wrong.
We should have to confess it--
and then what would happen?" She
paused again. Her eyes wandered
nervously to the deck. Her voice
dropped to its lowest tones. "Think
of Richard!" she said, and shuddered
at the terrors which that name
conjured up. Before it was possible
to say a quieting word to her,
she was again on her feet. Richard's
name had suddenly recalled to
her memory Launce's mysterious
allusion, at the outset of the
interview, to the owner of the
yacht. "What was that you said
about Richard just now?" she
asked. "You saw something (or
heard something) strange while
papa was telling his story. What
was it?"
"I noticed
Richard's face, Natalie, when
your father told
us that the man overboard was
not one of the pilot-boat's crew.
He turned ghastly pale. He looked
guilty--"
"Guilty? Of
what?"
"He was present--I
am certain of it--when the
sailor was thrown
into the sea. For all I know,
he may have been the man who
did it."
Natalie started back in horror.
"Oh, Launce!
Launce! that is too bad. You
may not like Richard--
you may treat Richard as your
enemy. But to say such a horrible
thing of him as that-- It's not
generous. It's not like _you_."
"If you had
seen him, you would have said
it too. I mean to make
inquiries--in your father's interests
as well as in ours. My brother
knows one of the Commissioners
of Police, and my brother can
get it done for me. Turlington
has not always been in the Levant
trade--I know that already."
"For shame,
Launce! for shame!"
The footsteps on deck were
audible coming back. Natalie
sprang to the door leading into
the cabin. Launce stopped her,
as she laid her hand on the lock.
The footsteps went straight on
toward the stern of the vessel.
Launce clasped both arms round
her. Natalie gave way.
"Don't drive me to despair!" he
said. "This is my last opportunity.
I don't ask you to say at once
that you will marry me, I only
ask you to think of it. My darling!
my angel! will you think of it?"
As he put the question, they
might have heard (if they had
not been too completely engrossed
in each other to listen) the
footsteps returning--one pair
of footsteps only this time.
Natalie's prolonged absence had
begun to surprise her aunt, and
had roused a certain vague distrust
in Richard's mind. He walked
back again along the deck by
himself. He looked absently in
the main cabin as he passed it.
The store-room skylight came
next. In his present frame of
mind, would he look absently
into the store-room too?
"Let me go!" said
Natalie.
Launce only
answered, "Say
yes," and held her as if he would
never let her go again.
At the same
moment Miss Lavinia's voice
rose shrill from the deck
calling for Natalie. There was
but one way of getting free from
him. She said, "I'll think of
it." Upon that, he kissed her
and let her go.
The door had barely closed
on her when the lowering face
of Richard Turlington appeared
on a level with the side of the
sky- light, looking down into
the store-room at Launce.
"Halloo!" he called out roughly. "What
are you doing in the steward's
room?"
Launce took
up a box of matches on the
dresser. "I'm getting
a light," he answered readily.
"I allow nobody
below, forward of the main
cabin, without my
leave. The steward has permitted
a breach of discipline on board
my vessel. The steward will leave
my service."
"The steward
is not to blame."
"I am the judge
of that. Not you."
Launce opened his lips to reply.
An outbreak between the two men
appeared to be inevitable, when
the sailing-master of the yacht
joined his employer on deck,
and directed Turlington's attention
to a question which is never
to be trifled with at sea, the
question of wind and tide.
The yacht was then in the Bristol
Channel, at the entrance to Bideford
Bay. The breeze, fast freshening,
was also fast changing the direction
from which it blew. The favorable
tide had barely three hours more
to run.
"The wind's shifting, sir," said
the sailing-master. "I'm afraid
we shan't get round the point
this tide, unless we lay her
off on the other tack."
Turlington shook his head.
"There are letters waiting
for me at Bideford," he said. "We
have lost two days in the calm.
I must send ashore to the post-office,
whether we lose the tide or not."
The vessel held on her course.
Off the port of Bideford, the
boat was sent ashore to the post-office,
the yacht standing off and on,
waiting the appearance of the
letters. In the shortest time
in which it was possible to bring
them on board the letters were
in Turlington's hands.
The men were
hauling the boat up to the
davits, the yacht was
already heading off from the
land, when Turlington startled
everybody by one peremptory word--"Stop!"
He had thrust all his letters
but one into the pocket of his
sailing jacket, without reading
them. The one letter which he
had opened he held in his closed
hand. Rage was in his staring
eyes, consternation was on his
pale lips.
"Lower the boat!" he shouted; "I
must get to London to-night." He
stopped Sir Joseph, approaching
him with opened mouth. "There's
no time for questions and answers.
I must get back." He swung himself
over the side of the yacht, and
addressed the sailing-master
from the boat. "Save the tide
if you can; if you can't, put
them ashore to-morrow at Minehead
or Watchet--wherever they like." He
beckoned to Sir Joseph to lean
over the bulwark, and hear something
he had to say in private. "Remember
what I told you about Launcelot
Linzie!" he whispered fiercely.
His parting look was for Natalie.
He spoke to her with a strong
constraint on himself, as gently
as he could. "Don't be alarmed;
I shall see you in London." He
seated himself in the boat and
took the tiller. The last words
they heard him say were words
urging the men at the oars to
lose no time. He was invariably
brutal with the men. "Pull, you
lazy beggars!" he exclaimed,
with an oath. "Pull for your
lives!"
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