The Pagan Madonna Part 32

"And I know too much about both."

"There have been other women--besides the one who laughed?"

"Yes. Perhaps I was cruel enough to make them pay for that.

"'Funny an' yellow an' faithful-- Doll in a teacup she were, But we lived on the square, like a true-married pair, An' I learned about women from 'er!'

"But I wonder what would have happened if it had been a woman like you instead of the one who laughed."

"I shouldn't have laughed."

"This d.a.m.ned face of mine!"

"You mustn't say that! Why not try to make over your soul to match it?"

"How is that done?"

The irony was so gentle that she fell silent for a s.p.a.ce.

"Are you going to take Mr. Cleigh's paintings when you leave us?"

"My dear young lady, all I have left to be proud of is my word. I give it to you that I am going after pearls. It may sound crazy, but I can't help that. I am realizing a dream. I'm something of a fatalist--I've had to be. I've always reasoned that if I could make the dream come true--this dream of pearls--I'd have a chance to turn over a new leaf. I've had to commit acts at times that were against my nature, my instincts. I've had to be cruel and terrible, because men would not believe a pretty man could be a strong one. Do you understand? I have been forced to cruel deeds because men would not credit a man's heart behind a woman's face. I possess tremendous nervous energy. That's the princ.i.p.al curse. I can't sit still; I can't remain long anywhere; I must go, go, go! Like the Wandering Jew, Ishmael."

"Do you know what Ishmael means?"

"No. What?"

"'G.o.d heareth.' Have you ever asked Him for anything?"

"No. Why should I, since He gave me this withered leg? Please don't preach to me."

"I won't, then. But I'm terribly sorry."

"Of course you are. But--don't become too sorry. I might want to carry you off to my atoll."

"If you took me away with you by force, I'd hate you and you'd hate yourself. But you won't do anything like that."

"What makes you believe so?"

"I don't know why, but I do believe it."

"To be trusted by a woman, a good woman! I'll tell that to the stars. Tell me about yourself--what you did and how you lived before you came this side."

It was not a long story, and he nodded from time to time understandingly.

Genteel poverty, a life of scrimp and pare--the cage. Romance--a flash of it--and she would return to the old life quite satisfied. Peace, a stormy interlude; then peace again indefinitely. It came to him that he wanted the respect of this young woman for always. But the malice that was ever bubbling up to his tongue and finding speech awoke.

"Suppose I find my pearls--and then come back for you? Romance and adventure! These warm stars always above us at night; the brilliant days; the voyages from isle to isle; palms and gay parrakeets, cocoanuts and mangosteens--and let the world go hang!"

She did not reply, but she moved a little away. He waited for a minute, then laughed softly.

"My dear young lady, this is the interlude you've always been longing for.

Fate has popped you out of the normal for a few days, and presently she'll pop you back into it. Some day you'll marry and have children; you'll sink into the rut of monotony again and not be conscious of it. On winter nights, before the fire, when the children have been put to bed, your man buried behind his evening paper, you will recall Slue-Foot and the interlude and be happy over it. You'll hug and cuddle it to your heart secretly. A poignant craving in your life had been satisfied. Kidnapped by pirates, under Oriental stars! Fifteen men on a dead man's chest--yo-ho, and a bottle of rum! A glorious adventure, with three meals the day and grand opera on the phonograph. Shades of Gilbert and Sullivan! And you will always be wondering whether the pirate made love to you in jest or in earnest--and he'll always be wondering, too!"

Cunningham turned away abruptly and clumped toward the bridge ladder, which he mounted.

For some inexplicable reason her heart became filled with wild resentment against him. Mocking her, when she had only offered him kindness! She clung to the idea of mockery because it was the only tangible thing she could pluck from her confusion. Thus when she began the descent of the companionway and ran into Dennison coming up her mood was not receptive to reproaches.

"Where have you been?" he demanded.

"Watching the stars and the phosph.o.r.escence. I could not sleep."

"Alone?"

"No. Mr. Cunningham was with me."

"I warned you to keep away from that scoundrel!"

"How dare you use that tone to me? Have you any right to tell me what I shall and shall not do?" she stormed at him. "I've got to talk to someone.

You go about in one perpetual gloom. I purpose to see and talk to Cunningham as often as I please. At least he amuses me."

With this she rushed past him and on to her cabin, the door of which she closed with such emphasis that it was heard all over the yacht--so sharp was the report that both Cleigh and Dodge awoke and sat up, half convinced that they had heard a pistol shot!

Jane sat down on her bed, still furious. After a while she was able to understand something of this fury. The world was upside down, wrong end to. Dennison, not Cunningham, should have acted the debonair, the nonchalant. Before this adventure began he had been witty, amusing, companionable; now he was as interesting as a b.u.mp on a log. At table he was only a poor counterfeit of his father, whose silence was maintained admirably, at all times impressively dignified. Whereas at each encounter Dennison played directly into Cunningham's hands, and the latter was too much the banterer not to make the most of these episodes.

What if he was worried? Hadn't she more cause to worry than any one else?

For all that, she did not purpose to hide behind the barricaded door of her cabin. If there was a tragedy in the offing it would not fall less heavily because one approached it with melancholy countenance.

Heaven knew that she was no infant as regarded men! In the six years of hospital work she had come into contact with all sorts and conditions of men. Cunningham might be the greatest scoundrel unhung, but so far as she was concerned she need have no fear. This knowledge was instinctive.

But when her cheek touched the pillow she began to cry softly. She was so terribly lonely!

CHAPTER XVIII

The s.p.a.ce through which Jane had pa.s.sed held Dennison's gaze for two or three minutes. Then he sat down on the companionway step, his arms across his knees and his forehead upon his arms. What to say? What to do? She expected him to be amusing!--when he knew that the calm on board was of the same deceptive quality as that of the sea--below, the terror!

It did not matter that the crew was of high average. They would not be playing such a game unless they were a reckless lot. At any moment they might take it into their heads to swarm over Cunningham and obliterate him. Then what? If the episode of the morning had not convinced Jane, what would? The man Flint had dropped his mask; the others were content to wear theirs yet awhile. Torture for her sake, the fear of what might actually be in store for her, and she expected him to talk and act like a chap out of a novel!

Ordinarily so full of common sense, what had happened to her that her vision should become so obscured as not to recognize the danger of the man? Had he been ugly, Jane would probably have ignored him. But that face of his, as handsome as a Greek G.o.d's, and that tongue with its roots in oil! And there was his deformity--that had drawn her pity. Playing with her, and she deliberately walked into the trap because he was amusing! Why shouldn't he be, knowing that he held their lives in the hollow of his hand? What imp of Satan wouldn't have been amiable?

Because the rogues did not run up the skull and crossbones; because they did not swagger up and down the deck, knives and pistols in their sashes, she couldn't be made to believe them criminals!

Amusing! She could not see that if he spoke roughly it was only an expression of the smothered pain of his mental crucifixion. He could not tell her he loved her for fear she might misinterpret her own sentiments.

Besides, her present mood was not inductive to any declaration on his part; a confession might serve only to widen the breach. Who could say that it wasn't Cunningham's game to take Jane along with him in the end?

There was nothing to prevent that. His father holding aloof, the loyal members of the crew in a most certain negligible minority, what was there to prevent Cunningham from carrying off Jane?