Читать книгу By Right of Conquest - Arthur Hornblow - Страница 4

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The scene on the dock just before sailing-time of an ocean liner is always an animated one, full of interest and color for those having eyes to see. The huge steamer, freshly painted, all spick and span, laden to the water-line with precious freight, her enormous funnels belching clouds of black smoke, with white steam hissing from every part of her giant hulk, as if the imprisoned energy were eager to put its power to the test; the air filled with the babel of many voices, smart stewards standing at attention on the lower deck, ready to serve the embarking passengers, uniformed sailors hurrying to obey sharply given orders; officers resplendent in immaculate white duck and gold braid, solemnly promenading the bridge, as if impressed with the weight of their responsibility; excited travelers arriving in every description of vehicle; messengers rushing here and there with floral baskets and hot-house fruit sent as parting gifts; telegraph-boys bringing words of farewell; tear-stained faces smiling au revoir, handkerchiefs waving and much shouting; policemen pushing back the spectators anxious to see the last of friends and relatives; the crowd growing gradually smaller and the shouts more distant as the leviathan swings out in to the stream—all this makes up a picture which, once beheld, is forever engraved on heart and memory.

The annual around-the-world cruise of the palatial Blue Star steamer Atlanta, 17,000 tons, was always an event of more than ordinary interest, and sailing-day never failed to draw a large crowd. In fact, going down to the dock to give a noisy send-off to those friends lucky enough to be able to make the delightful Mediterranean trip had of recent years assumed the importance of a social function. The voyage being pre-eminently for health and pleasure, it generally attracted a goodly number of well-to-do and congenial people. Many of the passengers, moving in the same sets in society, were already well acquainted before going on board, and strangers had no difficulty in securing introductions. Almost as soon as the anchor was weighed, the barriers of exclusiveness were thrown down. Before the vessel had proceeded very far from port, every one knew every one else, and the ship's company had become one big jolly family.

The passenger-list contained many names well known in society. Mrs. Townsend Lee, one of the leaders of New York's 400, was on board; so was Mrs. Wesley Stuart, whose musicales were counted among the most delightful affairs of the season. Professor Hanson, the noted sociologist, was a passenger; so also was Mrs. Phelps, the wealthy young widow whose recent bereavement had made her the target of every impecunious nobleman in Europe. It was perhaps only a coincidence, yet still a fact the significance of which escaped no one, that two staterooms had been engaged—one by the Honorable Percy Fitzhugh, a callow Englishman who had made himself ridiculous with a Casino chorus-girl, the other by Count Herbert von Hatzfeld, scion of an aristocratic German family, who in a newspaper interview gave out that he was globe-trotting for his health. Gossip had linked the names of both men with Mrs. Phelps, and as neither had been at any pains to deny that he was a suitor for the widow's hand, there was considerable speculation as to whom was making most progress in her favor.

But the name on the list which excited most interest and comment among the crowd of sightseers and seagoers who literally mobbed the big ship, was that of Miss Grace Harmon, the beautiful daughter of the well-known railroad magnate, whose début in society two years before, at a splendid ball given in her honor at the Harmon's palatial Fifth Avenue home, was still talked about as the most brilliant and costly affair of that season.

Grace Harmon was conspicuous for her beauty even in a land famous for its fair women. Tall and slender, with aristocratic features and queenly carriage, she was the typical Gibson girl. Women raved about her wonderful complexion, her splendid eyes, her magnificent hair, her graceful figure. They went into ecstasies over her gowns, her beautifully arched eyebrows, academic nose, dazzling white teeth, and a sensitive, delicately modeled mouth, that might have tempted Saint Anthony himself. Men looking for money whispered that she was the prize catch of the matrimonial market, being the only heir to her father's millions, and the more enterprising laid their lines accordingly. When she went out driving or appeared in her box at the opera, everybody craned their necks and stared rudely, eager to feast their eyes on the priceless gifts this favorite of fortune had received from the gods. In their cheap hall bedrooms, timid poets wrote love-sonnets which they mailed to her anonymously, expecting no acknowledgment, happy only that they had expressed on paper what lay heavy on their hearts.

So far Grace had shown herself indifferent either to sentiment or matrimonial ambitions. She had not encouraged any of the men who showered her with attentions, and even with her intimates she declined to discuss what they declared to be the all-important question. But that eventually she would make a sensationally brilliant marriage went without the saying, and society wiseacres predicted that Prince Sergius of Eurasia, the most persistent of her suitors, would sooner or later carry off the prize. The nephew of the reigning monarch of a bankrupt little kingdom in the Balkans, the prince had been well known in New York and Newport for several seasons past as a dissipated spendthrift anxious to make a good matrimonial catch. Grace had disliked him the first moment she set eyes on him, and he had never succeeded in removing this first unfavorable impression. On the other hand, such a match certainly had advantages which to many a girl would prove too dazzling and tempting to resist. But Grace declined to be hurried into a decision. She demanded time, and while waiting to know his fate the Prince was suddenly recalled to Europe. This was as far as the affair had gone, and secretly Grace was glad to see the last of him, at least for a time, although the well-informed press sagely gave out that it was "understood in society circles that a formal engagement of Miss Grace Harmon and the Prince of Eurasia would shortly be announced."

Fully conscious of her power, well aware that her mere presence aroused jealousy in every woman and admiration in every man, Grace would have been more than human had she escaped being spoiled. The spitefully inclined accused her of haughtiness and of carrying her head high. It is true that she was careful in choosing her intimates and quick to snub those who were too ready to claim acquaintance, yet friends once made she kept, and she was popular in her set. In the more private home circle she was fairly idolized, especially by her father, who had indulged her every whim ever since she was born. Her mother, for years a chronic invalid, had left chiefly to servants the care of bringing her up, but to her father she was all that was worth while in life. The old man existed only for his beautiful daughter. Everything money could purchase—fine clothes, costly trinkets, smart automobiles were hers for the asking. After graduating from Bryn Mawr, she spent two years in France, Italy and Germany, acquiring a superficial knowledge of the continental languages. On her return home she joined the social whirl and became proficient in bridge. In short, Grace Harmon was accomplished to the tips of her tapering, carefully manicured fingers.

Brought up in the lap of luxury, never having expressed a desire that was not immediately gratified, Grace discovered after a time that wealth, while useful, has also its drawbacks. Having everything, she wanted nothing. She found herself wishing there might be something she could not have, so that for once, at least, she might experience the emotion of longing for the unattainable.

The plain truth was that Grace was no ordinary girl. She had more brains than people gave her credit for. Although reared in the tainted hot-house atmosphere of society, with its degenerate amusements, its low moral tone and trivial ambitions, she took little real interest in its shallow, vulgar pleasures. The women she soon discovered to be empty-headed or frankly immoral; the men were, for the most part, libertines, gamblers, fortune-hunters. The homage paid to her beauty flattered her vanity, but once the novelty of her first two seasons had worn away, surfeited with dinners, receptions, dances, and bridge-parties, she grew deadly tired of the social treadmill. It ceased to amuse her. She felt there was something wanting to complete her happiness. She lost her buoyancy of disposition, her high spirits disappeared, even her beauty paled. She became depressed and melancholy. People whispered that she was going into a decline. There had been a case of consumption in the family, they said. Her father, laughingly declaring that she was in love, asked for the name of the lucky man.

"Are you going to make the Prince happy at last, child?" he said.

"No, dad," she replied seriously. "It's nothing to do with that. Among all the men who've paid me attention there's not one I'd marry—now."

What seemed to Grace a more correct diagnosis of her trouble was made by Mrs. Wesley Stuart, her practical married friend:

"It's only your nerves, my dear—a natural reaction after the pace you've been going. What you need is a radical change of scene, something to stimulate your imagination. Take a trip around the world. If you'll go, I'll go with you."

Wesley Stuart was one of the big men in the Steel Trust and several times a millionaire. Gossip had long hinted that there was no love lost between him and his young wife, and she never denied it. He went his way; she went hers. She had all the money her expensive tastes called for, and this, coupled with a certain amount of natural cleverness, had given her considerable prominence in the artistic set. Her musicales were a success because her ready tact and intimate acquaintance with famous artists enabled her to surround herself with interesting people. Having some musical talent herself, she nourished the hopeless ambition that one day she would be able to sing in opera. Injudicious friends had encouraged her in this fatuous belief, and she had worked so hard and spent so much time and money studying with expensive teachers, with the idea of going on the stage, that at last her health gave way. Threatened with nervous breakdown, her physician had advised a long sea voyage, and this was just the opportunity she had been looking for. Both would have the other's company. If Grace would go, she wouldn't hesitate a second. As for her husband, he would be glad to be rid of her. She said it as a jest; in her heart she knew it was true. Not that she cared. Wesley gave her all the money she asked for and never interfered with her. According to her philosophy of life, theirs was as perfect a matrimonial understanding as she could wish for.

The idea of the trip at once appealed strongly to Grace. Enthusiastically she declared that she would like nothing better. It would be so novel and exciting, quite unlike any experience she had yet had. Some friends who had already made the trip gave glowing accounts of their travels, and the more she thought of it the more decided she was that around the world she would go. This decided it, for when once Grace made up her mind, everything was as good as settled. Nothing her father or mother might say could deter her from the project. She pleaded that the trip was absolutely necessary, not only for her health, but as a finishing touch to her education. The ship was not only going to China, Japan, India, and Egypt. It would visit also many out-of-the-way islands which are practically inaccessible to the usual tourist and seldom if ever visited. As a lesson in geography alone it was worth the money. Harmon père did not mind the expense. The few thousands the trip would cost was a bagatelle to the man of millions. What he balked at was the idea of losing his cherished daughter for six long months. The uncertainties of Wall Street made it impossible for him to accompany her, and Mrs. Harmon suffered so horribly from seasickness that she threw up her hands at the very suggestion. Seizing the excuse that a young girl could not go unaccompanied, her father, for the first time in his recollection, asserted his authority, emphatically refused consent, and was obdurate to all coaxing. Then Grace played her trump card. Their friend Mrs. Stuart was going on the same steamer. With a married woman for a chaperon, what further objection could there be? Seeing that he was check-mated, and that his daughter, as usual, would have her way in the end anyhow, Mr. Harmon reluctantly capitulated.

He was down at the steamer to see her off, a tall, distinguished-looking, silvery-haired old gentleman, conspicuous in the group of friends who had come to bid his daughter bon voyage. It was a noisy, jolly, unruly crowd. Every one talked at the same time, pushing and elbowing, blocking the gangway up which rushed each minute fresh arrivals laden with rugs and handbags. Ten minutes more and the "All ashore" gong would sound, and then the big ship would slowly pull out and point her nose for the open sea. Grace stood in the center of the fashionably dressed throng, herself stylishly attired in a chic, long gray cloth directoire coat and picture hat, bestowing smiles and handshakes right and left like a queen holding court. Everybody was in high spirits, all except Mr. Harmon, who tried to look brave as he furtively wiped away a tear.

"Don't do that, dad, or I'll spoil my complexion," whispered Grace, making heroic efforts to swallow a hard lump that arose in her own throat. "One would think I were going away forever. I'll be back safe and sound before you imagine—you'll see!"

"I hope so, child, I hope so," murmured the old man, clasping her to his breast. "It's foolish of me, of course. All the same, I can't help wishing you weren't going. I have a sort of presentiment that something will happen."

Grace laughed merrily.

"Nonsense, dad! What can happen? Nothing ever happens on ocean voyages. They are awfully tame and exasperatingly free from incident. Shipwrecks and things like that occur only in novels. Sometimes I wish things would happen."

"Really, Grace!" protested a feminine voice at her side, "I do wish you wouldn't say such wicked things. You know how nervous I am."

The speaker was Mrs. Wesley Stuart, under whose protective wing Grace was traveling. She was a willowy and rather attractive blonde, not yet in the thirties, but with a complexion somewhat the worse for rich foods, old wines, and late hours. Showily dressed, with a large black felt mushroom hat and heavy pearl pendants in her ears, she talked with affected languor and used a gold lorgnon.

"Your father is quite right, dear," she went on. "There are all sorts of perils at sea. A hundred things might happen. Our machinery might break down, we might drift for weeks without being sighted, we might collide with an iceberg in the fog, we might even turn turtle. Don't you remember that awful affair of the City of Berlin? Of course you don't. It was before your time—before mine, too, for that matter. The steamer left Liverpool about thirty years ago, crowded with passengers. She never reached port, and has never been heard of from that day to this. Every vestige of her was wiped out. They never picked up a life-boat, or even so much as a steamer-chair. The theory was that she turned turtle and went right down."

"No—really—you don't say so!" exclaimed behind them a man's voice with the exaggerated Piccadilly intonation some Englishmen affect. "It's a jolly shame, don'tcher know—to frighten Miss Harmon like that. She'll believe every bally thing you tell her and get the blue spiders and all that sort of thing—eh, what?"

Grace turned, smiling, to greet the Honorable Percy Fitzhugh, who was hemmed in the crowd at their elbows. He had just come aboard with a green Tyrolian hat on the side of his head, a monocle in his eye, and a bull-terrier tucked under his arm. Close behind was his valet, carrying a wonderful collection of walking-sticks and a huge bouquet of flowers.

"Oh, I don't mind!" laughed Grace. "I'm a fine sailor and not a bit nervous. The sea has no terrors for me."

"I wish I could say as much," sighed Mrs. Stuart. Petulantly she added: "I never feel safe on the ocean. I don't mind storms, but I'm terribly afraid of fog and icebergs and fire. Whenever it's foggy I can't eat or sleep. I'm in a state of mental anguish until it clears again."

"It's a jolly good thing some of us have nerve—eh, what?" exclaimed Mr. Fitzhugh, with a wink at Grace. Addressing Mrs. Stuart, he went on: "You remind me of Rex, my terrier here. He loathes the sea—howls and whines dismally the whole time. But please don't get the blue spiders, that's a good girl. We're going to be an awfully jolly party. Don't spoil the fun. Try a champagne cocktail. Best antidote for nervousness in the world. If one don't work, take two. You'll feel bully." Turning to his man, he added: "Thompson, take those flowers to my stateroom, and go and see about my 'tub' and steamer-chair."

The next moment the Englishman and his green thatch were swallowed up in the crush of new arrivals.

"Did you ever see such a coarse, selfish creature!" exclaimed Mrs. Stuart indignantly. "The impudence of his comparing me to his miserable dog!"

"Who are the flowers for?" laughed Grace.

"Mrs. Phelps, of course. He's head over heels in debt. He needs her money. I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't catch on. She's very ambitious—the title attracts her. There she comes now."

A stylish, handsome woman, richly dressed all in black, with large Gainsborough hat to match, came leisurely up the gangplank, followed by a smart footman weighed down with packages. She nodded cordially to Grace and Mrs. Stuart as she caught sight of them, and disappeared in the direction of the staterooms.

"She's literally bursting with money," whispered Mrs. Stuart, who knew everybody's business. "Her husband left her ten millions. He was a simple soul—a plain, matter-of-fact business man. All he thought of was making money. She never cared for him. It's just as well he died. She can marry again now and live the life she likes best. All the men are after her. Some think Count von Hatzfeld has the best chance. Of course you know he's on the ship. You see, it's all cut and dried."

"I don't blame her," said Grace cynically, as she returned the bow of another arrival. "It must be dreadful to be a mere 'Mrs. Green' or 'Mrs. Brown.' I couldn't live with any ordinary man—a mere business man whose one thought was figures and profits. My ideal is an English peer or an Italian count—preferably the latter. They are less expensive. English dukes, they say, drink hard and beat their wives. It would be nice to be addressed as 'Duchess,' or 'Comtesse.'"

Mrs. Stuart looked approvingly at her protégée.

"I'm glad to see you're so practical, my dear."

"Why not? This is a practical age," laughed Grace.

"Well, there's Prince Sergius. He's only waiting the word. Why don't you marry him and be a princess—only two lives removed from a throne? Every woman in America would envy you."

Grace frowned.

"And I—would despise myself?" she answered. "Every one knows his reputation. It's my money he wants, that's all. I haven't yet sunk so low as to purchase a titled husband at the price of my self-respect. Besides, I could not endure a tie that would be entirely loveless, wholly mercenary. I hope I have some ideals; some sentiment left."

"Were you ever in love?" persisted her companion.

"I suppose I was, like most girls. When I first left school I saw boys I liked. All girls are silly at some period of their life. But I survived those early attachments. I am still heart-whole. I never see nowadays a man with whom I could fall in love. To me, they all seem conceited and selfish. Of course I shall have to marry one day or other, but I'm afraid it will be what the French call a mariage de convenance.

"Or, in plain Yankee, marriage with an eye to the main chance," rejoined Mrs. Stuart. "But you don't have to marry for money, child. You are rich."

Grace was thoughtful a moment, and then she replied:

"Money is not everything—mere money is vulgar. One gets horribly tired of it." Pensively she went on: "You think I am cold and devoid of sentiment. You are wrong. I yearn for life in the sun-lit countries of the old world, in historic lands of intrigue, love, and passion, with brilliant state functions amid scenes of regal splendor, where class and birth count for more than mere wealth. In America we have only the money standard. The wife of any little grocer who gets rich overnight may be a social leader to-morrow. It's disgusting!"

Mrs. Stuart was about to say something when a sudden commotion on the dock attracted everybody's attention, and there was a general rush to the rail. A large crowd had gathered near the entrance of the gangway, surrounding a man who lay struggling on the ground. Policemen and ship's officers were stooping over him trying to quiet him.

"What's the matter?" cried Grace anxiously. "I hope no one's hurt!"

"It looks as if some one had fallen in a fit," said Mrs. Stuart, looking through her lorgnon.

Mr. Harmon, who had been conversing with an acquaintance, came up hurriedly. Having noticed the excitement, he feared that some harm threatened his daughter.

"It's an accident of some kind," he said.

"Oh, I knew something would happen!" exclaimed Mrs. Stuart, getting out her smelling-salts.

"Do you know what the matter is?" inquired Grace of a sailor.

The man grinned and touched his cap.

"'Tain't nothin', miss. Only one of 'em blokes what keeps the fire's a-goin' got it inter ees 'ead that it was too bloomin' 'ot for 'im. So 'ee jumps the blessed ship without so much as askin' leave, an' gets run in by the cops fer 'is pains."

The explanation, such as it was, was wholly incomprehensible to Grace, who knew as much as she did before. Meantime the crowd grew bigger, the noise louder and the excitement more intense. A number of ship's officers had the man on his feet and were half dragging him, half carrying him to the gangplank. It was not exactly an agreeable spectacle with which to regale fastidious passengers on sailing-day, and the ship's officers would have gladly avoided it. But the refractory stoker was necessary to the speed of the vessel, and there was no way of getting him aboard except by the main gangway. It was late. The steamer would pull out any moment, and the other gangways had been already pulled in.

Mrs. Stuart offered to interpret the sailor's speech:

"He says that one of the sailors has been overcome by the heat and fallen on the dock in a faint."

"Not exactly, miss," grinned the man, with another tug of his cap. "'Ee's not the kind wot faints. 'Ee's puttin' up a fight. 'Ee's a fighter, is Handsome Jack."

Grace turned in bewilderment to her father, who had just returned on board.

"Handsome Jack!" she echoed. "What does he mean?"

"It's only a deserter," explained Mr. Harmon. "A fireman who attempted to get away before the ship sailed. The officers found him in a drinking-shop and brought him here."

"I don't blame the poor beggar for trying to desert," said the Honorable Percy Fitzhugh, who had just come up from below-stairs. "It's jolly awful in that stoke-hold, don'tcher know? Ever been down in the stoke-hold, Miss Harmon? No? I'll take you down some day—eh, what? I don't see how they get men to do such work. I'd rather commit suicide, by Jove!"

"Yes, it is terrible work," said Mr. Harmon. "They take to it only when desperate and forced by circumstances. It is well known that murderers and criminals of every description take to stoking when they wish to lie low. They know the police will never look for them in the stoke-hold, on the theory that they are getting punishment enough."

"How dreadful!" yawned Grace, as she watched with languid interest the commotion on the shore. Presently she asked: "Can they make him go back to work in the stoke-hold whether he likes or not?"

"Certainly," replied her father. "This is an English ship. He probably signed articles in Liverpool. Under British maritime law, any member of the crew deserting ship in a foreign port can be arrested. That's what, in sailor parlance, is called 'a pier-head jump.' You see, a big vessel like this must have its full complement of stokers, otherwise she can't get up enough steam, and the record suffers. That's why they take the trouble to go after deserters. They say that this fellow deserves no sympathy. He's a good-for-nothing, brutal, violent fellow. Here he comes now."

"I'd like to see him!" exclaimed Grace, pushing forward to get a closer view of the group of men as they came struggling up the gangplank.

"Oh, Grace, how can you look at such horrid sights?" ejaculated Mrs. Stuart, fanning herself nervously and averting her face.

The prisoner by this time was nearly exhausted, and presented a sorry sight. His grease-stained clothes were torn to rags, his hair was disheveled, blood flowed freely from a cut on his cheek, making all the more striking the contrast with his white, set face and its grim, hopeless expression.