"C Q", or, In the Wireless House/Chapter 17
XVII
The way of a maid with a man
MICKY slowly climbed his ladder, carrying Graeme's clothes on his arm, and wondering what luck the poor devil was having. He felt sure of Bruyere, and the tide was not so very strong. Anyhow, Graeme had been stroke at Oxford and certainly could take care of himself. Each moment the night was getting thinner and the ports of the Frenchman gleamed clearer through the drifting haze. Nebulous lights appeared on all sides, indicating where other liners lay awaiting permission to enter the channel to the city. Overhead one could almost—almost—see the stars. Hoarse tootings came from the inner harbor, but the noise on the water was nothing like the noise in the air to which Micky had been listening. A lurid glow high in the sky above the fog showed where Broadway was.
From the top of the “Island” he looked down upon a deck swarming with passengers. It had needed only the sound of the chains to bring them scurrying out of their state-rooms and the saloons, eager to get ashore.
“Cawn't one land presently?” an English valet was enquiring of every one he met.
The promenade deck was alive with persons who had not hitherto made an appearance, and every seat in the reading-saloon was occupied by persons filling out and signing Customs declarations in anticipation of the morrow. It was time for Micky to get back to his instrument, for there would be a big bunch of commercials. To-morrow he ’d go ashore, get a Turkish bath and take in the game.
He opened the door of his office and stepped inside, drawing it to behind him, and as he did so became aware of that same delicate fragrance of violets that he had noticed the week before when he had awakened from his dream and observed Mrs. Trevelyan going down the ladder. But this was stronger. Had she been there?
“Micky!” Lily’s voice came from out the darkness.
“Why, Mrs. Trevelyan!” he stammered. “You here—in the dark?”
“Oh, I don’t mind—if you don’t,” she answered in honied tones. “I love seeing the lights and things—and not being seen. It ’s like having on an invisible mask. You can’t imagine the relief it is to one who is regarded as a sort of natural curiosity. People are always elongating their necks and nudging one another when I go by.”
“Rubber necks,” annotated Micky.
“Yes,” she answered. “But between you and me the only men who are n’t are the ones who are atrophied.” She dropped her voice.
“Micky,” she added, “I ’ve come to say good-by to you. You ’ve made the voyage so much pleasanter than it otherwise would have been!”
“It ’s been awfully jolly to have you onboard,” he answered gallantly, a vague uneasiness such as he had felt earlier in their acquaintance again coming over him. “Don’t you want me to turn on the lights? ”
“Oh, no!” she replied. “Unless it ’s against the rules to sit in the dark. Oh, Micky! Won’t you be sorry to lose me?”
“Why—yes!’ he answered truthfully, wondering what was coming next. She certainly was a wonderful creature.
“Come over here where I can see your little freckled face!’ ordered Lily peremptorily.
Micky grew hot and his heart thumped the way it had on the stern the day she had taken his hand. The color of violcts grew more and more fragrant—almost suffocating. He drew a stool near her and sat down obediently.
“Micky! ’ She laid her hand on his arm. “You do like me, don't you?’
“Of course I do, Mrs. Trevelyan!’ he replied, his voice trembling. He could smell now that curious perfume that exuded from her hair—her neck—like a drowsy odor of Araby. “Everybody does,’ he added after a moment.
“Oh, Micky! Shame on you! That is not what I want!’ she laughed playfully. “You do, and that 's enough! Here, you naughty boy! Give me your hand!’
In the darkness of the wireless house Micky felt her soft, gloved hand slide along his arm to his wrist and clasp his fingers. He knew it was wrong for him to be there. He wanted to cry out—to run away, but he could n’t. He was fastened to where he sat as by a spell—by a spell which the enchantress was weaving tighter and tighter every moment. The blood had rushed to his face and neck and his pulse was beating a hundred and fifty to the minute.
“Micky—dear!” whispered Lily, her hair brushing his lips as she bent forward.
And before we judge this woman too harshly let us pause to consider that her every action was composed of motives both good and bad, and that her vices were often the virtues of other less virile persons run riot or carried to an extreme. For Lily Trevelyan was such a creature of caprice, such a weather-cock of emotion, that she responded to every gust of passion, every breath of nobler impulse, without much regard to consequences, and often conduct which started with less worthy motives ended in charity, and actions which began in pity ended in love, so that evil and good sometimes joined hands and hurried her along her path together. Now while she had come to the wireless house for an unworthy purpose, her infatuation for Micky was as near a pure flame as any she had ever felt.
“Don’t, Mrs. Trevelyan!” he gasped, trying to draw away from her; but his head was whirling as he felt her breath on his face. “Mrs. Trevelyan—I—.”
“Micky dear! You ’ll come to see me in New York? Say you will! We must n’t lose sight of each other entirely.”
“Of course I ’ll come,” he answered weakly, the blood pounding in his ears.
“Come day after to-morrow—at five. We ’ll have a cup of tea together and talk over old times.”
“Very well.” He no longer tried to withdraw his hand.
There was a moment’s silence. Then:
“Micky! Will you do something’ for me?”
“Why, certainly!” he answered wondering what he could do for her.
“Bring this box with you.”
She laid the box containing the necklace gently on his knees.
“You will—won’t you?” she urged, bending towards him.
“Is it—all right?” he asked faintly.
“Why, Micky! Of course it ’s all right!”
she whispered, and took his other hand in her left.
And as she did so that strange, inexplicable something—that aura—animal magnetism—what you will—that had held Micky powerless suddenly dropped away and in its place there stole over him that physical revulsion he had felt in his dream for the Tove that had swarmed its tentacles over the side and dragged him down into the ocean's depths, and she too felt it depart—knew that the pure had revolted from the impure,—and that the oil and water of their natures had resolved themselves again into their own elements, and she drew him to her passionately in one last effort to overwhelm his spiritual instinct with her physical intoxication.
“Promise me!” she breathed as he struggled to draw away his hands. “Promise me—”
He wavered.
There was a stamp of feet outside, the door was thrown rudely open and a ship’s lantern held high in the hairy fist of a seaman illuminated the wireless house and disclosed Captain Ponsonby glaring at them white with anger.
“Ex-cuse me!” he thundered with elaborate sarcasm. “I did not know I was interrupting a—meeting!”
Lily sprang to her feet, her eyes flashing.
“Captain Ponsonby! What do you mean! You have no right to insult me in this way, a passenger on your ship!”
“Passengers are not allowed in the wireless house—at this hour!” he retorted. Then he added with heavy politeness, “May I offer you an escort to your cabin?”
Mrs. Trevelyan stood before him speechless with fury. Her lace shawl had fallen upon the floor and her yellow hair had been slightly disarranged. For the first time Micky saw that she had on evening dress, and that her neck which was quite bare, had blushed as red as her cheeks.
“I—I ’ll assist Mrs. Trevelyan,” interrupted Micky.
“Oh—you will!” roared Captain Ponsonby. “Then assist her at once!”
He leaned over and turned on the electric lights. Micky stooped and picked up the filmy lace shawl and handed it to Mrs. Trevelyan. Then he offered her his arm and led her past the Captain and to the top of the ladder. Lily gave a hollow laugh.
“Charming fellow—Ponsonby!” she remarked nervously. “No,—don’t come down. I can take care of myself. Good-night.”
The Captain and his attendant were leaving the wireless house as Micky turned back and he stood aside to let them pass. Ponsonby did not deign to notice his presence and strode by in haughty silence, but the seaman with the lantern indulged in an expansive grin and a wink that distorted half his face. The glimmering line of lights that marked the Frenchman suddenly seemed to slide forward. She must be getting off. He threw over his mains, wound up his detector, and hurriedly called the Patrie.
“Friend arrived safely,” flashed back Bruyere.
“Thank God!” muttered Micky, pleased at the sagacious manner in which his fellow operator had veiled his answer.
“Much obliged. Will write Algiers,” he answered. “Good luck and G. B.”
As he removed the receivers something white upon the floor at his feet caught his eye. It was Mrs. Trevelyan's package which she had overlooked in her embarrassment. Perhaps she had not overlooked it. Had he not intimated that he would accede to her request; had he not in fact practically promised to do so? He weighed the package in his hand.
“There's only one thing that can be in that,” he remarked judicially, “and that's pearls!”
Micky had been correct in his supposition that Mrs. Trevelyan's absent-mindedness had been intentional. She had gone to the wireless house with a well-matured plan which contemplated concealmg the package somewhere in Micky's chest of drawers provided he did not return during her visit, and of communicating her request to him next day under circumstances which would make it seem discourteous on his part to decline. Should he refuse it was her determination to return to the vessel a day or two later, secure the pearls from him and take them ashore herself when the Customs inspectors were no longer on duty. She was wrathful at the Captain for his ill-timed interruption and the hippopotamus-like manner in which he had burst upon her rendezvous, and she was furious with herself and everybody else at the series of blunders which had characterized her crossing. But having determined upon her course she made up her mind to fight it out on that line to the best of her ability. She had already filled out and signed a declaration in which no mention of the pearls had been made and this she now sent to the purser’s office at the hands of Fantine before going to bed. Micky had her address—the St. Regis—and she would trust to his honor as a gentleman and a sailor. For a moment all thought of Cosmo had vanished from her mind. Meantime the Captain sedulously searched the ship for Graeme but without success. Certainly the man must be somewhere on board—it was only a question of finding his hiding-place, and it never occurred to the honest Ponsonby that his quarry could at that moment be safely on board a French liner speeding eastward towards Africa and sound asleep in its wireless house in a uniform belonging to an operator of the Marconi Company.