CHAPTER VIII
THE SECOND-CLASS PASSENGER
Up to a certain point the voyage was like all other voyages.
During the first two days there were passengers who did not
appear on deck, but as the weather was fair for the season of
the year, there were fewer absentees than is usual. Indeed, on
the third day the deck chairs were all filled, people who were
given to tramping during their voyages had begun to walk
their customary quota of carefully-measured miles the day.
There were a few pale faces dozing here and there, but the
general aspect of things had begun to be sprightly. Shuffleboard
players and quoit enthusiasts began to bestir themselves,
the deck steward appeared regularly with light repasts of beef
tea and biscuits, and the brilliant hues of red, blue, or yellow
novels made frequent spots of colour upon the promenade.
Persons of some initiative went to the length of making
tentative observations to their next-chair neighbours. The
second-cabin passengers were cheerful, and the steerage
passengers, having tumbled up, formed friendly groups and began
to joke with each other.
The Worthingtons had plainly the good fortune to be
respectable sailors. They reappeared on the second day and
established regular habits, after the manner of accustomed
travellers. Miss Vanderpoel's habits were regular from the
first, and when Salter saw her he was impressed even more
at the outset with her air of being at home instead of on board
ship. Her practically well-chosen corner was an agreeable
place to look at. Her chair was built for ease of angle and
width, her cushions were of dark rich colours, her travelling
rugs were of black fox fur, and she owned an adjustable table
for books and accompaniments. She appeared early in the
morning and walked until the sea air crimsoned her cheeks,
she sat and read with evident enjoyment, she talked to her
companions and plainly entertained them.
Salter, being bored and in bad spirits, found himself watching
her rather often, but he knew that but for the small, comic
episode of Tommy, he would have definitely disliked her. The
dislike would not have been fair, but it would have existed in
spite of himself. It would not have been fair because it would
have been founded simply upon the ignoble resentment of envy,
upon the poor truth that he was not in the state of mind to
avoid resenting the injustice of fate in bestowing multi-millions
upon one person and his offspring. He resented his own
resentment, but was obliged to acknowledge its existence in his
humour. He himself, especially and peculiarly, had always
known the bitterness of poverty, the humiliation of seeing where
money could be well used, indeed, ought to be used, and at
the same time having ground into him the fact that there was
no money to lay one's hand on. He had hated it even as a
boy, because in his case, and that of his people, the whole
thing was undignified and unbecoming. It was humiliating
to him now to bring home to himself the fact that the thing
for which he was inclined to dislike this tall, up-standing girl
was her unconscious (he realised the unconsciousness of it) air
of having always lived in the atmosphere of millions, of never
having known a reason why she should not have anything she
had a desire for. Perhaps, upon the whole, he said to himself,
it was his own ill luck and sense of defeat which made her
corner, with its cushions and comforts, her properly attentive
maid, and her cold weather sables expressive of a fortune too
colossal to be decent.
The episode of the plump, despairing Tommy he had liked,
however. There had been a fine naturalness about it and a
fine practicalness in her prompt order to the elderly nurse that
the richly-caparisoned donkey should be sent to her. This
had at once made it clear to the donor that his gift was too
valuable to be left behind.
"She did not care twopence for the lot of us," was his
summing up. "She might have been nothing but the nicest
possible warm-hearted nursemaid or a cottage woman who loved
the child."
He was quite aware that though he had found himself more
than once observing her, she herself had probably not recognised
the trivial fact of his existing upon that other side of
the barrier which separated the higher grade of passenger from
the lower. There was, indeed, no reason why she should have
singled him out for observation, and she was, in fact, too
frequently absorbed in her own reflections to be in the frame
of mind to remark her fellow passengers to the extent which
was generally customary with her. During her crossings of
the Atlantic she usually made mental observation of the people
on board. This time, when she was not talking to the
Worthingtons, or reading, she was thinking of the possibilities
of her visit to Stornham. She used to walk about the deck
thinking of them and, sitting in her chair, sum them up as her
eyes rested on the rolling and breaking waves.
There were many things to be considered, and one of the
first was the perfectly sane suggestion her father had made.
"Suppose she does not want to be rescued? Suppose you
find her a comfortable fine lady who adores her husband."
Such a thing was possible, though Bettina did not think it
probable. She intended, however, to prepare herself even for
this. If she found Lady Anstruthers plump and roseate, pleased
with herself and her position, she was quite equal to making
her visit appear a casual and conventional affair.
"I ought to wish it to be so," she thought, "and, yet, how
disappointingly I should feel she had changed. Still, even
ethical reasons would not excuse one for wishing her to be
miserable." She was a creature with a number of passionate
ideals which warred frequently with the practical side of her
mentality. Often she used to walk up and down the deck or lean
upon the ship's side, her eyes stormy with emotions.
"I do not want to find Rosy a heartless woman, and I do
not want to find her wretched. What do I want? Only the
usual thing--that what cannot be undone had never been done.
People are always wishing that."
She was standing near the second-cabin barrier thinking
this, the first time she saw the passenger with the red hair.
She had paused by mere chance, and while her eyes were stormy
with her thought, she suddenly became conscious that she was
looking directly into other eyes as darkling as her own. They
were those of a man on the wrong side of the barrier. He
had a troubled, brooding face, and, as their gaze met, each of
them started slightly and turned away with the sense of having
unconsciously intruded and having been intruded upon.
"That rough-looking man," she commented to herself, "is
as anxious and disturbed as I am."
Salter did look rough, it was true. His well-worn clothes
had suffered somewhat from the restrictions of a second-class
cabin shared with two other men. But the aspect which had
presented itself to her brief glance had been not so much
roughness of clothing as of mood expressing itself in his
countenance. He was thinking harshly and angrily of the life
ahead of him.
These looks of theirs which had so inadvertently encountered
each other were of that order which sometimes startles
one when in passing a stranger one finds one's eyes entangled
for a second in his or hers, as the case may be. At such times
it seems for that instant difficult to disentangle one's gaze.
But neither of these two thought of the other much, after
hurrying away. Each was too fully mastered by personal mood.
There would, indeed, have been no reason for their
encountering each other further but for "the accident," as it was
called when spoken of afterwards, the accident which might
so easily have been a catastrophe. It occurred that night. This
was two nights before they were to land.
Everybody had begun to come under the influence of that
cheerfulness of humour, the sense of relief bordering on gaiety,
which generally elates people when a voyage is drawing to a
close. If one has been dull, one begins to gather one's self
together, rejoiced that the boredom is over. In any case, there
are plans to be made, thought of, or discussed.
"You wish to go to Stornham at once?" Mrs. Worthington
said to Bettina. "How pleased Lady Anstruthers and Sir Nigel
must be at the idea of seeing you with them after so long."
"I can scarcely tell you how I am looking forward to it,"
Betty answered.
She sat in her corner among her cushions looking at the dark
water which seemed to sweep past the ship, and listening to
the throb of the engines. She was not gay. She was wondering
how far the plans she had made would prove feasible.
Mrs. Worthington was not aware that her visit to Stornham
Court was to be unannounced. It had not been necessary to
explain the matter. The whole affair was simple and decorous
enough. Miss Vanderpoel was to bid good-bye to her
friends and go at once to her sister, Lady Anstruthers, whose
husband's country seat was but a short journey from London.
Bettina and her father had arranged that the fact should
be kept from the society paragraphist. This had required some
adroit management, but had actually been accomplished.
As the waves swished past her, Bettina was saying to herself,
"What will Rosy say when she sees me! What shall I say
when I see Rosy? We are drawing nearer to each other with
every wave that passes."
A fog which swept up suddenly sent them all below rather
early. The Worthingtons laughed and talked a little in their
staterooms, but presently became quiet and had evidently gone
to bed. Bettina was restless and moved about her room alone
after she had sent away her maid. She at last sat down and
finished a letter she had been writing to her father.
"As I near the land," she wrote, "I feel a sort of excitement.
Several times to-day I have recalled so distinctly the
picture of Rosy as I saw her last, when we all stood crowded
upon the wharf at New York to see her off. She and Nigel
were leaning upon the rail of the upper deck. She looked such
a delicate, airy little creature, quite like a pretty schoolgirl
with tears in her eyes. She was laughing and crying at the same
time, and kissing both her hands to us again and again. I was
crying passionately myself, though I tried to conceal the fact,
and I remember that each time I looked from Rosy to Nigel's
heavy face the poignancy of my anguish made me break forth
again. I wonder if it was because I was a child, that he looked
such a contemptuous brute, even when he pretended to smile.
It is twelve years since then. I wonder--how I wonder, what
I shall find."
She stopped writing and sat a few moments, her chin upon
her hand, thinking. Suddenly she sprang to her feet in alarm.
The stillness of the night was broken by wild shouts, a running
of feet outside, a tumult of mingled sounds and motion, a dash
and rush of surging water, a strange thumping and straining of
engines, and a moment later she was hurled from one side of
her stateroom to the other by a crashing shock which seemed
to heave the ship out of the sea, shuddering as if the end of
all things had come.
It was so sudden and horrible a thing that, though she had
only been flung upon a pile of rugs and cushions and was
unhurt, she felt as if she had been struck on the head and
plunged into wild delirium. Above the sound of the dashing
and rocking waves, the straining and roaring of hacking engines
and the pandemonium of voices rose from one end of the ship
to the other, one wild, despairing, long-drawn shriek of women
and children. Bettina turned sick at the mad terror in it--
the insensate, awful horror.
"Something has run into us!" she gasped, getting up with
her heart leaping in her throat.
She could hear the Worthingtons' tempest of terrified
confusion through the partitions between them, and she remembered
afterwards that in the space of two or three seconds, and
in the midst of their clamour, a hundred incongruous thoughts
leaped through her brain. Perhaps they were this moment
going down. Now she knew what it was like! This thing
she had read of in newspapers! Now she was going down
in mid-ocean, she, Betty Vanderpoel! And, as she sprang to
clutch her fur coat, there flashed before her mental vision a
gruesome picture of the headlines in the newspapers and the
inevitable reference to the millions she represented.
"I must keep calm," she heard herself say, as she fastened
the long coat, clenching her teeth to keep them from chattering.
"Poor Daddy--poor Daddy!"
Maddening new sounds were all about her, sounds of water
dashing and churning, sounds of voices bellowing out commands,
straining and leaping sounds of the engines. What
was it--what was it? She must at least find out. Everybody
was going mad in the staterooms, the stewards were rushing
about, trying to quiet people, their own voices shaking and
breaking into cracked notes. If the worst had happened,
everyone would be fighting for life in a few minutes. Out on
deck she must get and find out for herself what the worst was.
She was the first woman outside, though the wails and shrieks
swelled below, and half-dressed, ghastly creatures tumbled
gasping up the companion-way.
"What is it?" she heard. "My God! what's happened? Where's the
Captain! Are we going down! The boats! The boats!"
It was useless to speak to the seamen rushing by. They did
not see, much less hear! She caught sight of a man who
could not be a sailor, since he was standing still. She made her
way to him, thankful that she had managed to stop her teeth
chattering.
"What has happened to us?" she said.
He turned and looked at her straitly. He was the second-
cabin passenger with the red hair.
"A tramp steamer has run into us in the fog," he answered.
"How much harm is done?"
"They are trying to find out. I am standing here on the
chance of hearing something. It is madness to ask any man
questions."
They spoke to each other in short, sharp sentences,
knowing there was no time to lose.
"Are you horribly frightened?" he asked.
She stamped her foot.
"I hate it--I hate it!" she said, flinging out her hand
towards the black, heaving water. "The plunge--the choking! No
one could hate it more. But I want to DO something!"
She was turning away when he caught her hand and held her.
"Wait a second," he said. "I hate it as much as you do,
but I believe we two can keep our heads. Those who can
do that may help, perhaps. Let us try to quiet the people.
As soon as I find out anything I will come to your friends'
stateroom. You are near the boats there. Then I shall go
back to the second cabin. You work on your side and I'll work
on mine. That's all."
"Thank you. Tell the Worthingtons. I'm going to the
saloon deck." She was off as she spoke.
Upon the stairway she found herself in the midst of a
struggling panic-stricken mob, tripping over each other on the
steps, and clutching at any garment nearest, to drag themselves
up as they fell, or were on the point of falling. Everyone
was crying out in question and appeal.
Bettina stood still, a firm, tall obstacle, and clutched at the
hysteric woman who was hurled against her.
"I've been on deck," she said. "A tramp steamer has
run into us. No one has time to answer questions. The first
thing to do is to put on warm clothes and secure the life
belts in case you need them."
At once everyone turned upon her as if she was an authority.
She replied with almost fierce determination to the torrent of
words poured forth.
"I know nothing further--only that if one is not a fool
one must make sure of clothes and belts."
"Quite right, Miss Vanderpoel," said one young man,
touching his cap in nervous propitiation.
"Stop screaming," Betty said mercilessly to the woman. "It's
idiotic--the more noise you make the less chance you have. How
can men keep their wits among a mob of shrieking, mad women?"
That the remote Miss Vanderpoel should have emerged
from her luxurious corner to frankly bully the lot of them
was an excellent shock for the crowd. Men, who had been
in danger of losing their heads and becoming as uncontrolled
as the women, suddenly realised the fact and pulled themselves
together. Bettina made her way at once to the Worthingtons'
staterooms.
There she found frenzy reigning. Blanche and Marie
Worthington were darting to and fro, dragging about first
one thing and then another. They were silly with fright,
and dashed at, and dropped alternately, life belts, shoes, jewel
cases, and wraps, while they sobbed and cried out hysterically.
"Oh, what shall we do with mother! What shall we do!"
The manners of Betty Vanderpoel's sharp schoolgirl days
returned to her in full force. She seized Blanche by the
shoulder and shook her.
"What a donkey you are!" she said. "Put on your
clothes. There they are," pushing her to the place where
they hung. "Marie--dress yourself this moment. We may
be in no real danger at all."
"Do you think not! Oh, Betty!" they wailed in concert.
"Oh, what shall we do with mother!"
"Where is your mother?"
"She fainted--Louise----"
Betty was in Mrs. Worthington's cabin before they had
finished speaking. The poor woman had fainted, and struck
her cheek against a chair. She lay on the floor in her
nightgown, with blood trickling from a cut on her face. Her
maid, Louise, was wringing her hands, and doing nothing whatever.
"If you don't bring the brandy this minute," said the
beautiful Miss Vanderpoel, "I'll box your ears. Believe me,
my girl." She looked so capable of doing it that the woman was
startled and actually offended into a return of her senses.
Miss Vanderpoel had usually the best possible manners in
dealing with her inferiors.
Betty poured brandy down Mrs. Worthington's throat and
applied strong smelling salts until she gasped back to
consciousness. She had just burst into frightened sobs, when
Betty heard confusion and exclamations in the adjoining room.
Blanche and Marie had cried out, and a man's voice was speaking.
Betty went to them. They were in various stages of undress, and
the red-haired second-cabin passenger was standing at the door.
"I promised Miss Vanderpoel----" he was saying, when
Betty came forward. He turned to her promptly.
"I come to tell you that it seems absolutely to be relied
on that there is no immediate danger. The tramp is more
injured than we are."
"Oh, are you sure? Are you sure?" panted Blanche,
catching at his sleeve.
"Yes," he answered. "Can I do anything for you?" he
said to Bettina, who was on the point of speaking.
"Will you be good enough to help me to assist Mrs.
Worthington into her berth, and then try to find the doctor."
He went into the next room without speaking. To Mrs.
Worthington he spoke briefly a few words of reassurance. He
was a powerful man, and laid her on her berth without dragging
her about uncomfortably, or making her feel that her
weight was greater than even in her most desponding moments
she had suspected. Even her helplessly hysteric mood was
illuminated by a ray of grateful appreciation.
"Oh, thank you--thank you," she murmured. "And you
are quite sure there is no actual danger, Mr.----?"
"Salter," he terminated for her. "You may feel safe. The
damage is really only slight, after all."
"It is so good of you to come and tell us," said the poor
lady, still tremulous. "The shock was awful. Our introduction
has been an alarming one. I--I don't think we have
met during the voyage."
"No," replied Salter. "I am in the second cabin."
"Oh! thank you. It's so good of you," she faltered
amiably, for want of inspiration. As he went out of the
stateroom, Salter spoke to Bettina.
"I will send the doctor, if I can find him," he said. "I
think, perhaps, you had better take some brandy yourself.
I shall."
"It's queer how little one seems to realise even that there
are second-cabin passengers," commented Mrs. Worthington
feebly. "That was a nice man, and perfectly respectable. He
even had a kind of--of manner."
