The Girl on the Boat
Sam Marlowe was a warm supporter of the Alphonso method. He was a
bright young man and did not require a year to make up his mind that
Wilhelmina Bennett had been set apart by Fate from the beginning of
time to be his bride. He had known it from the moment he saw her on the
dock, and all the subsequent strolling, reading, talking,
soup-drinking, tea-drinking, and shuffle-board-playing which they had
done together had merely solidified his original impression. He loved
this girl with all the force of a fiery nature—the fiery nature of the
Marlowes was a by-word in Bruton Street, Berkeley Square—and something
seemed to whisper that she loved him. At any rate she wanted somebody
like Sir Galahad, and, without wishing to hurl bouquets at himself, he
could not see where she could possibly get anyone liker Sir Galahad
than himself. So, wind and weather permitting, Samuel Marlowe intended
to propose to Wilhelmina Bennett this very day.
He let down the trick basin which hung beneath the mirror and,
collecting his shaving materials, began to lather his face.
“I am the Bandolero!” sang Sam blithely through the soap. “I am, I am
the Bandolero! Yes, yes, I am the Bandolero!”
The untidy heap of bedclothes in the lower berth stirred restlessly.
“Oh, God!” said Eustace Hignett thrusting out a tousled head.
Sam regarded his cousin with commiseration. Horrid things had been
happening to Eustace during the last few days, and it was quite a
pleasant surprise each morning to find that he was still alive.
“Feeling bad again, old man?”
“I was feeling all right,” replied Hignett churlishly, “until you began
the farmyard imitations. What sort of a day is it?”
“Glorious! The sea....”
“Don’t talk about the sea!”
“Sorry! The sun is shining brighter than it has ever shone in the
history of the race. Why don’t you get up?”
“Nothing will induce me to get up.”
“Well, go a regular buster and have an egg for breakfast.”
Eustace Hignett shuddered. He eyed Sam sourly. “You seem devilish
pleased with yourself this morning!” he said censoriously.
Sam dried the razor carefully and put it away. He hesitated. Then the
desire to confide in somebody got the better of him.
“The fact is,” he said apologetically, “I’m in love!”
“In love!” Eustace Hignett sat up and bumped his head sharply against
the berth above him. “Has this been going on long?”
“Ever since the voyage started.”
“I think you might have told me,” said Eustace reproachfully. “I told
you my troubles. Why did you not let me know that this awful thing had
come upon you?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, old man, during these last few days I had a
notion that your mind was, so to speak, occupied elsewhere.”
“Who is she?”
“Oh, a girl I met on board.”
“Don’t do it!” said Eustace Hignett solemnly. “As a friend I entreat
you not to do it. Take my advice, as a man who knows women, and don’t
do it!”
“Don’t do what?”
“Propose to her. I can tell by the glitter in your eye that you are
intending to propose to this girl—probably this morning.”
“Not this morning—after lunch. I always think one can do oneself more
justice after lunch.”
“Don’t do it. Women are the devil, whether they marry you or jilt you.
Do you realise that women wear black evening dresses that have to be
hooked up in a hurry when you are late for the theatre, and that, out
of sheer wanton malignity, the hooks and eyes on those dresses are also
made black? Do you realise...?”
“Oh, I’ve thought it all out.”
“And take the matter of children. How would you like to become the
father—and a mere glance around you will show you that the chances are
enormously in favour of such a thing happening—of a boy with spectacles
and protruding front teeth who asks questions all the time? Out of six
small boys whom I saw when I came on board, four wore spectacles and
had teeth like rabbits. The other two were equally revolting in
different styles. How would you like to become the father...?”
“There is no need to be indelicate,” said Sam stiffly. “A man must take
these chances.”
“Give her the miss in baulk,” pleaded Hignett. “Stay down here for the
rest of the voyage. You can easily dodge her when you get to
Southampton. And, if she sends messages, say you’re ill and can’t be
disturbed.”
Sam gazed at him, revolted. More than ever he began to understand how
it was that a girl with ideals had broken off her engagement with this
man. He finished dressing, and, after a satisfying breakfast, went on
deck.
§ 2
It was, as he had said, a glorious morning. The sample which he had had
through the porthole had not prepared him for the magic of it. The ship
swam in a vast bowl of the purest blue on an azure carpet flecked with
silver. It was a morning which impelled a man to great deeds, a morning
which shouted to him to chuck his chest out and be romantic. The sight
of Billie Bennett, trim and gleaming in a pale green sweater and white
skirt had the effect of causing Marlowe to alter the programme which he
had sketched out. Proposing to this girl was not a thing to be put off
till after lunch. It was a thing to be done now and at once. The finest
efforts of the finest cooks in the world could not put him in better
form than he felt at present.
“Good morning, Miss Bennett.”
“Good morning, Mr. Marlowe.”
“Isn’t it a perfect day?”
“Wonderful!”
“It makes all the difference on board ship if the weather is fine.”
“Yes, doesn’t it?”
How strange it is that the great emotional scenes of history, one of
which is coming along almost immediately, always begin in this prosaic
way. Shakespeare tries to conceal the fact, but there can be little
doubt that Romeo and Juliet edged into their balcony scene with a few
remarks on the pleasantness of the morning.
“Shall we walk round?” said Billie.
Sam glanced about him. It was the time of day when the promenade deck
was always full. Passengers in cocoons of rugs lay on chairs, waiting
in a dull trance till the steward should arrive with the eleven o’clock
soup. Others, more energetic, strode up and down. From the point of
view of a man who wished to reveal his most sacred feelings to a
beautiful girl, the place was practically a tube station during the
rush hour.
“It’s so crowded,” he said. “Let’s go on to the upper deck.”
“All right. You can read to me. Go and fetch your Tennyson.”
Sam felt that fortune was playing into his hands. His four-days’
acquaintance with the bard had been sufficient to show him that the man
was there forty ways when it came to writing about love. You could open
his collected works almost anywhere and shut your eyes and dab down
your finger on some red-hot passage. A proposal of marriage is a thing
which it is rather difficult to bring neatly into the ordinary run of
conversation. It wants leading up to. But, if you once start reading
poetry, especially Tennyson’s, almost anything is apt to give you your
cue. He bounded light-heartedly into the state-room, waking Eustace
Hignett from an uneasy dose.
“Now what?” said Eustace.
“Where’s that copy of Tennyson you gave me? I left it—ah, here it is.
Well, see you later!”
“Wait! What are you going to do?”
“Oh, that girl I told you about,” said Sam making for the door. “She
wants me to read Tennyson to her on the upper deck.”
“Tennyson?”
“Yes.”
“On the upper deck?”
“Yes.”
“This is the end,” said Eustace Hignett, turning his face to the wall.
Sam raced up the companion-way as far as it went; then, going out on
deck, climbed a flight of steps and found himself in the only part of
the ship which was ever even comparatively private. The main herd of
passengers preferred the promenade deck, two layers below.
He threaded his way through a maze of boats, ropes, and curious-shaped
steel structures which the architect of the ship seemed to have tacked
on at the last moment in a spirit of sheer exuberance. Above him
towered one of the funnels, before him a long, slender mast. He hurried
on, and presently came upon Billie sitting on a garden seat, backed by
the white roof of the smoke-room; beside this was a small deck which
seemed to have lost its way and strayed up here all by itself. It was
the deck on which one could occasionally see the patients playing an
odd game with long sticks and bits of wood—not shuffleboard but
something even lower in the mental scale. This morning, however, the
devotees of this pastime were apparently under proper restraint, for
the deck was empty.
“This is jolly,” he said sitting down beside the girl and drawing a
deep breath of satisfaction.
“Yes, I love this deck. It’s so peaceful.”
“It’s the only part of the ship where you can be reasonably sure of not
meeting stout men in flannels and nautical caps. An ocean voyage always
makes me wish that I had a private yacht.”
“It would be nice.”
“A private yacht,” repeated Sam, sliding a trifle closer. “We would
sail about, visiting desert islands which lay like jewels in the heart
of tropic seas.”
“We?”
“Most certainly we. It wouldn’t be any fun if you were not there.”
“That’s very complimentary.”
“Well, it wouldn’t. I’m not fond of girls as a rule....”
“Oh, aren’t you?”
“No!” said Sam decidedly. It was a point which he wished to make clear
at the outset. “Not at all fond. My friends have often remarked upon
it. A palmist once told me that I had one of those rare spiritual
natures which cannot be satisfied with substitutes but must seek and
seek till they find their soul-mate. When other men all round me were
frittering away their emotions in idle flirtations which did not touch
their deeper natures, I was ... I was ... well, I wasn’t, if you see
what I mean.”
“Oh, you wasn’t ... weren’t?”
“No. Some day I knew I should meet the only girl I could possibly love,
and then I would pour out upon her the stored-up devotion of a
lifetime, lay an unblemished heart at her feet, fold her in my arms and
say ‘At last!’”
“How jolly for her. Like having a circus all to oneself.”
“Well, yes,” said Sam after a momentary pause.
“When I was a child I always thought that that would be the most
wonderful thing in the world.”
“The most wonderful thing in the world is love, a pure and consuming
love, a love which....”
“Oh, hello!” said a voice.
All through this scene, right from the very beginning of it, Sam had
not been able to rid himself of a feeling that there was something
missing. The time and the place and the girl—they were all present and
correct; nevertheless there was something missing, some familiar object
which seemed to leave a gap. He now perceived that what had caused the
feeling was the complete absence of Bream Mortimer. He was absent no
longer. He was standing in front of them with one leg, his head lowered
as if he were waiting for someone to scratch it. Sam’s primary impulse
was to offer him a nut.
“Oh, hello, Bream!” said Billie.
“Hullo!” said Sam.
“Hello!” said Bream Mortimer. “Here you are!”
There was a pause.
“I thought you might be here,” said Bream.
“Yes, here we are,” said Billie.
“Yes, we’re here,” said Sam.
There was another pause.
“Mind if I join you?” said Bream.
“N—no,” said Billie.
“N—no,” said Sam.
“No,” said Billie again. “No ... that is to say ... oh no, not at all.”
There was a third pause.
“On second thoughts,” said Bream, “I believe I’ll take a stroll on the
promenade deck if you don’t mind.”
They said they did not mind. Bream Mortimer, having bumped his head
twice against overhanging steel ropes, melted away.
“Who is that fellow?” demanded Sam wrathfully.
“He’s the son of father’s best friend.”
Sam started. Somehow this girl had always been so individual to him
that he had never thought of her having a father.