Prince Charlie Part 27

"Have you any berths left?"

"Oh, yes, sir, a number. It's an off time of the year, and we do not fill up from London. We are stopping at coast stations. We shall fill up from those."

"Let me see a plan of the ship."

"Yes, sir.... That's it. Which cla.s.s--which part of the boat do you want, sir?"

Masters ignored the question. Pointing to the pen and ink list of names, inquired:

"These are the names of those who have already booked their pa.s.sages?"

"Yes, sir."

Having located what he wanted he turned to the plan of the ship again, saying:

"This is a two-berthed cabin. One berth is taken, I see. Is the other vacant?"

"Yes, sir. But you can book one in an empty cabin if you like. You will have more room, unless we fill up."

"Thank you. I prefer this one. I think I happen to know the Mr. Rigby who has the other half."

"Oh, I see, sir--friend of yours--of course, companionship. I beg your pardon."

Masters paid his pa.s.sage money; booked in the name of Charleigh; inquired the time of sailing on the morrow.

"Tide serves at noon, sir. The vessel will go out on top of the water."

"From St. Katharine's?"

"Yes, sir.... Good-day, sir, and thank you.... Not that way, sir....

This door on the left.

"Good-day."

The cabman was waiting. Stooped down from his perch to receive instructions.

"The Telegraph Office, Charing Cross."

There the fare despatched a wire to his Wivernsea landlady; telling her to pack everything of his in his portmanteaux, and send them up by the afternoon train to the care of the Cloak Room, Charing Cross.

Then he drove to his publishers. He would be away some time, and there were certain business arrangements to be made.... Then to his flat in Shaftesbury Avenue. He slept there the night.

More correctly, he spent the night there. Spent it in pacing to and fro, recalling all the events of that long last month. All the happiest days; all the most miserable ones.

He was heart-full of pity for the woman, poor soul! Wished he could wipe away the bitterness of his words that night on the seat at Wivernsea.

That was impossible. But he could try to make amends.

In the early morning--dawn just lightening the sky--he wrote a note to Gracie's mother: directed it to Ivy Cottage. Just a purely formal little letter, saying he was called away on urgent business and would not return to Wivernsea again.

As coming from an author it was a disappointing note; there was nothing clever in it. Most authors' notes, perhaps because literary fireworks are supposed to be contained in them, are disappointing.

He sent his fondest love to his little sweetheart Gracie, and expressed a sincere hope for her mother's future happiness. That letter later on in the morning he dropped into a post office.

Gracie's mother, who had journeyed home by the previous evening's train, read it, dry-eyed.

The dryness which burns.

CHAPTER XXII

WHITE LIES

Masters gathered in his luggage from Charing Cross cloak room; reached St. Katharine's Docks with it; got aboard _La Mascotte_.

He was first in the cabin; was arranging his things in an orderly way when Mr. Rigby came aboard. The second tenant of the cabin looked every bit of the wreck he had painted himself.

The author, quick of observation, gauged him to be a man of twenty-five or thereabouts. Younger possibly, but dissipation is an artist who graves deep lines; wrinkles are ageing things. Still of fine physique, but dull-eyed, heavy, face bluish and swollen.

Masters, sweeping a comprehensive glance round, brushed up the new comer with it; said generally:

"I am first to take possession. It seems we are to be close companions on this voyage; too close, in one sense."

He referred to the size of the cabin; then stretching out his hand, continued:

"Let me introduce myself. William Charleigh, journalist. I sincerely hope we shall be very good friends whilst we are together."

The gloom on d.i.c.k's face lighted; his colourless horizon seemed brightened; it was as if the sun had suddenly popped out. This cheerful, strong-looking man making overtures of friendship, dissipated all his fearsomeness of solitude on the voyage. Eagerly gripping the hand held out, he shook it long and earnestly; saying:

"I reciprocate that! Thanks! My name's Rigby. Nothing by profession and very little better by nature. I have just come out of--out of an illness. I am taking the trip in the hope of--of getting well."

"No trip like it!" Masters' response was cheerily uttered. "Take my word for that. I took the voyage some years ago, and it pulled me off the grave's brink."

"Really! You look so strong and well I should not have thought you'd had an illness in all the days of your life."

Lies, white lies, came to Masters' lips with the readiness of fiction flowing from his pen; he said:

"I went to the dogs and the dogs nearly did for me. That's an unpleasant way they have when you get inside the kennel. It's a mere shave I'm here talking to you. I pulled up just in time."

"No!"

There were both astonishment and eagerness in d.i.c.k's question; both of the most intense kind. Masters' lying was very successful. He was acting so with a view to drawing his companion out.

If a confession could be got from the sick man it would help. d.i.c.k would rely for strength and help on the man he had confessed to. That was only human nature.

If you tell a man your troubles he is more than likely to want to tell you his own. A keen observer was Masters; knew that confidence begets confidence. So himself became very confidential.