Running Sands Part 27

"Don't bother about me," muttered Stainton as she entered--"and _please_ don't bang the door!"

She considered him compa.s.sionately. His hair fell in disorder over his haggard face; his cheeks were faintly green.

"Can't I do something for you?" she asked, stepping forward.

Stainton failed in a smile, but feebly motioned her away.

"I am afraid not," said he--"unless you stop the ship. All I need is a little rest. You had better go back on deck. Really."

Muriel delayed.

"A man spoke to me on deck," she breathlessly confessed. "An Austrian diplomat, I think he is. My rug blew, and he rearranged it. Do you mind?"

"Mind?" asked Stainton. "Certainly not.--How this boat pitches!--Talk to him, by all means. These things are common on shipboard, I believe."

Muriel was rea.s.sured. She returned to the deck, but von Klausen was not there, and she did not see him again until evening.

Then, though she still dutifully wished that Jim were with her, she found her appet.i.te better than ever. She ventured upon a lonely c.o.c.ktail. She ate some Blue Points. Captain von Klausen sent to her table, with his card, a pint of champagne, and she ordered potage Mogador, duckling b.a.l.l.s with turnips, cepes Provencals, sacher tart, and ice cream.

When she reached the promenade-deck, von Klausen was already there. He had dined in evening clothes, but these were now hidden by the light rain-coat that swathed his lithe young figure from neck to heels. Muriel observed that its shoulders fitted to the shoulders of the wearer and had none of the deceptiveness of the padded shoulders to which she was once familiar in American coats.

"Have you seen the phosphorus?" he asked, as she met him at the rail.

His lifted cap showed his wind-tossed blond hair, and his ruddy face gleamed with salt spray.

Muriel admitted her ignorance of phosphorus.

"But," said von Klausen, "that is one of the sights of the voyage, and I have not often on the Atlantic seen it finer than it is to-night."

He took her forward, by the starboard rail, under the bridge. Behind them were the closely curtained windows of the writing-room, forward was, only ten feet below them, the now emptied deck reserved for the third-cla.s.s pa.s.sengers, and beyond that, higher, rose and fell, rhythmically, the keen, dark prow. They were quite alone.

"Look there!" said von Klausen.

He pointed over the rail to where the inky surface of the sea was broken by the speed of the _Friedrich Barbarossa's_ pa.s.sage, bursting into boiling, hissing, angry patches of bright whiteness.

Timidly Muriel extended her head.

"Do you see it?" asked von Klausen. He stood close beside her.

"I see the waves," said Muriel, "and the white foam."

"But the phosphorus--you do not see that? There--and there!"

She shook her head.

"Look though," said he. "You do not look in just the correct direction.

Please. Ahead, to the left. No; away a little from the ship--a little; not too much--where we have hit the water and the water recedes from us.

It is beautiful--beautiful! See!"

The great boat rose on a sudden wave. Von Klausen gripped the rail with one slim hand; the other, its arm around her waist, he placed about her farther arm.

"Now!" he said, and, letting go of the rail, pointed.

Her eyes followed his finger, and there, shining green and yellow, now clear, now opalescent, from burning cores to nebulous edges, she saw what seemed to be live stars smouldering and flaming in the hearts of the waves.

"I see," she said. "It is beautiful--beautiful!"

She was, she suddenly realised, but repeating his own phrase. Why should she not? The phrase was commonplace enough; besides, the phosphorus _was_ beautiful.

Then she became conscious of his arm about her, became conscious that this arm about her had not been unpleasant; was indignant with him, silently, and indignant with herself; made certain, in her own mind, that he had put his arm around her waist only that he might protect her--and thus soon left him and went to bed without waking Jim.

She opened her eyes after an unquiet night, to find that Stainton was somewhat improved, though too mindful of his experience of the preceding day to trust himself on deck.

"I'll wait," he decided, "till to-morrow or this evening. Yes, I think I shall manage it this evening. I'm really in good shape, but I must have eaten something that didn't agree with me. You go up, Muriel. If you see that Austrian fellow, don't forget to give him my compliments and tell him I'll probably have the pleasure of meeting him this evening. What did you say he was?"

"His name," said Muriel, "is von Klausen." She hated herself for her unreasonable disinclination to mention the Captain.

"H'm--a diplomat, did you say?"

"Something of the sort."

"As old as most diplomats then, I suppose?"

"No," said Muriel; "he's--he's rather young."

The ship began to descend a lofty wave, and Stainton lay back in his berth. His face, with its full day's growth of beard, looked grey.

"All right," he said. "Run along, dear--and look in about noon."

Muriel obeyed him. Their chairs were well forward, and when she reached them she saw von Klausen again seated in that which bore Stainton's card.

He rose at sight of her. No motion of the boat seemed ever to affect him to awkwardness.

"Your husband," he asked, bareheaded and erect while she seated herself; "he is, I trust, better?"

"He hasn't really been sick," she a.s.severated with what she knew, as she said it, to be wholly unnecessary emphasis.

The young Austrian performed one of his ceremonious obeisances.

"Then I shall be so pleased, so honoured, this evening to be presented to him, and I so deeply regret his having been ill. It is not good, this ocean, for the elderly."

Muriel's cheeks warmed.

"Why do you call him that?" she demanded. "I told you yesterday that he was--that he was almost young. Why do you call him elderly?"

"Forgive." Von Klausen's wide gesture expressed his regret for this error. "I had forgotten entirely. It is too bad of me to forget entirely."

"Oh," laughed Muriel, for she was already condemning her annoyance as childishness, "it doesn't matter, because it is so absurd. Only, what gave you such an impression?"