The Adventures of Miss Gregory. Gibbon Perceval

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СКАЧАТЬ "you look as if you knew the world, and yet you let that woman make a friend of you. Think of any word you like to describe a woman—a woman of your own country—who lives and holds her own on the Coast, and has friends among that crowd of passengers aft here, and carries weapons in her stocking, at that. Any word you like—that's the kind I mean."

      "I see," said Miss Gregory, and sighed. She remembered Miss Ducane's words, "You don't want to have anything to do with him." In the face of social prejudices there is nothing useful to be said; so she was silent. The deck passenger shrugged the subject from him.

      "Well," he said, "we've got to make the best of it. There's a mail-boat behind us, somewhere. She'll take us off when she comes. We've simply got to sit tight and wait for her. She might be along to-morrow."

      "Well, that's not much to worry about," agreed Miss Gregory.

      But, as the day wore on, new factors in the situation presented themselves. The cautious men reassured themselves by comparing data as to the mail-boat's dates from port to port, and, being relieved of anxiety on that head, broke open the little bar for the materials of forgetfulness. Even in their cups, they were not loud; drink seemed to have no power to unlock their caution; but there was, none the less, some quarreling. Lunch was a meal from biscuit-tins and preserve-boxes—and bottles; after it, Miss Gregory betook herself willingly to the deck. The company of her fellow passengers was not pleasant.· To her arrived Miss Ducane.

      "There's one thing about those fellows I don't like," she observed, as she dragged her seat to Miss Gregory's side. "They drink, but it never makes them laugh. Have you noticed that?"

      Miss Gregory had not noticed it, but it was true.

      "They want to be made to toe the line," Miss Ducane complained. "They're on their own—like the niggers last night. Only shooting wouldn't quiet them."

      "What would, then?" inquired Miss Gregory.

      "Oh, anything smart," answered Miss Ducane. "They're not so bad, you know; it's just that being all free and easy like this don't suit them. If there was anything to do, they'd straighten up in a minute."

      Miss Gregory mused. "I wonder," she said.

      "Have you got a dodge?" asked Miss Ducane.

      "Well, I half thought of something," said Miss Gregory. "That scrap lunch was enough to demoralize a congregation of saints. And I learned to cook a little when I was a girl."

      Miss Ducane sat up and opened her fine eyes.

      "Were you thinking—were you dreaming—of getting dinner for them?"

      Miss Gregory nodded, and Miss Ducane sprang to her feet with a spurt of laughter.

      "Why," she cried, "if that isn't the very thing! The very thing. Cook! You ought to see me with pancakes. I've made pancakes from Lourenço Marquez to Zanzibar. Let's get at it right away. You remind me of that poetry about the mouths of babies and ducklings. Here's me thinking of guns and all that stuff, and you come right out with the one thing to do the trick. Come along and let's get at it."

      The good news was not long in spreading: Miss Gregory had done the trick. Throughout the afternoon, the men seemed occupied in finding pretexts for strolling past the galley, where Miss Gregory, nervous at last, perspired before the fire, and Miss Ducane, a marvelous vision with her sleeves rolled back from her slim arms and a new flush in her cheeks, prepared the pancakes of her life, the crucial pancakes of an illustrious career, for her famous frying-pan trick.

      Great are the uses of formality. It was as if decorum dwelt in the white table-cloth and returned with it to the saloon in the evening. From among the natives forward there had been recruited emergency waiters, negroes who had at some time or other been house-boys in the service of Europeans. There was a little delay in the beginning; the men were ready for a quarter of an hour before Miss Gregory arrived.

      When she came in at the door, with Miss Ducane at her heels, the hum of talk ceased as on a signal. Somebody, prompted by a forgotten instinct of courtliness, rose; one by one, they all stood after him, and their eyes testified an almost resentful astonishment. Miss Gregory was in evening dress. It was the most modest evening frock that ever left the hands of a famous modiste—black and plain, with no more than a prudish little V of décolletége. But for them, who had seen her only in her garb of travel—the flannel jacket, felt hat, and short skirt that she imposed upon the world—it transformed her. It identified her, it was a badge of caste; it set her forth as a citizen of that remote and desirable world where strength is not violence, where people write home and are answered by return of post, and everybody goes by his right name. She took her place at the head of the table, smiling the general smile of the hostess, and they waited for her to sit before they seated themselves.

      The deck passenger was at Miss Gregory's left; he had come as her guest, protesting none the less. Miss Ducane scowled at the sight of him.

      "Well," she said in a clear voice, "since we're shipwrecked, I suppose we're all on a level, niggers an' all. It isn't for long, anyhow."

      The deck passenger looked up with an expressionless face.

      "Ah," he said, "your revolver—I forgot. You must feel uncomfortable without it. Thanks."

      He passed it across to her, and for a moment she looked as if she were about to use it. It lay beside her plate while dinner lasted, a blot upon the feast.

      Miss Gregory has since placed it on record that, of all the dinners she ever ate, that was the stiffest. She had the conscience of a good hostess; she did her best to talk, to make conversation travel, to be amused, to be trivial, to sparkle. It was all of no avail. A rigidity of demeanor that nothing could thaw into festivity governed the table. It was like dining with some very ceremonial order of monks. They were striving to exalt their manners to the level of her evening gown, and they ate and drank and passed each other the salt with a somber magnificence of bearing and gesture which was more murderous to the social spirit than any mere constraint of embarrassment.

      "And to-morrow night we may all be dining together on the mail-boat," remarked Miss Gregory innocently, at one point.

      The deck passenger laughed. "Not all of us." He was looking at Miss Ducane; that lady flushed.

      "Why not?" asked Miss Gregory. "I thought you said——"

      He nodded. "Oh, I think she'll be here to-morrow," he said; "that part's all right. But"—his eye still on Miss Ducane—"the Germans know this Coast. You'll be in the first saloon; and I'll be in the third, according to my ticket. And the rest, they'll travel second-class. You'll see!"

      "But why?" asked Miss Gregory, and bit her lip as the question escaped her.

      He smiled with slow malice. "They've their other passengers to think of," he said. "They'd never stand these people."

      Miss Ducane put her glass down with a jolt. The deck passenger returned to the food before him with an air of quiet triumph.

      Dinner came to an end at last. Miss Gregory felt that another ten minutes of it would be beyond human endurance. She finally found herself on deck again, with the swish of water on the reef for company and a sense of duty performed to warm her. The ship was as still as a hospital ward; the people had not yet come out of their trance. A noise of labored breathing startled her, and Miss Ducane flopped on the deck at her feet.

      "He had to say it," she was repeating. "He had to say it!"

      Miss СКАЧАТЬ