IV
The Shadow Dance was even more beautiful than the Dance of the Statue,but Stephen had lost pleasure in it. He was supersensitive in thesedays, and he felt as if the girl had deliberately made game of him, inorder that he should make a fool of himself. Of course it was a pose ofhers to travel without chaperon or maid, and dress like a school girlfrom a provincial town, in cheap serge, a sailor hat, and a plait ofhair looped up with ribbon. She was no doubt five or six years olderthan she looked or admitted, and probably her manager shrewdlyprescribed the "line" she had taken up. Young women on thestage--actresses, dancers, or singers, it didn't matter which--must dosomething unusual, in order to be talked about, and get a good freeadvertisement. Nowadays, when professionals vied with each other in theexpensiveness of their jewels, the size of their hats, or the smallnessof their waists, and the eccentricity of their costumes, it was perhapsrather a new note to wear no jewels at all, and appear in ready-madefrocks bought in bargain-sales; while, as for the young woman's air ofchildlike innocence and inexperience, it might be a tribute to hercleverness as an actress, but it was not a tribute to his intelligenceas a man, that he should have been taken in by it. Always, he toldhimself, he was being taken in by some woman. After the lesson he hadhad, he ought to have learned wisdom, but it seemed that he was asgullible as ever. And it was this romantic folly of his which vexed himnow; not the fact that a simple child over whose fate he hadsentimentalized, was a rich and popular stage-dancer. Miss Ray wasprobably a good enough young woman according to her lights, and it wasnot she who need be shamed by the success of the Channel boat comedy.
He had another day and night in Paris, where he did more sightseeingthan he had ever accomplished before in a dozen visits, and thentravelled on to Marseilles. The slight damage to the _Charles Quex_ hadbeen repaired, and at noon the ship was to sail. Stephen went on boardearly, as he could think of nothing else which he preferred to do, andhe was repaid for his promptness. By the time he had seen his luggagedeposited in the cabin he had secured for himself alone, engaged a deckchair, and taken a look over the ship--which was new, and as handsome asmuch oak, fragrant cedar-wood, gilding, and green brocade could makeher--many other passengers were coming on board. Travelling first classwere several slim French officers, and stout Frenchmen of the commercialclass; a merry theatrical company going to act in Algiers and Tunis; anEnglish clergyman of grave aspect; invalids with their nurses, and twoor three dignified Arabs, evidently of good birth as well as fortune.Arab merchants were returning from the Riviera, and a party of Germanstudents were going second class.
Stephen was interested in the lively scene of embarkation, and glad tobe a part of it, though still more glad that there seemed to be nobodyon board whom he had ever met. He admired the harbour, and the shipping,and felt pleasantly exhilarated. "I feel very young, or very old, I'mnot sure which," he said to himself as a faint thrill ran through hisnerves at the grinding groan of the anchor, slowly hauled out of thedeep green water.
It was as if he heard the creaking of a gate which opened into anunknown garden, a garden where life would be new and changed. NevillCaird had once said that there was no sharp, dividing line betweenphases of existence, except one's own moods, and Stephen had thoughtthis true; but now it seemed as if the sea which silvered the distancewas the dividing line for him, while all that lay beyond the horizon wasmysterious as a desert mirage.
He was not conscious of any joy at starting, yet he was excited, as ifsomething tremendous were about to happen to him. England, that he knewso well, seemed suddenly less real than Africa, which he knew not atall, and his senses were keenly alert for the first time in many days.He saw Marseilles from a new point of view, and wondered why he hadnever read anything fine written in praise of the ancient Phoeniciancity. Though he had not been in the East, he imagined that the old partof the town, seen from the sea, looked Eastern, as if the trafficbetween east and west, going on for thousands of years, had imported anEastern taste in architecture.
The huge, mosque-like cathedral bubbled with domes, where fierce gleamsof gold were hammered out by strokes of the noonday sun. A background ofwild mountain ranges, whose tortured peaks shone opaline through longrents in mist veils, lent an air of romance to the scene, and Notre Damede la Garde loomed nobly on her bleached and arid height. "Have no fear:I keep watch and ward over land and sea," seemed to say the majesticfigure of gold on the tall tower, and Stephen half wished he were of theCatholic faith, that he might take comfort from the assurance.
As the _Charles Quex_ steamed farther and farther away, the church onthe mountainous hill appeared to change in shape. Notre Dame de la Gardelooked no longer like a building made by man, but like a great sacredswan crowned with gold, and nested on a mountain-top. There she sat,with shining head erect on a long neck, seated on her nest, protectingher young, and gazing far across the sea in search of danger. The suntouched her golden crown, and dusky cloud-shadows grouped far beneathher eyrie, like mourners kneeling below the height to pray. Therock-shapes and island rocks that cut the blue glitter of the sea,suggested splendid tales of Phoenician mariners and Saracenic pirates,tales lost forever in the dim mists of time; and so Stephen wandered onto thoughts of Dumas, wishing he had brought "Monte Cristo," dearlyloved when he was twelve. Probably not a soul on board had the book;people were so stupid and prosaic nowadays. He turned from the rail onwhich he had leaned to watch the fading land, and as he did so, his eyesfell upon a bright red copy of the book for which he had been wishing.There was the name in large gold lettering on a scarlet cover, veryconspicuous on the dark blue serge lap of a girl. It was the girl of theChannel boat, and she wore the same dress, the same sailor hat tied onwith a blue veil, which she had worn that night crossing from England toFrance.
While Stephen had been absorbed in admiration of Marseilles harbour, shehad come up on deck, and settled herself in a canvas chair. This timeshe had a rug of her own, a thin navy blue rug which, like her frock,might have been chosen for its cheapness. Although she held a volume of"Monte Cristo," she was not reading, and as Stephen turned towards her,their eyes met.
Hers lit up with a pleased smile, and the pink that sprang to her cheekswas the colour of surprise, not of self-consciousness.
"I _thought_ your back looked like you, but I didn't suppose it wouldturn out to be you," she said.
Stephen's slight, unreasonable irritation could not stand against theazure of such eyes, and the youth in her friendly smile. Since the girlseemed glad to see him, why shouldn't he be glad to see her? At leastshe was not a link with England.
"I thought your statue looked like you," he retorted, standing near herchair, "but I didn't suppose it would turn out to be you until yourshadow followed."
"Oh, you saw me dance! Did you like it?" She asked the question eagerly,like a child who hangs upon grown-up judgment of its work.
"I thought both dances extremely beautiful and artistic," repliedStephen, a little stiffly.
She looked at him questioningly, as if puzzled. "No, I don't think youdid like them, really," she said. "I oughtn't to have asked in thatblunt way, because of course you would hate to hurt my feelings bysaying no!"
Her manner was so unlike that of a spoiled stage darling, that Stephenhad to remind himself sharply of her "innocent pose," and his ownsoft-hearted lack of discrimination where pretty women were concerned.By doing this he kept himself armed against the clever little actresslaughing at him behind the blue eyes of a child. "You must know thatthere can't be two opinions of your dancing," said he coolly. "You havehad years and years of flattery, of course; enough to make you sick ofit, if a woman ever----" He stopped, smiling.
"Why, I've been dancing professionally for only a few months!" sheexclaimed. "Didn't you know?"
"I'm ashamed to say I was ignorant," Stephen confessed. "But before thedancing, there must have been something else equally clever.Floating--or flying--or----"
She laughed. "Why don't you suggest fainting in coils? I'm certain youwould,
if you'd ever read 'Alice.'"
"As a matter of fact, I was brought up on 'Alice,'" said Stephen. "Dochildren of the present day still go down the rabbit hole?"
"I'm not sure about children of the _present_ day. Children of my daywent down," she replied with dignity. "I loved Alice dearly. I don'tknow much about other children, though, for I never had a chance to makefriends as a child. But then I had my sister when I was a little girl,so nothing else mattered."
"If you don't think me rude to say so," ventured Stephen, "you wouldseem to me a little girl now, if I hadn't found out that you're anaccomplished star of the theatres, admired all over Europe."
"Now you're making fun of me," said the dancer. "Paris was only my thirdengagement; and it's going to be my last, anyway for ever so long, Ihope."
This time Stephen was really surprised, and all his early interest inthe young creature woke again; the personal sort of interest which hehad partly lost on finding that she was of the theatrical world.
"Oh, I see!" he ejaculated, before stopping to reflect that he had noright to put into words the idea which jumped into his mind.
"You see?" she echoed. "But how can you see, unless you know somethingabout me already?"
"I beg your pardon," he apologized. "It was only a thought. I----"
"A thought about my dancing?"
"Not exactly that. About your not dancing again."
"Then please tell me the thought."
"You may be angry. I rather think you'd have a right to be angry--not atthe thought, but the telling of it."
"I promise."
"Why," explained Stephen, "when a young and successful actress makes upher mind to leave the stage, what is the usual reason?"
"I'm not an actress, so I can't imagine what you mean--unless yousuppose I've made a great fortune in a few months?"
"That too, perhaps--but I don't think a fortune would induce you toleave the stage yet a while. You'd want to go on, not for the moneyperhaps, but for the fun."
"I haven't been dancing for fun."
"Haven't you?"
"No. I began with a purpose. I'm leaving the stage for a purpose. Andyou say you can guess what that is. If you know, you must have beentold."
"Since you insist, it occurred to me that you might be going to marry.I thought maybe you were travelling to Africa to----"
She laughed. "Oh, you _are_ wrong! I don't believe there ever was a girlwho thinks less about marrying. I've never had time to think of suchthings. I've always--ever since I was nine years old--looked to the onegoal, and aimed for it, studied for it, lived for it--at last, dancedtowards it."
"You excite my curiosity immensely," said Stephen. And it was true. Thegirl had begun to take him out of himself.
"There is lunch," she announced, as a bugle sounded.
Stephen longed to say, "Don't go yet. Stop and tell me all about the'goal' you're working for." But he dared not. She was very frank, andevidently willing, for some reason, to talk of her aims, even to acomparative stranger; yet he knew that it would be impertinent tosuggest her sitting out on deck to chat with him, while the otherpassengers lunched.
He asked if she were hungry, and she said she was. So was he, now thathe came to think of it; nevertheless he let her go in alone, and waiteddeliberately for several minutes before following. He would have likedto sit by Miss Ray at the table, but wished her to see that he did notmean to presume upon any small right of acquaintanceship. As she was onthe stage, and extremely attractive, no doubt men often tried to takesuch advantage, and he didn't intend to be one of them; therefore hesupposed that he had lost the chance of placing himself near her in thedining-room. To his surprise, however, as he was about to slip into afar-away chair, she beckoned from her table. "I kept this seat for you,"she said. "I hoped you wouldn't mind."
"Mind!" He was on the point of repaying her kindness with a conventionallittle compliment, but thought better of it, and expressed his meaningin a smile.
The oak-panelled saloon was provided with a number of small tables, andat the one where Victoria Ray sat, were places for four. Three werealready occupied when Stephen came; one by Victoria, the others by aGerman bride and groom.
At the next table were two French officers of the Chasseurs d'Afrique,the English clergyman Stephen had noticed on deck, and a remarkablyhandsome Arab, elaborately dressed. He sat facing Victoria Ray andStephen Knight, and Stephen found it difficult not to stare at thesuperb, pale brown person whose very high white turban, bound with lightgrey cord, gave him a dignity beyond his years, and whose pale greyburnous, over a gold-embroidered vest of dark rose-colour, addedpicturesqueness which appeared theatrical in eyes unaccustomed to theEast.
Stephen had never seen an Arab of the aristocratic class until to-day;and before, only a few such specimens as parade the Galerie CharlesTrois at Monte Carlo, selling prayer-rugs and draperies from Algeria.This man's high birth and breeding were clear at first glance. He wascertainly a personage aware of his own attractions, though notoffensively self-conscious, and was unmistakably interested in thebeauty of the girl at the next table. He was too well-bred to make ashow of his admiration, but talked in almost perfect, slightly gutturalFrench, with the English clergyman, speaking occasionally also to theofficers in answer to some question. He glanced seldom at Miss Ray, butwhen he did look across, in a guarded way, at her, there was a light ofardent pleasure in his eyes, such as no eyes save those of East or Southever betray. The look was respectful, despite its underlying passion.Nevertheless, because the handsome face was some shades darker than hisown, it offended Stephen, who felt a sharp bite of dislike for the Arab.He was glad the man was not at the same table with Miss Ray, and knewthat it would have vexed him intensely to see the girl drawn intoconversation. He wondered that the French officers should talk with theArab as with an equal, yet knew in his heart that such prejudice wasnarrow-minded, especially at the moment when he was travelling to theArab's own country. He tried, though not very strenuously, to overridehis conviction of superiority to the Eastern man, but triumphed only farenough to admit that the fellow was handsome in a way. His skin washardly darker than old ivory: the aquiline nose delicate as a woman's,with sensitive nostrils; and the black velvet eyes under arched brows,that met in a thin, pencilled line, were long, and either dreamy orcalmly calculating. A prominent chin and a full mouth, so determined asto suggest cruelty, certainly selfishness, preserved the face fromeffeminacy at the sacrifice of artistic perfection. Stephen noticed withmingled curiosity and disapproval that the Arab appeared to be vain ofhis hands, on which he wore two or three rings that might have beenbought in Paris, or even given him by European women--for they lookedlike a woman's rings. The brown fingers were slender, tapering to theends, and their reddened nails glittered. They played, as the mantalked, with a piece of bread, and often he glanced down at them, withthe long eyes which had a blue shadow underneath, like a faint smear ofkohl.
Stephen wondered what Victoria Ray thought of her _vis-a-vis_; but inthe presence of the staring bride and groom he could ask no questions,and the expression of her face, as once she quietly regarded the Arab,told nothing. It was even puzzling, as an expression for a young girl'sface to wear in looking at a handsome man so supremely conscious of sexand of his own attraction. She was evidently thinking about him withconsiderable interest, and it annoyed Stephen that she should look athim at all. An Arab might misunderstand, not realizing that he was alegitimate object of curiosity for eyes unused to Eastern men.
After luncheon Victoria went to her cabin. This was disappointing.Stephen, hoping that she might come on deck again soon, and resume theirtalk where it had broken off in the morning, paced up and down until hefelt drowsy, not having slept in the train the night before. To hissurprise and disgust, it was after five when he waked from a long nap,in his stateroom; and going on deck he found Miss Ray in her chair oncemore, this time apparently deep in "Monte Cristo."