V
He walked past, and she looked up with a smile, but did not ask him todraw his chair near hers, though there was a vacant space. It was anabsurd and far-fetched idea, but he could not help asking himself if itwere possible that she had picked up any acquaintance on board, who hadtold her he was a marked man, a foolish fellow who had spoiled his lifefor a low-born, unscrupulous woman's sake. It was a morbid fancy, heknew, but he was morbid now, and supposed that he should be for sometime to come, if not for the rest of his life. He imagined a differencein the girl's manner. Maybe she had read that hateful interview in somepaper, when she was in London, and now remembered having seen hisphotograph with Margot Lorenzi's. He hated the thought, not because hedeliberately wished to keep his engagement secret, but because thenewspaper interview had made him seem a fool, and somehow he did notwant to be despised by this dancing girl whom he should never see againafter to-morrow. Just why her opinion of his character need matter tohim, it was difficult to say, but there was something extraordinaryabout the girl. She did not seem in the least like other dancers he hadmet. He had not that feeling of comfortable comradeship with her that aman may feel with most unchaperoned, travelling actresses, no matter howrespectable. There was a sense of aloofness, as if she had been a youngprincess, in spite of her simple and friendly ways.
Since it appeared that she had no intention of picking up the droppedthreads of their conversation, Stephen thought of the smoking-room; buthis wish to know whether she really had changed towards him became sopressing that he was impelled to speak again. It was an impulse unlikehimself, at any rate the old self with which he was familiar, as with afriend or an intimate enemy.
"I hoped you would tell me the rest," he blurted out.
"The rest?"
"That you were beginning to tell."
The girl blushed. "I was afraid afterwards, you might have been bored,or anyway surprised. You probably thought it 'very American' of me totalk about my own affairs to a stranger, and it _isn't_, you know. Ishouldn't like you to think Americans are less well brought up thanother girls, just because _I_ may do things that seem queer. I have todo them. And I am quite different from others. You mustn't suppose I'mnot."
Stephen was curiously relieved. Suddenly he felt young and happy, as heused to feel before knowing Margot Lorenzi. "I never met a brilliantlysuccessful person who was as modest as you," he said, laughing withpleasure. "I was never less bored in my life. Will you talk to meagain--and let me talk to you?"
"I should like to ask your advice," she replied.
That gave permission for Stephen to draw his chair near to hers. "Haveyou had tea?" he inquired, by way of a beginning.
"I'm too American to drink tea in the afternoon," she explained. "It'sonly fashionable Americans who take it, and I'm not that kind, as youcan see. I come from the country--or almost the country."
"Weren't you drawn into any of our little ways in London?" He wasworking up to a certain point.
"I was too busy."
"I'm sure you weren't too busy for one thing: reading the papers foryour notices."
Victoria shook her head, smiling. "There you're mistaken. The firstmorning after I danced at the Palace Theatre, I asked to see the papersthey had in my boarding-house, because I hoped so much that Englishpeople would like me, and I wanted to be a success. But afterwards Ididn't bother. I don't understand British politics, you see--how couldI?--and I hardly know any English people, so I wasn't very interested intheir papers."
Again Stephen was relieved. But he felt driven by one of his strange newimpulses to tell her his name, and watch her face while he told it.
"'Curiouser and curiouser,' as our friend Alice would say," he laughed."No newspaper paragraphs, and a boarding-house instead of a fashionablehotel. What was your manager thinking about?"
"I had no manager of my very own," said Victoria. "I 'exploited' myself.It costs less to do that. When people in America liked my dancing I gotan offer from London, and I accepted it and made all the arrangementsabout going over. It was quite easy, you see, because there were onlycostumes to carry. My scenery is so simple, they either had it in thetheatres or got something painted: and the statues in the studio scene,and the sculptor, needed very few rehearsals. In Paris they had onlyone. It was all I had time for, after I arrived. The lighting wasn'tdifficult either, and though people told me at first there would betrouble unless I had my own man, there never was any, really. In myletters to the managers I gave the dates when I could come to theirtheatres, how long I could stay, and all they must do to get thingsready. The Paris engagement was made only a little while beforehand. Iwanted to pass through there, so I was glad to accept the offer and earnextra money which I thought I might need by and by."
"What a mercenary star!" Stephen spoke teasingly; but in truth he couldnot make the girl out.
She took the accusation with a smile. "Yes, I am mercenary, I suppose,"she confessed with unashamed frankness, "but not entirely for myself. Ishouldn't like to be that! I told you how I've been looking forwardalways to one end. And now, just when that end may be near, how foolishI should be to spend a cent on unnecessary things! Why, I'd have felt_wicked_ living in an expensive hotel, and keeping a maid, when I couldbe comfortable in a Bloomsbury boarding-house on ten dollars a week. Andthe dresser in the theater, who did everything very nicely, wasdelighted with a present of twenty dollars when my London engagement wasover."
"No doubt she was," said Stephen. "But----"
"I suppose you're thinking that I must have made lots of money, and thatI'm a sort of little miseress: and so I have--and so I am. I earnedseven hundred and fifty dollars a week--isn't that a hundred and fiftypounds?--for the six weeks, and I spent as little as possible; for Ididn't get as large a salary as that in America. I engaged to dance forthree hundred dollars a week there, which seemed perfectly wonderful tome at first; so I had to keep my contract, though other managers wouldhave given me more. I wanted dreadfully to take their offers, because Iwas in such a hurry to have enough money to begin my real work. But Iknew I shouldn't be blessed in my undertaking if I acted dishonourably.Try as I might, I've only been able to save up ten thousand dollars,counting the salary in Paris and all. Would you say that was enough to_bribe_ a person, if necessary? Two thousand of your pounds."
"It depends upon how rich the person is."
"I don't know how rich he is. Could an Arab be _very_ rich?"
"I daresay there are still some rich ones. But maybe riches aren't thesame with them as with us. That fellow at lunch to-day looks as if he'dplenty of money to spend on embroideries."
"Yes. And he looks important too--as if he might have travelled, andknown a great many people of all sorts. I wish it were proper for me totalk to him."
"Good Heavens, why?" asked Stephen, startled. "It would be mostimproper."
"Yes, I'm afraid so, and I won't, of course, unless I get to know him insome way," went on Victoria. "Not that there's any chance of such athing."
"I should hope not," exclaimed Stephen, who was privately of opinionthat there was only too good a chance if the girl showed the Arab eventhe faintest sign of willingness to know and be known. "I've no right toask it, of course, except that I'm much older than you and have seenmore of the world--but do promise not to look at that nigger. I don'tlike his face."
"He isn't a nigger," objected Victoria. "But if he were, it wouldn'tmatter--nor whether one liked his face or not. He might be able to helpme."
"To help you--in Algiers?"
"Yes, in the same way that you might be able to help me--or more,because he's an Arab, and must know Arabs."
Stephen forgot to press his request for her promise. "How can I helpyou?" he wanted to know.
"I'm not sure. Only, you're going to Algiers. I always ask everybody tohelp, if there's the slightest chance they can."
Stephen felt disappointed and chilled. But she went on. "I should hateyou to think I _gush_ to strangers, and tell them all my affairs, justbecause I'm sil
ly enough to love talking. I must talk to strangers. I_must_ get help where I can. And you were kind the other night.Everybody is kind. Do you know many people in Algeria, or Tunisia?"
"Only one man. His name is Nevill Caird, and he lives in Algiers. Myname is Stephen Knight. I've been wanting to tell you--I seemed to havean unfair advantage, knowing yours ever since Paris."
He watched her face almost furtively, but no change came over it, nocloud in the blueness of her candid eyes. The name meant nothing to her.
"I'm sorry. It's hardly worth while my bothering you then."
Stephen wished to be bothered. "But Nevill Caird has lived in Algiersfor eight winters or so," he said. "He knows everybody, French andEnglish--Arab too, very likely, if there are Arabs worth knowing."
A bright colour sprang to the girl's cheeks and turned her extremeprettiness into brilliant beauty. It seemed to Stephen that the name ofRay suited her: she was dazzling as sunshine. "Oh, then, I will tellyou--if you'll listen," she said.
"If I had as many ears as a spear of wheat, they'd all want to listen."His voice sounded young and eager. "Please begin at the beginning, asthe children say."
"Shall I really? But it's a long story. It begins when I was eight."
"All the better. It will be ten years long."
"I can skip lots of things. When I was eight, and my sister Saidee notquite eighteen, we were in Paris with my stepmother. My father had beendead just a year, but she was out of mourning. She wasn't old--onlyabout thirty, and handsome. She was jealous of Saidee, though, becauseSaidee was so much younger and fresher, and because Saidee wasbeautiful--Oh, you can't imagine how beautiful!"
"Yes, I can," said Stephen.
"You mean me to take that for a compliment. I know I'm quite pretty, butI'm nothing to Saidee. She was a great beauty, though with the samecolouring I have, except that her eyes were brown, and her hair a littlemore auburn. People turned to look after her in the street, and thatmade our stepmother angry. _She_ wanted to be the one looked at. I knew,even then! She wouldn't have travelled with us, only father had left herhis money, on condition that she gave Saidee and me the best ofeducations, and allowed us a thousand dollars a year each, from the timeour schooling was finished until we married. She had a good deal ofinfluence over him, for he was ill a long time, and she was hisnurse--that was the way they got acquainted. And she persuaded him toleave practically everything to her; but she couldn't prevent his makingsome conditions. There was one which she hated. She was obliged to livein the same town with us; so when she wanted to go and enjoy herself inParis after father died, she had to take us too. And she didn't care toshut Saidee up, because if Saidee couldn't be seen, she couldn't bemarried; and of course Mrs. Ray wanted her to be married. Then she wouldhave no bother, and no money to pay. I often heard Saidee say thesethings, because she told me everything. She loved me a great deal, and Iadored her. My middle name is Cecilia, and she was generally called Say;so she used to tell me that our secret names for each other must be 'Sayand Seal.' It made me feel very grown-up to have her confide so much inme: and never being with children at all, gave me grown-up thoughts."
"Poor child!" said Stephen.
"Oh, I was very happy. It was only after--but that isn't the way to tellthe story. Our stepmother--whom we always called 'Mrs. Ray,' never'mother'--liked officers, and we got acquainted with a good many Frenchones. They used to come to the flat where we lived. Some of them wereintroduced by our French governess, whose brother was in the army, butthey brought others, and Saidee and Mrs. Ray went to parties together,though Mrs. Ray hated being chaperon. If poor Saidee were admired at adinner, or a dance, Mrs. Ray would be horrid all next day, and sayeverything disagreeable she could think of. Then Saidee would cry whenwe were alone, and tell me she was so miserable, she would have to marryin self-defence. That made me cry too--but she promised to take me withher if she went away.
"When we had been in Paris about two months, Saidee came to bed onenight after a ball, and waked me up. We slept in the same room. She wasexcited and looked like an angel. I knew something had happened. Shetold me she'd met a wonderful man, and every one was fascinated withhim. She had heard of him before, but this was the first time they'dseen each other. He was in the French army, she said, a captain, andolder than most of the men she knew best, but very handsome, and rich aswell as clever. It was only at the last, after she'd praised the man agreat deal, that she mentioned his having Arab blood. Even then shehurried on to say his mother was a Spanish woman, and he had been partlyeducated in France, and spoke perfect French, and English too. They haddanced together, and Saidee had never met so interesting a man. Shethought he was like the hero of some romance; and she told me I wouldsee him, because he'd begged Mrs. Ray to be allowed to call. He hadasked Saidee lots of questions, and she'd told him even about me--so hesent me his love. She seemed to think I ought to be pleased, but Iwasn't. I'd read the 'Arabian Nights', with pictures, and I knew Arabswere dark people. I didn't look down on them particularly, but Icouldn't bear to have Say interested in an Arab. It didn't seem rightfor her, somehow."
The girl stopped, and apparently forgot to go on. She had been speakingwith short pauses, as if she hardly realized that she was talking aloud.Her eyebrows drew together, and she sighed. Stephen knew that somememory pressed heavily upon her, but soon she began again.
"He came next day. He was handsome, as Saidee had said--as handsome asthe Arab on board this ship, but in a different way. He looked noble andhaughty--yet as if he might be very selfish and hard. Perhaps he wasabout thirty-three or four, and that seemed old to me then--old even toSaidee. But she was fascinated. He came often, and she saw him at otherhouses. Everywhere she was going, he would find out, and go too. Thatpleased her--for he was an important man somehow, and of good birth.Besides, he was desperately in love--even a child could see that. Henever took his eyes off Saidee's face when she was with him. It was asif he could eat her up; and if she flirted a little with the real Frenchofficers, to amuse herself or tease him, it drove him half mad. Sheliked that--it was exciting, she used to say. And I forgot to tell you,he wore European dress, except for a fez--no turban, like this man's onthe boat, or I'm sure she couldn't have cared for him in the way shedid--he wouldn't have seemed _possible_, for a Christian girl. A man ina turban! You understand, don't you?"
"Yes, I understand," Stephen said. He understood, too, how violentlysuch beauty as the girl described must have appealed to the dark man ofthe East. "The same colouring that I have," Victoria Ray had said. Ifhe, an Englishman, accustomed to the fair loveliness of hiscountrywomen, were a little dazzled by the radiance of this girl, whatcompelling influence must not the more beautiful sister have exercisedupon the Arab?
"He made love to Saidee in a fierce sort of way that carried her off herfeet," went on Victoria. "She used to tell me things he said, and Mrs.Ray did all she could to throw them together, because he was rich, andlived a long way off--so she wouldn't have to do anything for Say ifthey were married, or even see her again. He was only on leave in Paris.He was a Spahi, stationed in Algiers, and he owned a house there."
"Ah, in Algiers!" Stephen began to see light--rather a lurid light.
"Yes. His name was Cassim ben Halim el Cheikh el Arab. Before he hadknown Saidee two weeks, he proposed. She took a little while to think itover, and I begged her to say 'no'--but one day when Mrs. Ray had beencrosser and more horrid than usual, she said 'yes'. Cassim ben Halim wasMohammedan, of course, but he and Saidee were married according toFrench law. They didn't go to church, because he couldn't do thatwithout showing disrespect to his own religion, but he promised he'd nottry to change hers. Altogether it seemed to Saidee that there was noreason why they shouldn't be as happy as a Catholic girl marrying aProtestant--or _vice versa_; and she hadn't any very strong convictions.She was a Christian, but she wasn't fond of going to church."
"And her promise that she'd take you away with her?" Stephen remindedthe girl.
"She would have kept it, if Mrs
. Ray had consented--though I'm sureCassim didn't want me, and only agreed to do what Saidee asked becausehe was so deep in love, and feared to lose my sister if he refused heranything. But Mrs. Ray was afraid to let me go, on account of thecondition in father's will that she should keep me near her while I wasbeing educated. There was an old friend of father's who'd threatened totry and upset the will, for Saidee's sake and mine, so I suppose shethought he might succeed if she disobeyed father's instructions. Itended in Saidee and her husband going to Algiers without me, and Saideecried--but she couldn't help being happy, because she was in love, andvery excited about the strange new life, which Cassim told her would bewonderful as some gorgeous dream of fairyland. He gave her quantities ofjewellery, and said they were nothing to what she should have when shewas in her own home with him. She should be covered from head to footwith diamonds and pearls, rubies and emeralds, if she liked; and ofcourse she would like, for she loved jewels, poor darling."
"Why do you say 'poor?'" asked Stephen. "Are you going to tell me themarriage wasn't a success?"
"I don't know," answered the girl. "I don't know any more about her thanif Cassim ben Halim had really carried my sister off to fairyland, andshut the door behind them. You see, I was only eight years old. Icouldn't make my own life. After Saidee was married and taken toAlgiers, my stepmother began to imagine herself in love with an Americanfrom Indiana, whom she met in Paris. He had an impressive sort ofmanner, and made her think him rich and important. He was in business,and had come over to rest, so he couldn't stay long abroad; and he urgedMrs. Ray to go back to America on the same ship with him. Of course shetook me, and this Mr. Henry Potter told her about a boarding-schoolwhere they taught quite little girls, not far from the town where helived. It had been a farmhouse once, and he said there were 'goodteachers and good air.' I can hear him saying it now. It was easy topersuade her; and she engaged rooms at a hotel in the town near by,which was called Potterston, after Mr. Potter's grandfather. By and bythey were married, but their marriage made no difference to me. Itwasn't a bad little old-fashioned school, and I was as happy as I couldbe anywhere, parted from Saidee. There was an attic where I used to beallowed to sit on Saturdays, and think thoughts, and write letters to mysister; and there was one corner, where the sunlight came in through atiny window shaped like a crescent, without any glass, which I namedAlgiers. I played that I went there to visit Saidee in the old Arabpalace she wrote me about. It was a splendid play--but I felt lonelywhen I stopped playing it. I used to dance there, too, very softly instockinged feet, so nobody could hear--dances she and I made up togetherout of stories she used to tell me. The Shadow Dance and the StatueDance which you saw, came out of those stories, and there are more youdidn't see, which I do sometimes--a butterfly dance, the dance of thewheat, and two of the East, which were in stories she told me after weknew Cassim ben Halim. They are the dance of the smoke wreath, and thedance of the jewel-and-the-rose. I could dance quite well even in thosedays, because I loved doing it. It came as natural to dance as tobreathe, and Saidee had always encouraged me, so when I was left aloneit made me think of her, to dance the dances of her stories."
"What about your teachers? Did they never find you out?" asked Stephen.
"Yes. One of the young teachers did at last. Not in the attic, but whenI was dancing for the big girls in their dormitory, at night--they'dwake me up to get me to dance. But she wasn't much older than thebiggest of the big girls, so she laughed--I suppose I must have lookedquaint dancing in my nighty, with my long red hair. And though we wereall scolded afterwards, I was made to dance sometimes at theentertainments we gave when school broke up in the summer. I was theyoungest scholar, you see, and stayed through the vacations, so I was akind of pet for the teachers. They were of one family, aunts andnieces--Southern people, and of course good-natured. But all this isn'treally in the story I want to tell you. The interesting part's aboutSaidee. For months I got letters from her, written from Algiers. Atfirst they were like fairy tales, but by and by--quite soon--theystopped telling much about herself. It seemed as if Saidee were growingmore and more reserved, or else as if she were tired of writing to me,and bored by it--almost as if she could hardly think of anything to say.Then the letters stopped altogether. I wrote and wrote, but no answercame--no answer ever came."
"You've never heard from your sister since then?" The thing appearedincredible to Stephen.
"Never. Now you can guess what I've been growing up for, living for, allthese years. To find her."
"But surely," Stephen argued, "there must have been some way to----"
"Not any way that was in my power, till now. You see I was helpless. Ihad no money, and I was a child. I'm not very old yet, but I'm olderthan my years, because I had this thing to do. There I was, at afarmhouse school in the country, two miles out of Potterston--and youwould think Potterston itself not much better than the backwoods, I'msure. When I was fourteen, my stepmother died suddenly--leaving all themoney which came from my father to her husband, except several thousanddollars to finish my education and give me a start in life; but Mr.Potter lost everything of his own and of mine too, in some wildspeculation about which the people in that part of Indiana went mad. Thecrash came a year ago, and the Misses Jennings, who kept the school,asked me to stay on as an under teacher--they were sorry for me, and sokind. But even if nothing had happened, I should have left then, for Ifelt old enough to set about my real work. Oh, I see you think I mighthave got at my sister before, somehow, but I couldn't, indeed. I triedeverything. Not only did I write and write, but I begged the MissesJennings to help, and the minister of the church where we went onSundays. The Misses Jennings told the girls' parents and relationswhenever they came to visit, and they all promised, if they ever went toAlgiers, they would look for my sister's husband, Captain Cassim benHalim, of the Spahis. But they weren't the sort of people who ever do gosuch journeys. And the minister wrote to the American Consul in Algiersfor me, but the only answer was that Cassim ben Halim had disappeared.It seemed not even to be known that he had an American wife."
"Your stepmother ought to have gone herself," said Stephen.
"Oh--_ought_! I very seldom saw my stepmother after she married Mr.Potter. Though she lived so near, she never asked me to her house, andonly came to call at the school once or twice a year, for form's sake.But I ran away one evening and begged her to go and find Saidee. Shesaid it was nonsense; that if Saidee hadn't wanted to drop us, she wouldhave kept on writing, or else she was dead. But don't you think I shouldhave _known_ if Saidee were dead?"
"By instinct, you mean--telepathy, or something of that sort?"
"I don't know what I mean, but _I should have known_. I should have felther death, like a string snapping in my heart. Instead, I heard hercalling to me--I hear her always. She wants me. She needs me. I know it,and nothing could make me believe otherwise. So now you understand how,if anything were to be done, I had to do it myself. When I was quitelittle, I thought by the time I should be sixteen or seventeen, andallowed to leave school--or old enough to run away if necessary--I'dhave a little money of my own. But when my stepmother died I felt sure Ishould never, never get anything from Mr. Potter."
"But that old friend you spoke of, who wanted to upset the will?Couldn't he have done anything?" Stephen asked.
"If he had lived, everything might have been different; but he was avery old man, and he died of pneumonia soon after Saidee married Cassimben Halim. There was no one else to help. So from the time I wasfourteen, I knew that somehow I must make money. Without money I couldnever hope to get to Algiers and find Saidee. Even though she haddisappeared from there, it seemed to me that Algiers would be the placeto begin my search. Don't you think so?"
"Yes, Algiers is the place to begin," Stephen echoed. "There ought to bea way of tracking her. _Some one_ must know what became of a more orless important man such as your brother-in-law seems to have been. It'sincredible that he should have been able to vanish without leaving anytrace."
&nbs
p; "He must have left a trace, and though nobody else, so far, has foundit, I shall find it," said the girl. "I did what I could before. I askedeverybody to help; and when I got to New York last year, I used to go toCook's office, to inquire for people travelling to Algiers. Then, if Imet any, I would at once speak of my sister, and give them my address,to let me know if they should discover anything. They always seemedinterested, and said they would really do their best, but they must havefailed, or else they forgot. No news ever came back. It will bedifferent with me now, though. I shall find Saidee, and if she isn'thappy, I shall bring her away with me. If her husband is a bad man, andif the reason he left Algiers is because he lost his money, as Isometimes think, I may have to bribe him to let her go. But I have moneyenough for everything, I hope--unless he's very greedy, or there aredifficulties I can't foresee. In that case, I shall dance again, andmake more money, you know--that's all there is about it."
"One thing I do know, is that you are wonderful," said Stephen, hisconscience pricking him because of certain unjust thoughts concerningthis child which he had harboured since learning that she was a dancer."You're the most wonderful girl I ever saw or heard of."
She laughed happily. "Oh no, I'm not wonderful at all. It's funny youshould think so. Perhaps none of the girls you know have had a big workto do."
"I'm sure they never have," said Stephen, "and if they had, theywouldn't have done it."
"Yes, they would. Anybody would--that is, if they wanted to, _enough_.You can always do what you want to _enough_. I wanted to do this withall my heart and soul, so I knew I should find the way. I just followedmy instinct, when people told me I was unreasonable, and of course itled me right. Reason is only to depend on in scientific sorts of things,isn't it? The other is higher, because instinct is your _You_."
"Isn't that what people say who preach New Thought, or whatever theycall it?" asked Stephen. "A lot of women I know had rather a craze aboutthat two or three years ago. They went to lectures given by an Americanman they raved over--said he was 'too fascinating.' And they used their'science' to win at bridge. I don't know whether it worked or not."
"I never heard any one talk of New Thought," said Victoria. "I've justhad my own thoughts about everything. The attic at school was a lovelyplace to think thoughts in. Wonderful ones always came to me, if Icalled to them--thoughts all glittering--like angels. They seemed tobring me new ideas about things I'd been born knowing--beautiful things,which I feel somehow have been handed down to me--in my blood."
"Why, that's the way my friends used to talk about 'waking theirrace-consciousness.' But it only led to bridge, with them."
"Well, it's led me from Potterston here," said Victoria, "and it willlead me on to the end, wherever that may be, I'm sure. Perhaps it willlead me far, far off, into that mysterious golden silence, where indreams I often see Saidee watching for me: the strangest dream-place,and I've no idea where it is! But I shall find out, if she is reallythere."
"What supreme confidence you have in your star!" Stephen exclaimed,admiringly, and half enviously.
"Of course. Haven't you, in yours?"
"I have no star."
She turned her eyes to his, quickly, as if grieved. And in his eyes shesaw the shadow of hopelessness which was there to see, and could not behidden from a clear gaze.
"I'm sorry," she said simply. "I don't know how I could have livedwithout mine. I walk in its light, as if in a path. But yours must besomewhere in the sky, and you can find it if you want to very much."
He could have found two in her eyes just then, but such stars were notfor him. "Perhaps I don't deserve a star," he said.
"I'm sure you do. You are the kind that does," the girl comforted him."Do have a star!"
"It would only make me unhappy, because I mightn't be able to walk inits light, as you do."
"It would make you very happy, as mine does me. I'm always happy,because the light helps me to do things. It helped me to dance: ithelped me to succeed."
"Tell me about your dancing," said Stephen, vaguely anxious to changethe subject, and escape from thoughts of Margot, the only star of hisfuture. "I should like to hear how you began, if you don't mind."
"That's kind of you," replied Victoria, gratefully.
He laughed. "Kind!"
"Why, it's nothing of a story. Luckily, I'd always danced. So when I wasfourteen, and began to think I should never have any money of my ownafter all, I saw that dancing would be my best way of earning it, asthat was the one thing I could do very well. Afterwards I worked in realearnest--always up in the attic, where I used to study the Arabiclanguage too; study it very hard. And no one knew what I was doing orwhat was in my head, till last year when I told the oldest Miss Jenningsthat I couldn't be a teacher--that I must leave school and go to NewYork."
"What did she say?"
"She said I was crazy. So did they all. They got the minister to comeand argue with me, and he was dreadfully opposed to my wishes at first.But after we'd talked a while, he came round to my way."
"How did you persuade him to that point of view?" Stephen catechizedher, wondering always.
"I hardly know. I just told him how I felt about everything. Oh, and Idanced."
"By Jove! What effect had that on him?"
"He clapped his hands and said it was a good dance, quite different fromwhat he expected. He didn't think it would do any one harm to see. Andhe gave me a sort of lecture about how I ought to behave if I became adancer. It was easy to follow his advice, because none of the bad thingshe feared might happen to me ever did."
"Your star protected you?"
"Of course. There was a little trouble about money at first, because Ihadn't any, but I had a few things--a watch that had been my mother's,and her engagement ring (they were Saidee's, but she left them both forme when she went away), and a queer kind of brooch Cassim ben Halim gaveme one day, out of a lovely mother-o'-pearl box he brought full ofjewels for Saidee, when they were engaged. See, I have the brooch onnow--for I wouldn't _sell_ the things. I went to a shop in Potterstonand asked the man to lend me fifty dollars on them all, so he did. Itwas very good of him."
"You seem to consider everybody you meet kind and good," Stephen said.
"Yes, they almost always have been so to me. If you believe people aregoing to be good, it _makes_ them good, unless they're very bad indeed."
"Perhaps." Stephen would not for a great deal have tried to undermineher confidence in her fellow beings, and such was the power of thegirl's personality, that for the moment he was half inclined to feel shemight be right. Who could tell? Maybe he had not "believed" enough--inMargot. He looked with interest at the brooch of which Miss Ray spoke, acuriously wrought, flattened ring of dull gold, with a pin in the middlewhich pierced and fastened her chiffon veil on her breast. Round theedge, irregularly shaped pearls alternated with roughly cut emeralds,and there was a barbaric beauty in both workmanship and colour.
"What happened when you got to your journey's end?" he went on, fearingto go astray on that subject of the world's goodness, which was a sorepoint with him lately. "Did you know anybody in New York?"
"Nobody. But I asked the driver of a cab if he could take me to arespectable theatrical boarding-house, and he said he could, so I toldhim to drive me there. I engaged a wee back room at the top of thehouse, and paid a week in advance. The boarders weren't very successfulpeople, poor things, for it was a cheap boarding-house--it had to be,for me. But they all knew which were the best theatres and managers, andthey were interested when they heard I'd come to try and get a chance tobe a dancer. They were afraid it wasn't much use, but the same eveningthey changed their minds, and gave me lots of good advice."
"You danced for them?"
"Yes, in such a stuffy parlour, smelling of gas and dust and there wereholes in the carpet it was difficult not to step into. A dear old manwithout any hair, who was on what he called the 'Variety Stage,' advisedme to go and try to see Mr. Charles Norman, a fearfully importantperson--so imp
ortant that even I had heard of him, away out in Indiana.I did try, day after day, but he was too important to be got at. Iwouldn't be discouraged, though. I knew Mr. Norman must come to thetheatre sometimes, so I bought a photograph in order to recognize him;and one day when he passed me, going in, I screwed up my courage andspoke. I said I'd been waiting for days and days. At first he scowled,and I think meant to be cross, but when he'd given me one long,terrifying glare, he grumbled out: "Come along with me, then. I'll soonsee what you can do." I went in, and danced on an almost dark stage,with Mr. Norman and another man looking at me, in the empty theatrewhere all the chairs and boxes were covered up with sheets. They seemedrather pleased with my dancing, and Mr. Norman said he would give me achance. Then, if I 'caught on'--he meant if people liked me--I shouldhave a salary. But I told him I must have the salary at once, as mymoney would only last a few more days. I'd spent nearly all I had,getting to New York. Very well, said he, I should have thirty dollars aweek to begin with, and after that, we'd see what we'd see. Well, peopledid like my dances, and by and by Mr. Norman gave me what seemed then asplendid salary. So now you know everything that's happened; and pleasedon't think I'd have worried you by talking so much about myself, if youhadn't asked questions. I'm afraid I oughtn't to have done it, anyway."
Her tone changed, and became almost apologetic. She stirred uneasily inher deck chair, and looked about half dazedly, as people look about aroom that is new to them, on waking there for the first time. "Why, it'sgrown dark!" she exclaimed.
This fact surprised Stephen equally. "So it has," he said. "By Jove, Iwas so interested in you--in what you were telling--I hadn't noticed.I'd forgotten where we were."
"I'd forgotten, too," said Victoria. "I always do forget outside thingswhen I think about Saidee, and the golden dream-silence where I see her.All the people who were near us on deck have gone away. Did you see themgo?"
"No," said Stephen, "I didn't."
"How odd!" exclaimed the girl.
"Do you think so? You had taken me to the golden silence with you."
"Where can everybody be?" She spoke anxiously. "Is it late? Maybethey've gone to get ready for dinner."
From a small bag she wore at her belt, American tourist-fashion, shepulled out an old-fashioned gold watch of the kind that winds up with akey--her mother's, perhaps, on which she had borrowed money to reach NewYork. "Something must be wrong with my watch," she said. "It can't betwenty minutes past eight."
The same thing was wrong with Stephen's expensive repeater, whosesplendour he was ashamed to flaunt beside the modesty of the girl's poorlittle timepiece. There remained now no reasonable doubt that it wasindeed twenty minutes past eight, since by the mouths of two witnesses atruth can be established.
"How dreadful!" exclaimed Victoria, mortified. "I've kept you here allthis time, listening to me."
"Didn't I tell you I'd rather listen to you than anything else? Eatingwas certainly not excepted. I don't remember hearing the bugle."
"And I didn't hear it."
"I'd forgotten dinner. You had carried me so far away with you."
"And Saidee," added the girl. "Thank you for going with us."
"Thank you for taking me."
They both laughed, and as they laughed, people began streaming out ondeck. Dinner was over. The handsome Arab passed, talking with the spare,loose-limbed English parson, whom he had fascinated. They werediscussing affairs in Morocco, and as they passed Stephen and Victoria,the Arab did not appear to turn; yet Stephen knew that he was thinkingof them and not of what he was saying to the clergyman.
"What shall we do?" asked Victoria.
Stephen reflected for an instant. "Will you invite me to dine at yourtable?" he asked.
"Maybe they'll tell us it's too late now to have anything to eat. Idon't mind for myself, but for you----"
"We'll have a better dinner than the others have had," Stephenprophesied. "I guarantee it, if you invite me."
"Oh, do please come," she implored, like a child. "I couldn't face thewaiters alone. And you know, I feel as if you were a friend, now--thoughyou may laugh at that."
"It's the best compliment I ever had," said Stephen. "And--it gives mefaith in myself--which I need."
"And your star, which you're to find," the girl reminded him, as heunrolled her from her rug.
"I wish you'd lend me a little of the light from yours, to find mineby," he said half gaily, yet with a certain wistfulness which shedetected under the laugh.
"I will," she said quickly. "Not a little, but half."