CHAPTER XV
Flint was a powerful man, or had been. The surprise of the attack over, hejumped to his feet, and blazing with murderous fury rushed Dennison. Janesaw a tangle of arms, and out of this tangle came a picture that wouldalways remain vivid--Flint practically dangling at the end of Dennison'sright arm. The rogue tore and heaved and kicked and struck, but futilely,because his reach was shorter. Dennison let go unexpectedly.
"Listen to me, you filthy beachcomber! If you ever dare speak to MissNorman again or come within ten feet of her I'll kill you with bare hands!There are no guns on board this yacht--bare hands. Now go back to yourmaster and say that I'd like to do the same to him."
Flint, his hands touching his throat with inquiring solicitude--Flint eyedDennison with that mixture of pain and astonishment that marks the face ofa man who has been grossly deceived. Slowly he revolved on his shakinglegs and staggered forward, shortly to disappear round the deck house.
"Oh, Denny, you've done a foolish thing! You've shamed that man before meand put murder in his heart. It isn't as if we were running the yacht. Weare prisoners of that man and his fellows. It would have been enough foryou to have stepped in between."
"I haven't any parlour varnish left, Jane. His shoulder was almosttouching yours. It was an intentional insult, and that was enough for me.The dog! Still looking at the business romantically?"
His tone was bitter. Her reproach, no doubt justified, cut deeply.
"No, I'm beginning to become a little afraid--afraid that the men may getout of hand. I don't care what you and your father think, but I believeCunningham honestly wishes us to reach the Catwick without any conflict."
"Ah, Cunningham!"
"There you go again--angry and bitter! Why can't you take it sensibly,like your father?"
"My father doesn't happen to be----"
He stopped with mystifying abruptness.
"Doesn't happen to be what?"
"The sort of fool I am!"
"You're not so good a comrade as you were."
"Can't you understand? I've been stood upon my head. The worry about youon one side and the contact with my father on the other would besufficient. But Cunningham and this pirate crew as a tail to the kite!But, thank God, I had the wit to come in search of you!"
"I thank God every minute, Denny! You are very strong," she added, shyly.
"Glad of that, too. But I repeat, I've lost the parlour varnish and theart of parlour talk. For seven years I've been wandering in strangeplaces, most of them hard; so I say what I think and act on the spur. Thatdog had liquor on his breath. Is Cunningham secretly letting them into thedry-stores?"
"The man may have brought it aboard at Shanghai. What a horrible thing agreat war is! In a week it knocks aside all the bars of restraint it tookyears to erect. Could a venture like this have happened in 1913? I doubtit. There comes your father. But who is the man with him? He's beenhurt."
"Father's watchdog. They had to beat him up to get his gun away from him.That was the racket we heard. Evidently Father expects you to read to him,so I'll take a constitutional."
"Why, where's your uniform?" she cried.
"Laid it aside. From now on it will be stuffy. Those military boots werekilling me. I borrowed the rig from one of the pirates, but I'll have togo barefoot."
"Will you come to your chair soon? I shall worry otherwise. You might runinto that man again."
"I shan't go below," he promised, starting off.
Twenty thousand at compound interest for seven years, he thought, as hemade the first turn. A tidy sum to start life with. Could he swallow hispride? And yet what hope was there of making a real living? He had neverspecialized in anything, and the world was calling for specialists anddiscarding the others. Another point to consider: Foot-loose for sevenyears, could he stand the shackles of office work, routine, the samenessday in and day out? He was returning to the States without the least ideawhat he wanted to do; that was the disturbing phase of it. If only he werekeen for something! A typical son of the rich man. The only point in hisfavour was that he had not spent his allowances up and down Broadway. No,he would never touch a dollar of that money. That was final.
What lay back of this sudden desire to make good in the world? Love! Therewasn't the slightest use in lying to himself. He wanted Jane Norman withall the blood in his body, with all the marrow in his bones; and he hadnothing to offer her but empty hands.
He shot a glance toward the bridge. And because he had no right tospeak--obligated to silence by two reasons--that easy-speaking scoundrelmight trap her fancy. It could not be denied that he was handsome, but hewas nevertheless a rogue. The two reasons why he must not speak werepotent. In the first place, he had nothing to offer; in the second place,the terror she was no doubt hiding bravely would serve only to confuseher--that is, she might confuse a natural desire for protection withsomething deeper and tenderer, and then discover her mistake when it wastoo late.
What was she going to ask of his father when the time came for reparation?That puzzled him.
He made the rounds steadily for an hour, and during this time Janefrequently looked over the top of the manuscript she was reading aloud. Atlength she laid the manuscript upon her knees.
"Mr. Cleigh, what is it that makes art treasures so priceless?"
"Generally the depth of the buyer's purse. That is what they say of me inthe great auction rooms."
"But you don't buy them just because you are rich enough to outbidsomebody else?"
"No, I am actually fond of all the treasures I possess. Aside from this,it is the most fascinating game there is. The original! A painting thatHolbein laid his own brushes on, mixed his own paint for! I have thensomething of the man, tangible, visible; something of his beautifuldreams, his poverty, his success. There before me is the authentic labourof his hand, which was guided by the genius of his brain--before machineryspoiled mankind. Oh, yes, machinery has made me rich! It has given theproletariat the privilege of wearing yellow diamonds and riding about inflivvers. That must be admitted. But to have lived in those days whenambition thought only in beauty! To have been the boon companions of menlike Da Vinci, Cellini, Michelangelo! Then there are the adventures ofthis concrete dream of the artist. I can trace it back to the bare studioin which it was conceived, follow its journeys, its abiding places, downto the hour it comes to me."
Jane stared at him astonishedly. All that had been crampedly hidden in hissoul flowed into his face, warming and mellowing it, even beautifying it.Cleigh went on:
"Where will it go when I have done my little span? What new adventures liein store for it? Across the Ponte Vecchio in Florence runs a gallery ofportraits: at the south end of this gallery there is or was a corner givenover to a copyist. He strikes you dumb with the cleverness of his work,but he has only an eye and a hand--he hasn't a soul. A copy is to theoriginal what a dummy is to a live man, no matter how amazingly well donethe copy is. The original, the dream; nothing else satisfies the truecollector."
"I didn't know," said Jane, "that you had so much romance in you."
"Romance?" It was almost a bark.
"Why, certainly. No human being could love beauty the way you do and notbe romantic."
"Romantic!" Cleigh leaned back in his chair. "That's a new point of viewfor Tungsten Cleigh. That's what my enemies call me--the hardest metal onearth. Romantic!" He chuckled. "To hear a woman call me romantic!"
"It does not follow that to be romantic one must be sentimental. Romanceis something heroic, imaginative, big; it isn't a young man and a girlspooning on a park bench. I myself am romantic, but nobody could possiblycall me sentimental."
"No?"
"Why, if I knew that we'd come through this without anybody getting hurtI'd be gloriously happy. All my life I've been cooped up. For a littlewhile to be free! But I don't like that."
She indicated Dodge, who sat in Dennison's chair, his head bandaged, hisarm in a sling, thousands of miles from his native plains, at odds withhis envi
ronment. His lean brown jaws were set and the pupils of his blueeyes were mere pin points. During the discussion of art, during thereading, he had not stirred.
"You mean," said Cleigh, gravely, "that Dodge may be only the beginning?"
"Yes. Your--Captain Dennison had an encounter with the man Flint beforeyou came up. He is very strong and--and a bit intolerant."
"Ah!" Cleigh rubbed his jaw and smiled ruminatively. "He was always ratherhandy with his fists. Did he kill the ruffian?"
"No, held him at arm's length and threatened to kill him. I'm afraid Flintwill not accept the situation with good grace."
"Flint? I never liked that rogue's face."
"He has found liquor somewhere, and I saw murder in his eyes. Denny isn'tafraid, and that's why I am--afraid he'll run amuck uselessly. His verystrength will react against him."
"I was like that thirty years ago." So she called him Denny? Cleigh laidhis hand over hers. "Keep your chin up. There's a revolver handy should weneed it. I dare not carry it for fear Cunningham might discover andconfiscate it. Six bullets."
"And if worse comes to worse, will--will you save one for me? Please don'tlet Denny do it! You are old, and if you lived after it wouldn't be inyour thoughts so long as it would be in his--if he killed me. Will youpromise?"
"Yes--if worse comes to worse. Will you forgive me?"
"I do. But still I'm going to hold you to your word."
"I'll pay the score, whatever it is. Now suppose you come below with meand take a look at the paintings? You haven't seen my cabin yet."
What was this unusual young woman going to ask of him? He wondered. Themore he thought over it the more convinced he was that she had assisted inthe abduction.