The helmsman, a short beefy man with cheeks that looked as if they had been peppered with birdshot, said, "Very tranquil sea now, Mr. Philips. We've made up a good twenty miles already.'
Rudyard nodded without speaking. But then he thought that his silence might be interpreted as aloofness, so he turned, and said, "Yes. Very good. We might take the Blue Riband yet."
"Oo, wouldn't talk of it, sir," said the helmsman, sucking in his breath admonishingly. "Sir Peregrine won't have talk of the Blue Riband on the bridge. Says he don't hold with Blue Ribands. Just to get there at premium speed, with premium safety, that's what he says."
Rudyard was tempted to remind the helmsman of the numerous occasions on which vessels commanded by Sir Peregrine had arrived in port with sizeable dents in them, and half of their superstructure missing. But the commodore's sudden stroke appeared to have stirred among the officers and crew a nostalgic feeling of loyalty for the old man, and all his sins seemed to have been mysteriously absolved. Perhaps the days of Sir Peregrine would be remembered as a Golden Age, after all.
The door opened again, and Willis the Wireless came in with a telegraph message. "It's for you, Mr. Philips, personal and confidential."
"Where's it from?"
Willis looked uncomfortable. "Well, from Liverpool, sir."
Rudyard opened the message and read it. For the sake of transmission through the open airwaves, it had been written in very plain and unemotional words. But Rudyard could easily guess what pain and uncertainty had gone into it, and when he had read it once he had to lower his hand and take a deep breath to steady himself.
It said, "Parting incident forgotten. Laurence has now left. Hoping you will return. But can you consider job on land. Absences too difficult. Please reply soon. Mrs. Philips."
"Did you want to send a reply, sir?" asked Willis in a quiet and diplomatic voice.
Rudyard raised the message again and quickly scanned it. Then he said, "Let me think about it. You'll still be on duty for an hour or so?"
"You're sure, sir?"
"Yes, Mr. Willis. I'm sure."
"Very good, sir."
After Willis had gone, Rudyard slowly crumpled the message up in his hand and thrust it into his uniform pocket. So, quite unexpectedly, Toy had decided she wanted him back. But at what a time, and under what conditions! "Can you consider job on land?" she had asked, at the very moment when command of the Arcadia was within his grasp. "Can you consider job on land?" when he was standing on the bridge of the world's fastest and largest liner—over a sixth of a mile of harmonious machinery and power. A floating city of more than a thousand people of which he was the despotic leader.
"Hoping you will return", she had written, too—only twenty minutes after he left the rumpled bed of Louise Narron, and had almost managed to reconcile himself to the idea that he would seek a divorce from Toy and marry the opera singer as soon as possible. As he had dressed, he had even imagined himself at grand premieres at the Metropolitan and La Scala, proudly squiring the star herself, with flash guns popping and champagne cascading, and flowers showering down on them from every balcony and box.
And now this quiet restrained message from Toy. "Parting incident forgotten." She meant forgiven, but obviously hadn't wanted to say anything in a wireless message which made him look as if he had done something that needed forgiveness. "Can you consider job on land?"
He looked across at the helmsman but the helmsman was concentrating on his compass. The Arcadia was dead on course, thrusting through the summer night in one long surge of accurate horsepower. Her running lights shone like stars caught in the branches of a moving forest. Her funnels exhaled dark breath. She was magical and luxurious and she was almost his, if only he could convince himself that he loved her more than Toy.
How could he phrase his reply? "Land job impossible sorry"? No, there was no need for him to apologise. He was soon to command one of the greatest ships on earth. Better to say something proud, and stern like "I am married to the North Atlantic. Goodbye." Yes, that was it. He picked up his intercom, and said, "Mr. Willis, I want to send a telegraph. Yes, now."
FORTY-EIGHT
Sir Peregrine suddenly said, "Maude, where did you leave my pipe?"
He opened his eyes. He looked up at Dr. Fields and frowned.
"Maude?" he asked.
"It's Dr. Fields, Sir Peregrine. There's nobody called Mavis here."
"Ah," said Sir Peregrine. His jaw slackened slightly. "I could have sworn I was talking to Mavis." Then, with another frown, "Are you sure Maude isn't here?"
"Only me, sir, at the moment, and Nurse Queensland."
"Nurse... ?"
"Queensland, sir. You must remember Nurse Queensland?"
"Ah," breathed Sir Peregrine. "Yes..."
"You've been very ill, I'm afraid," said Dr Fields. He took out his clinical thermometer and shook the mercury down with two or three flicks of his wrist. "You were very lucky it wasn't fatal."
"Fatal? But I've just been to tea with... the Borages, was it? Where have I just been?"
"You haven't been anywhere, Sir Peregrine. You've been lying here in your bed unconscious."
"I could have sworn..." said Sir Peregrine. "I could have sworn that I was talking to that fellow Borage. He said something about Black Prince strawberries. He was trying to bring some on early, under glass. Didn't you hear him? He was only... just over there... somewhere..."
Doctor Field sat down on the edge of Sir Peregrine's bed. "You've had a stroke," he said soberly. "A burst blood vessel in the brain. You were very fortunate that it didn't kill you at once."
Gently he took the commodore's wrist, and peered down at his pocket watch. "Your pulse is well over a hundred," he said. "You're going to have to take things very easy from now on." He leaned forward and tucked the thermometer under Sir Peregrine's tongue. "Don't bite it. It's the only one I've got.'
Sir Peregrine frowned around him in bewilderment as Dr. Fields waited for the mercury to rise. As soon as the thermometer was taken a of his mouth, he said, "I can't understand why Maude isn't here."
"Perhaps she went out," said Dr. Fields, as kindly as he could. Sir Peregrine was rolling his eyes from side to side, and he was obviously distressed.
"Out?" asked Sir Peregrine. "But where? Why should she have gone out?"
"I don't expect she's gone for long," Dr. Fields told him. "Just to powder her nose, perhaps. Or to get some fresh air."
"But I was sure that..."
"Yes? You were sure that what?"
"I don't know," said Sir Peregrine. His face folded up like Rudyard's message. "I'm not sure what I was sure of. I'm not at all sure."
Dr. Fields stroked the back of the old man's hand. It was veined, weatherbeaten, speckled with liver spots. On the wedding-ring finger was a ring engraved with the crest of the Keys Shipping Line. Dr. Fields said, "Who's Maude?"
"Maude?" retorted Sir Peregrine, staring at him. "You don't know your own sister? Well, that's nonsense, Borage. Tripe. That's what it is. Tripe. Now, where has she hidden herself? Playing games, is she? I've been looking for her all afternoon. You can't possibly say that she's..."
The old man suddenly let his head drop back, so that he was staring at the ceiling of the sitting room above him. Curved panels of mahogany, beaded and polished. A modern reproduction of Nelson's quarters on the Victory. He tried to focus, but then he gave up, and lay back with his eyes watering and his face grey with desperation. "I don't understand," he said, as if he were pleading with someone. "I don't understand this at all. You said she was going to be here. I wrote. Look, my letter's still there, by the clock. She must have seen it. Surely she read it. Surely she read it. I don't understand why she's—"