“Nor do I intend to,” he replied. “That is the other point concerning which I wish to speak to you. You may think it very extraordinary, and I offer no explanation, but I do not wish it known to — say, Mr. Crawshay, or any other casual enquirer, that I have any acquaintance with or interest in Phillips.”
“The subject is dismissed,” she promised lightly. “I am not in the least an inquisitive person. I understand perfectly, and my lips are sealed.”
His little smile of thanks momentarily transformed his expression. Her eyes became softer as they met his.
“Now please walk with me for a little time,” she begged, “and let us leave off talking of these grizzly subjects. You’ve really taken very little notice of me so far, and I have been rather looking forward to the voyage. You have traveled so much that I am quite sure you could be a most interesting companion if you wished to be.”
He obeyed at once, falling easily into step with her, and talking lightly enough about the voyage, their fellow passengers, and other trifling subjects. Her occasional attempts to lead the conversation into more serious channels, even to the subject of his travels, he avoided, however, with a curious persistency. Once she stopped short and forced him to look at her.
“Mr. Jocelyn Thew,” she complained, “tell me why you persist in treating me like a child?”
Then for the first time his tone became graver.
“I want to treat you and think of you,” he said, “in the only way that is possible for me.”
“Explain, please,” she begged.
He led her again to the side of the ship. The sea had freshened, and the spray flew past them like salt diamonds.
“Since it has pleased you to refer to the subject, Miss Beverley,” he said seriously, “I will explain so far as I am able. I suppose that I have committed nearly every one of the crimes which our abbreviated dictionary of modern life enumerates. If the truth were known about me, and I were judged by certain prevailing laws, not only my reputation but my life might be in serious danger. But there is one crime which I have not committed and which I do not intend to commit, one pain which I have avoided all my life myself, and avoided inflicting upon others. I think you must know what I refer to.”
“I can assure you that I do not,” she told him frankly. “In any case I hate ambiguity. Do please tell me exactly what you mean.”
“I was referring to my attitude towards your sex,” he replied.
There was a faint twinkle in her eyes.
“That sounds so ponderous,” she murmured. “Don’t you like us, then?”
“There are circumstances in my life,” he said, “which prevent my even considering the subject.”
She turned and looked him full in the eyes. Her very sweet mouth was suddenly pathetic, her eyes were full of gentle resentment.
“I do not believe,” she said firmly, “that you have done a single thing in life of which you ought to be ashamed. I do not believe one of the hard things you have said about yourself. I am not a child. I am a woman — twenty-six years old — and I like to choose my own friends. I should like you to be my friend, Mr. Thew.”
He murmured a few words entirely conventional. Nothing in his expression responded in the least to the appeal of her words. His face had grown like granite. He turned to the purser, who was strolling by. As though unconsciously, the finer qualities of his voice had gone as he engaged the latter in some trivial conversation.
.
CHAPTER VIII
That night at dinner time a stranger appeared at the captain’s table. A dark, thick-browed man, in morning clothes of professional cut, was shown by one of the saloon stewards to a seat which had hitherto been vacant. Crawshay, whose place was nearly opposite, leaned across at once with an air of interest.
“Good evening, Doctor,” he said.
“Good evening, sir,” was the somewhat gruff reply.
“Glad to see that you are able to come in and join us,” Crawshay continued, unabashed. “You are, I believe, the physician in attendance on Mr. Phillips. I am very interested in illnesses. As a matter of fact, I am a great invalid myself.”
The doctor contented himself with a muttered monosyllable which was not brimful of sympathy.
“This is a very remarkable expedition of yours,” Crawshay went on. “I am a man of very little sentiment myself — one place to me is very much like another — so I do not understand this wild desire on the part of an invalid to risk his life by undertaking such a journey. It is a great feat, however. It shows what can be accomplished by a man of determination, even when he is on the point of death.” “Who said that my patient was on the point of death?” the doctor demanded brusquely.
“It is common report,” Crawshay assured him. “Besides, as you know, the New York press got hold of the story before you started, and the facts were in all the evening papers.”
“What facts?”
“Didn’t you read them? Most interesting!” Crawshay continued. “They all took the same line, and agreed that it was an absolutely unprecedented occurrence for a man to embark upon an ocean voyage only a few days after an operation for appendicitis, with double pneumonia behind, and angina pectoris intervening. Almost as unusual,” Crawshay concluded with a little bow, “as the fact of his being escorted by the most distinguished amateur nurse in the world, and a physician of such distinction as Doctor — Doctor — Dear me, how extraordinary! For the moment I must confess that your name has escaped me.”
The heavy-browed man leaned forward a little deliberately towards his vis-à-vis. His was not an attractive personality. His features were large and of bulldog type. His forehead was low, and his eyes, which gave one the impression of being clear and penetrating, were concealed by heavy spectacles. His hands only, which were well-shaped and cared for, might have indicated his profession.
“My name,” he said, “is Gant — Doctor James H. Gant. You are not, I presume, a medical man yourself?”
Crawshay shook his head.
“A most admirable profession,” he declared, “but one which I should never have the nerve to follow.”
“You do not, therefore, appreciate the fact,” Doctor Gant continued, “that a medical man, especially one connected with a hospital of such high standing as St. Agnes’s, does not discuss his patient’s ailments with strangers.”
“No offence, Doctor — no offence,” Crawshay protested across the table. “Mine is just the natural interest in a fellow sufferer of a man who has known most of the ailments to which we weak humans are subject.”
“I suppose, as we have the pleasure of your company this evening,” the captain intervened, “Miss Beverley will be an absentee?”
“Miss Beverley at the present moment is taking my place,” the doctor replied. “She insisted upon it. Personally, I am used to eating at all times and in all manner of places.”
There was a brief silence, during which Crawshay discussed the subject of inoculation for colds in the head with his neighbour on the other side, and the doctor showed a very formidable capacity for making up for any meals which he might have missed by too rigid an attention to his patient. The captain presently addressed him again.
“Have you met our ship’s doctor yet?” he enquired.
“I have had that honour,” Doctor Gant acknowledged. “He was good enough to call upon me yesterday and offer his assistance should I require it.”
“A very clever fellow, I believe,” the captain observed.
“He impressed me some,” the other confessed. “If any further complications should arise, it will be a relief for me to consult him.”
The subject of the sick man dropped. Crawshay walked out of the saloon with the captain and left him at the bottom of the stairs.