“That’s better,” she said simply.
“Much!”
“Tell me,” she said, “if I hadn’t spoken to you, would you ever have spoken to me?”
“That’s what I came into the lounge for,” he answered. “Ever since lunch yesterday I’ve been wondering what on earth to do about it. I’m kind of shy, and these things don’t come natural to me. But I thought, if I went into the lounge, some kind of opportunity might occur. That’s what I was there for. But I was terribly relieved when you started it off.”
“You must think I’m very bold.”
“Good Lord, no! You had a little more courage than I did, that’s all.”
They talked then about Ireland, and she told him that she was going back to visit her mother for the summer. She was a cook, she said, and her employer, Mr. Converse, who was very nice, had given her three months off and paid her passage to Queenstown. She had been in Brooklyn for ten years. She was twenty-five. He asked her if she was married, and she said no.
“I am,” he said.
She felt again that pain in her breast.
“I thought you were,” she said, looking intently at him.
He wanted to know why she thought so, and they stood and leaned against the railing, with their shoulders touching and their faces very close. His eyes, she noticed, were even bluer than the sea. She couldn’t tell him why she thought so, exactly—it was just something about him.
“A woman can almost always tell when a man’s married,” she said. “But I’m glad you told me, all the same.”
“I believe in being honest, especially at a time like this.”
“How do you mean, at a time like this?”
He gave her a queer look—the corners of his mouth were twisting a little, as if he were under a strain, but there was a twinkle in his eyes.
“You know what I mean,” he said.
“No, honest, I don’t!”
“Well, you certainly ought to,” he said. He turned around and put his arms on the railing and stared down at the water. “I mean the way we feel about each other.”
She held her breath. He had said it so nicely and so quietly, and without even trying to hold her hand.
“How do you know we do!” she said, smiling.
He smiled back at her.
“All right—let’s see you look me in the eye and tell me that we don’t!”
She looked away from him, sobering.
“We oughtn’t to be talking like this,” she answered. “What about your wife? You know it isn’t right.”
“Of course it isn’t … Or is it?… I don’t know.”
“What does your religion tell you?” she said.
“I haven’t got any.”
“Well, I have. I’m a Catholic.”
“Do you go to confession?”
“Sure, I do.”
They were silent. She was half-sorry she had rebuked him, and half-glad. But he had to know how she felt, even if it hurt her to tell him. She didn’t want him to get any false ideas. After a minute, as he didn’t say anything, but just went on staring at the water, she turned and looked at him. He was resting his chin on his hands.
“Would you like to walk some more?” she asked, almost timidly.
They walked round and round the deck, while slowly the sunset behind them faded and the sky darkened. He said that he always thought the sea sounded louder at night, and she stopped to listen to it, to see if it was true. She said she couldn’t see any difference, or any reason why there should be any. They talked about Katy and Mr. Diehl. Miss Diehl, she said, was likely to die most any time—she had a very bad heart. But she insisted on doing everything just as if there wasn’t anything the matter with her. Everybody at the dance had been scared that she would just drop down on the floor all of a sudden. Her face had got very white.
“Let’s go down and find Katy,” she suggested.
They went down the ladder to the lower deck and found them sitting in the sun parlor, holding hands.
“Is that what you’re doing!” said Margaret.
Mr. Diehl gave his deep rumble of a laugh. “I’ve got a pretty nice little girl,” he said, patting Katy’s shoulder.
Margaret and Mr. Camp sat down at the other side of the veranda. He pulled his chair up close to hers and she dropped her hand on her knee, where he couldn’t help seeing it. He put his own on top of it after a moment, and they just sat still without saying anything for a long while. He stroked her thumb with one of his fingers, to and fro, and the smooth hollow between the thumb and forefinger, and she felt as if she were being hypnotized. Once in a while he would slip his finger up her sleeve and touch the inner side of her wrist. And once in a while, as if accidentally, he would stroke her knee. She knew he wouldn’t try to kiss her.
“My stateroom is next door to yours,” he said, after a time. “If you should want me for anything in the night, don’t hesitate to come in.”
There was a pause.
“I don’t think there’s anything I’d want,” she answered. “Unless one of us was to be sick, or something like that.”
“Well, if there’s anything at all,” he said.
She tried to withdraw her hand, but he held on to it. She gave up struggling and allowed it to remain in his. She felt unhappy again.
“I always try to think the best of people,” she said. “I’m sure you didn’t mean anything wrong by that.”
He didn’t reply, but instead, after a pause, put his other hand on her forearm and gave it a squeeze.
“You’re awfully nice, Margaret,” he said. “If I were free, I’d like to marry you.”
She shut her eyes, and didn’t know whether to believe him or not.
VII.
After dinner she had a good cry in her bunk, while Katy sat and talked to her, and from time to time wet the washcloth to put on her eyes. The ship was making a terrible noise, blowing off steam, which was a good thing, as it prevented the neighbors from hearing her. Two of the bedroom stewards were hanging round in the corridor outside. Now and then she could hear them laughing. Katy sat on the camp-chair and argued with her.
“You just put him out of your mind,” she said.
“But I can’t. You think it’s easy, Katy, but it isn’t.”
“I told you how it would be from the beginning, Peg, and you wouldn’t listen to me. He doesn’t care anything for you—don’t kid yourself. He isn’t our kind at all. You know how it is with that kind of man. He may soft-soap you, but really he looks down on us, and if he met us anywhere at home he wouldn’t even speak to us.”
Margaret moved her head from side to side on the pillow—back and forth, back and forth.
“No,” she said, “he isn’t like that. He’s in love with me. He doesn’t despise me because I’m a cook.”
“Don’t kid yourself. He might think so right now, when there’s nobody else for him to fool with, but that’s all there is to it. What’s the use getting all upset about it, anyway, with him a married man!”
Margaret blew her nose and sat up.
“It’s awful hot in here,” she said.
“I tell you what, you need a little excitement to take your mind off this business. Let’s get a glass of stout and then go down and have a bit of a dance with Pat and the girls.”
Margaret was helpless, apathetic. She didn’t care one way or the other, and she was too tired to resist. She bathed her eyes in the wash-basin, rubbed her cheeks with the towel, and tidied up her hair. Maybe Katy was right—maybe he really didn’t care for her at all. He shouldn’t have said that about her coming to his stateroom; though, of course, men’s views were so different about those things.