A Modern Tragedy (49 page)

“Where is the ship which leaves this afternoon for South America?”

“Over there, miss,” replied the man, pointing, and adding details as to the ship's name and line.

Rosamond looked in the direction indicated, and saw a huge white ship, towering above the stage-side like some public building, topped by a pair of squat but enormous funnels of pale gold. Her sides gleamed in the late afternoon sunshine, and she bore about her bows and stern several brightly coloured flags and pennants, which Rosamond was not sea-wise enough to decipher, but admired for their decorative effect.

“Seeing someone off, miss?” pursued the man. “You'll need a permit to go on board.”

In answer to Rosamond's interrogative look he explained where this might be procured. She thanked him cordially, and flew back to the car. The Taskers' chauffeur was evidently, thought Rosamond, well accustomed to alarms and excursions in his master's service, for he had kept the engine running, and sat alertly at the wheel. Soon Rosamond was entering the offices of the steamship company concerned, determined to interview the president of the line himself if a permit was not otherwise to be obtained. There proved to be no necessity, however, for anything so drastic; within five minutes she held the permit in her hand; in ten, the car
stood at the top of a tubular grey bridge, which sloped downwards towards the dock where the liner was lying.

“Wait here,” commanded Rosamond, stepping down.

“Wait?” repeated the man with an air of surprise.

It was too clear that he was expecting her to depart to South America with his master, and Rosamond repeated her order drily. “Mr. Tasker will probably return to Yorkshire with us,” she added.

The chauffeur cocked an incredulous eyebrow, but obediently parked the car at the opposite side of the road, and lighted a cigarette. Rosamond flew down the bridge, crossed the dock, and hurried up the gangway; the exhilaration of triumph throbbing in her veins. She was aware that she had some seven minutes, according to the time marked on her permit, in which to persuade a man over whom she had no influence to abandon freedom and give himself up to the rigours of the law; she did not underestimate the difficulties of the enterprise, but nerved herself to it with passionate confidence—she felt sure she would not fail. The quartermaster at the head of the gangway, in answer to her hurried question, directed her sensibly round the far side of the deck, where the crowd of passengers was not so great. “How helpful people are!” thought Rosamond, running; she climbed over the huge threshold, approached the lighted office marked
Enquiries,
and said firmly:

“I wish to speak to Mr. Leonard Tasker, please.”

There was a pause, while a neat spectacled uniformed youth examined a passenger-list covering several large pages, with care; he then replied:

“We have no one of that name on board, madam.”

For a moment the disappointment was so overwhelming that Rosamond could not speak, but stood, white and mute, clutching the polished counter and gazing imploringly into the youth's eyes. “Yes, yes! I'm sure you have!” she gasped
at length. “He is travelling by this boat. His passage would be booked very late, perhaps. He's a tall, dark, heavy man,” she went on faintly, “with very blue eyes.”

The uniformed clerk shrugged his shoulders and gave a deprecating smile. “I'm afraid that's not very much help, madam,” he said politely. “We have two hundred passengers in the first class alone, this trip; about seven hundred altogether.”

“I
must
see him,” murmured Rosamond. “I
must.”
Suddenly it flashed across her mind that a man in Tasker's circumstances would not travel under his own name. “Of course! What a fool I am,” she thought, “not to have realised that before.” She gathered her scattered wits, stepped back a little from the counter, and said aloud in her usual firm collected tone: “I'll look about and see if I can find him myself. That is permitted, I suppose?”

“Oh, certainly, madam,” said the spectacled youth, not quite concealing his pleasure at being rid of her. “We welcome visitors in all the public rooms.” He called up another uniformed young man of agreeable appearance, and instructed him to show the lady over the ship.

In his company Rosamond visited the lounge, the dining-room, the nursery, the gymnasium, the swimming-bath, the American bar. With every step they took her spirit sank. The only ships Rosamond had hitherto boarded were Channel packet boats and those lively steamers which convey holiday crowds to and from the Isle of Man, and she had unconsciously modelled her expectations upon those. The size, the complexity, the luxury, of a transatlantic liner were quite out of her experience, and though she was not intimidated by the ship's pretensions, she felt despairingly that here was a huge organism, of which she was not a part, to which indeed she was fundamentally alien, which yet she must penetrate because it concealed in its heart something she
must find. As they marched along the innumerable warm, brilliantly lighted corridors, climbed the innumerable warm, brilliantly lighted stairs, entered the vast, warm, brilliantly lighted rooms, all thronged with passengers and visitors, chattering vivaciously, she felt increasingly the hopefulness of her quest. And gradually the appointments of the ship began to affect her nerves. Everything was so glossy, rich, exotic, opulent, thought Rosamond; there were so many shaded electric lights radiating rich beams, so many velvet hangings, “marble” pillars, glowing carpets, tapestry settees; so many painted scrolls and decorative iron grilles, so many brilliant curtains, exciting cushions, rainbow chairs. The huge dining-room was decorated with trails of smilax and vast vases of carnations; every inch of staircase was covered in rubber of gaudy hues; the walls, panelled in light oak, were spotless, shining; the tiles of the bar glittered invitingly. The passengers resembled their ship; they looked opulent, glossy, handsome and excited. Pearls, curls, eyebrows, lipstick, half-veils, small hats at fashionable angles, exquisite white gloves, signet rings and monocles on black ribbon, abounded; a delicious scent floated in the warm dry air; page boys bearing basketfuls of valedictory telegrams and sheaves of valedictory flowers made their way politely through the dense throng. Soft Spanish voices, mingled with Oxford drawls, outlining delightful plans, in Rosamond's ear; liquid dark eyes flowed with amorous glances; in the vast lounge, decorated to resemble the chief room of a hacienda, an orchestra seductively urged her to laugh love and live. And suddenly she felt a strong desire to do so; a yearning to throw up school, her mother, Walter, the West Riding (that place of smoke and duty), and sail away to tropical lands on this glittering vessel of pleasure, ardently possessed her. The very words of the polite young man escorting her, so different from the
blunt good-humour of the north, were tempting, because they offered something new, something strange, something different from her ordinary Yorkshire life. “Escape complex,” said Rosamond to herself firmly:
“Anglice,
cowardice.” But the colour and the glitter continued to excite her, the throbbing music of the orchestra—which with pre-determined impartiality played English and Spanish tunes alternately, and was now engaged upon a sensuous tango—acted as an aphrodisiac upon her nerves. Suddenly a deep-toned bell clanged out in a long persistent clamour—“oh, I can't leave yet!” cried Rosamond despairingly, recalled to her errand by the summons. She turned to her guide, and asked him where the men passengers usually congregated on the voyage.

“In the bar, miss,” replied the man with a grin.

“But that was empty, when we passed just now,” urged Rosamond feverishly. “Some other place?”

“There's the second-class smoking-room, miss,” suggested the man. “That's very popular with all the gentlemen.”

“Have I seen that already? No? Then take me there,” cried Rosamond, “quickly.”

The man, who genuinely pitied her obvious distress and had his own views about her relationship with the man who caused it, escorted her rapidly to a room arranged as an old English cottage; it had a log-fire (simulated by flickering electricity), stone-mullioned windows (of simulated stone) with imitation quarries, and a good deal of black oak furniture and bright cretonne about. The general effect was, strangely enough in view of the artificiality of the means employed to produce it, hearty and cosy, and the room was already crowded with people laughing and talking, and thick with smoke. A terrific and prolonged blast from the ship's siren now made Rosamond start and exclaim again, and she gazed in anguished enquiry at her guide.

“Don't worry, miss,” he said consolingly. “There'll be two more of those before you need go ashore. Three bells, three blasts; that's only the first one.”

“Thank you,” said Rosamond, peering about. Her heart was beating so fast that she could hardly see, but she made an effort to collect herself, and examined each section of the room in turn. In one of the farther corners of the room five men sat convivially round a table; they were drinking beer and laughing heartily, very masculine, completely at home.

One of them was Tasker.

Rosamond dismissed her guide with a substantial tip, then pushing her way through the crowd, approached Tasker, and touched his arm. He turned quickly, half rising; then as he saw her, the lines of his face relaxed—“he looks almost pleased,” thought Rosamond, sardonically surprised.

“What are you doing here? Is your brother here?” demanded Tasker eagerly.

“No—I have a message for you,” said Rosamond, copying his discretion and omitting names.

Tasker turned to his companions, who were watching the pair with natural curiosity, and gave them a careless nod and a word of farewell. “You'd better come to my cabin,” he said gruffly to Rosamond. “Too much noise here.” He led the way; the second bell beat upon their ears as they entered the small neat room. There was a white basket chair, a glittering washstand, two berths covered with bright counterpanes in artificial silk, and a chest of drawers with stiff white handles; a suitcase lay on one bed; the portholes were open, but revealed only a view of the brown planks and beams of the side of the quay; the room was very hot.

“Well?” said Tasker. “What's the message? I wish Walter had come himself.”

“Walter's in prison,” Rosamond told him bluntly. “He was arrested this morning.”

“I was afraid he would be,” said Tasker with a sigh. “Well? What's the message?”

“There isn't a message,” said Rosamond, angered by his calm reception of Walter's tragedy. “I thought you would wish to know of Walter's arrest, so as to return at once.”

Tasker laughed. “Oh, did you?” he said sardonically. “You've got plenty of nerve, haven't you?”

“I'm not afraid of you, if that's what you mean,” said Rosamond with a steady look. (At the same moment she admitted to herself that she was afraid of him, and the reflection made her smile in sardonic amusement, and hold her head deliberately high.)

But Tasker was not listening to her; his face had clouded. “How did you know I was on this boat?” he demanded.

“Your chauffeur—never mind,” said Rosamond impatiently.

“The police don't know, if that's what you're anxious about. Mr. Tasker, you
must
return to Yorkshire at once. You can't leave Walter to bear the brunt of everything—you know he wouldn't have embarked on any of those illegal schemes without you. Oh, I know Walter's been weak and foolish and perhaps selfish,” she pursued with passionate earnestness, “but he wouldn't be in this position if you hadn't led him there. The main responsibility is yours. And he can never disentangle it all alone. Only you can make out the best case for the company's actions. You can't leave Walter to bear it all alone.”

“There's Henry Clay Crosland,” jeered Tasker, jingling his keys.

“Mr. Crosland's dead—he shot himself this morning,” Rosamond told him with intentionally brutal frankness.

“I don't give a damn for
him,”
said Tasker cheerfully.

“But you would care if Walter shot himself?” said Rosamond quickly, seizing on the implication. “Wouldn't you?”

“Yes, I should,” said Tasker. “But,” he added with contempt, “he won't. He's not that sort.” He jingled his keys again and looked at Rosamond sardonically. “Why didn't you put the police on me, instead of rushing off here yourself like this?” he said. “I shall just change my plans now, that's all, before you've had time to tell them. The police would have taken me back all right, but
you
can't. Just like a woman, to come rushing off like that.”

This speech stung Rosamond. It seemed to her peculiarly bitter that the man who might have profited most by her womanhood, and who was least regardful of it, should so remind her of it, misinterpreting her motive so scornfully, now.

“You don't understand,” she said with anger. “I want you to come back of your own free will.”

“To make it look better? Nothing can make this case look better, my dear Rosamond,” said Tasker, smiling at her with a look of naughty glee in his blue eyes. “It can't look worse than it is.”

His unexpected use of her name, though intended contemptuously, set every nerve in Rosamond's body tingling. They were very near to each other in the small cabin, and suddenly Rosamond felt weak as water, overwhelmed by his male presence. Her knees trembled, the blood rushed to her brow, she felt that she would give anything in the world to be able to sink into his arms, feel his hands about her, his body against hers, his lips on her cheek. Above their heads, the warning bell clanged out again in violent summons; “that's the third bell,” thought Rosamond, almost fainting, and a fearful and terrible desire possessed her—terrible in its strength, fearful in its sweetness—to give up her attempt at argument and try persuasion of another kind, to become exactly what Tasker's chauffeur thought her, do exactly what he expected her to do; go with Tasker now to South America, and never
come back again. She had a clear vision of the shifts and discomforts and basenesses it would involve—the shabby and rather disreputable hotels, the ambiguous society, the furtive schemes, the lies to avoid paying bills—and knew she would not care a snap of the fingers for shabby hotels and perpetual financial straits, if only she could have her man. What she did care for, however, decided Rosamond proudly, summoning all her clear beliefs, her staunch Northern will, the heritage of generations of puritan ancestors, to her aid, what she did care for were honesty, decency, integrity, compassion, the brotherhood of man.
“I have not crept to you for self's mean ends, Base use, foul warmth, like fleas in a dog's coat,”
thought Rosamond—ah! she wanted to be able to say that of her life when she came to die—she could not desert her mother and Walter, could not rob an ailing woman of her husband, could not run off and enjoy herself on the proceeds of other people's loss—“Not to mention, my dear,” she reminded herself firmly, lest she should admire herself more than she deserved, “that he doesn't in the least want you.” And aloud she cried in a proud clear voice: