The Complete Works of Stephen Crane (5 page)

SWEEPING out from between two remote, halfsubmerged dunes on which stood slender sentry lighthouses, the steamer began to roll with a gentle insinuating motion. Passengers in their staterooms saw at rhythmical intervals the spray racing fleetly past the portholes. The waves grappled hurriedly at the sides of the great flying steamer and boiled discomfited astern in a turmoil of green and white. From the tops of the enormous funnels streamed level masses of smoke which were immediately torn to nothing by the headlong wind. Meanwhile as the steamer rushed into the northeast, men in caps and ulsters comfortably paraded the decks and stewards arranged deck chairs for the reception of various women who were coming from their cabins with rugs.

In the smoking room, old voyagers were settling down comfortably while new voyagers were regarding them with a diffident respect. Among the passengers Coleman found a number of people whom he knew, including a wholesale wine merchant, a Chicago railway magnate and a New York millionaire. They lived practically in the smoking room. Necessity drove them from time to time to the salon, or to their berths. Once indeed the millionaire was absent from the group while penning a short note to his wife.

When the Irish coast was sighted Coleman came on deck to look at it. A tall young woman immediately halted in her walk until he had stepped up to her. “Well, of all ungallant men, Rufus Coleman, you are the star,” she cried laughing and held out her hand.

“Awfully sorry, I’m sure,” he murmured. “Been playing poker in the smoking room all voyage. Didn’t have a look at the passenger list until just now. Why didn’t you send me word?” These lies were told so modestly and sincerely that when the girl flashed her brilliant eyes full upon their author there was a mixture of admiration in the indignation.

“Send you a card? I don’t believe you can read, Rufus, else you would have known I was to sail on this steamer. If I hadn’t been ill until to-day you would have seen me in the salon. I open at the Folly Theatre next week. Dear ol’ Lunnon, y’ know.”

“Of course, I knew you were going,” said Coleman. “But I thought you were to go later. What do you open in?”

“Fly by Night. Come walk along with me. See those two old ladies? They’ve been watching for me like hawks ever since we left New York. They expected me to flirt with every man on board. But I’ve fooled them. I’ve been just as g-o-o-d. I had to be.” As the pair moved toward the stern, enormous and radiant green waves were crashing futilely after the steamer. Ireland showed a dreary coast line to the north. A wretched man who had crossed the Atlantic eighty-four times was declaiming to a group of novices. A venerable banker, bundled in rugs, was asleep in his deck chair.

“Well, Nora,” said Coleman, “I hope you make a hit in London. You deserve it if anybody does. You’ve worked hard.”

“Worked hard,” cried the girl. “I should think so. Eight years ago I was in the rear row. Now I have the centre of the stage whenever I want it. I made Chalmers cut out that great scene in the second act between the queen and Rodolfo. The idea! Did he think I would stand that? And just because he was in love with Clara Trotwood, too.”

Coleman was dreamy. “Remember when I was dramatic man for the
Gazette
and wrote the first notice?”

“Indeed, I do,” answered the girl affectionately. “Indeed, I do, Rufus. Ah, that was a great lift. I believe that was the first thing that had an effect on old Oliver. Before that, he never would believe that I was any good. Give me your arm, Rufus. Let’s parade before the two old women.” Coleman glanced at her keenly. Her voice had trembled slightly. Her eyes were lustrous as if she were about to weep.

“Good heavens,” he said. “You are the same old Nora Black. I thought you would be proud and ‘aughty by this time.”

“Not to my friends,” she murmured. “Not to my friends. I’m always the same and I never forget, Rufus.”

“Never forget what?” asked Coleman.

“If anybody does me a favour I never forget it as long as I live,” she answered fervently.

“Oh, you mustn’t be so sentimental, Nora. You remember that play you bought from little Ben Whipple just because he had once sent you some flowers in the old days when you were poor and happened to be sick. A sense of gratitude cost you over eight thousand dollars that time, didn’t it?” Coleman laughed heartily.

“Oh, it wasn’t the flowers at all,” she interrupted seriously. “Of course Ben was always a nice boy, but then his play was worth a thousand dollars. That’s all I gave him. I lost some more in trying to make it go. But it was too good. That was what was the matter. It was altogether too good for the public. I felt awfully sorry for poor little Ben.”

“Too good?” sneered Coleman. “Too good? Too indifferently bad, you mean. My dear girl, you mustn’t imagine that you know a good play. You don’t, at all.”

She paused abruptly and faced him. This regal creature was looking at him so sternly that Coleman felt awed for a moment as if he were in the presence of a great mind. “Do you mean to say that I’m not an artist?” she asked.

Coleman remained cool. “I’ve never been decorated for informing people of their own affairs,” he observed, “but I should say that you were about as much of an artist as I am.”

Frowning slightly, she reflected upon this reply. Then, of a sudden, she laughed. “There is no use in being angry with you, Rufus. You always were a hopeless scamp. But,” she added, childishly wistful, “have you ever seen Fly by Night? Don’t you think my dance in the second act is artistic?”

“No,” said Coleman, “I haven’t seen Fly by Night yet, but of course I know that you are the most beautiful dancer on the stage. Everybody knows that.” It seemed that her hand tightened on his arm. Her face was radiant. “There,” she exclaimed. “Now you are forgiven. You are a nice boy, Rufus — sometimes.”

When Miss Black went to her cabin, Coleman strolled into the smoking room. Every man there covertly or openly surveyed him. He dropped lazily into a chair at a table where the wine merchant, the Chicago railway king and the New York millionaire were playing cards. They made a noble pretense of not being aware of him. On the oilcloth top of the table the cards were snapped down, turn by turn.

Finally the wine merchant, without lifting his head to address a particular person, said: “New conquest.” -

Hailing a steward Coleman asked for a brandy and soda.

The millionaire said: “He’s a sly cuss, anyhow.” The railway man grinned. After an elaborate silence the wine merchant asked: “Know Miss Black long, Rufus?” Coleman looked scornfully at his friends. “What’s wrong with you there, fellows, anyhow?” The Chicago man answered airily. “Oh, nothin’. Nothin’, whatever.”

At dinner in the crowded salon, Coleman was aware that more than one passenger glanced first at Nora Black and then at him, as if connecting them in some train of thought, moved to it by the narrow horizon of shipboard and by a sense of the mystery that surrounds the lives of the beauties of the stage. Near the captain’s right hand sat the glowing and splendid Nora, exhibiting under the gaze of the persistent eyes of many meanings, a practiced and profound composure that to the populace was terrfying dignity.

Strolling toward the smoking room after dinner, Coleman met the New York millionaire, who seemed agitated. He took Coleman fraternally by the arm. “Say, old man, introduce me, won’t you? I’m crazy to know her.”

“Do you mean Miss Black?” asked Coleman.

“Why, I don’t know that I have a right. Of course, you know, she hasn’t been meeting anybody aboard. I’ll ask her, though — certainly.”

“Thanks, old man, thanks. I’d be tickled to death. Come along and have a drink. When will you ask her?”

“Why, I don’t know when I’ll see her. To-morrow, I suppose—”

They had not been long in the smoking room, however, when the deck steward came with a card to Coleman. Upon it was written: “Come for a stroll?” Everybody saw Coleman read this card and then look up and whisper to the deck steward. The deck steward bent his head and whispered discreetly in reply. There was an abrupt pause in the hum of conversation. The interest was acute.

Coleman leaned carelessly back in his chair, puffing at his cigar. He mingled calmly in a discussion of the comparative merits of certain trans-Atlantic lines. After a time he threw away his cigar and arose. Men nodded. “Didn’t I tell you?” His studiously languid exit was made dramatic by the eagle-eyed attention of the smoking room.

On deck, he found Nora pacing to and fro. “You didn’t hurry yourself,” she said, as he joined her. The lights of Queenstown were twinkling. A warm wind, wet with the moisture of rain-stricken sod, was coming from the land.

“Why,” said Coleman, “we’ve got all these duffers very much excited.”

“Well, what do you care?” asked the girl. “You don’t care, do you?”

“No, I don’t care. Only it’s rather absurd to be watched all the time.” He said this precisely as if he abhorred being watched in this case. “Oh, by the way,” he added. Then he paused for a moment. “Aw — a friend of mine — not a bad fellow — he asked me for an introduction. Of course, I told him I’d ask you.”

She made a contemptuous gesture. “Oh, another Willie. Tell him no. Tell him to go home to his family. Tell him to run away.”

“He isn’t a bad fellow. He—” said Coleman diffidently, “he would probably be at the theatre every night in a box.”

“Yes, and get drunk and throw a wine bottle on the stage instead of a bouquet. No,” she declared positively, “I won’t see him.”

Coleman did not seem to be oppressed by this ultimatum. “Oh, all right. I promised him — that was all.”

“Besides, are you in a great hurry to get rid of me?”

“Rid of you? Nonsense.”

They walked in the shadows. “How long are you going to be in London, Rufus?” asked Nora softly.

“Who? I? Oh, I’m going right off to Greece. First train. There’s going to be a war, you know.”

“A war? Why, who is going to fight? The Greeks and the — the — the what?”

“The Turks. I’m going right over there.”

“Why, that’s dreadful, Rufus,” said the girl, mournful and shocked. “You might get hurt or something.” Presently she asked: “And aren’t you going to be in London any time at all?”

“Oh,” he answered, puffing out his lips, “I may stop in London for three or four days on my way home. I’m not sure of it.”

“And when will that be?”

“Oh, I can’t tell. It may be in three or four months, or it may be a year from now. When the war stops.” There was a long silence as they walked up and down the swaying deck.

“Do you know,” said Nora at last, “I like you, Rufus Coleman. I don’t know any good reason for it, either, unless it is because you are such a brute. Now, when I was asking you if you were to be in London, you were perfectly detestable. You knew I was anxious.”