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"On the whole, yes. Aren't you?"
"No," said Evelyn thoughtfully. "I believe I haven't really been content for a long time, but I didn't know it. The mind can be doped, but the effect wears off and you feel rather startled when you come to yourself."
Gore nodded.
"I know! Doesn't last, but it's disturbing. When I feel like that, I take a soothing drink."
Evelyn laughed, for his answer was characteristic. He understood, to some extent, but she did not expect him to sympathize with the restlessness that had seized her. Reggie would never do anything rash or unconventional. Hitherto she had approved his caution. She had enjoyed the comfortable security of her station, had shared her mother's ambitions, and looked upon marriage as a means of rising in the social scale. Her adventurous temperament had found some scope in exciting sports and in an occasional flirtation that she did not carry far; but she was now beginning to feel that life had strange and wonderful things to offer those who had the courage to seize them. She had never experienced passion – perhaps because her training had taught her to dread it; but her imagination was now awake.
Her visit to the Enchantress had perhaps had something to do with these disturbing feelings, but not, she argued, because she was sentimentally attracted by her rescuer. It was the mystery in which Grahame's plans were wrapped that was interesting. He was obviously the leader of the party and about to engage in some rash adventure on seas the buccaneers had sailed. This, of course, was nothing to her; but thinking of him led her to wonder whether she might not miss much by clinging too cautiously to what she knew was safe.
With a soft laugh she turned to Gore.
"Tell me about the dance they're getting up. I hear you are one of the stewards," she said.
It was a congenial topic, and as she listened to her companion's talk Evelyn felt that she was being drawn back to secure, familiar ground.
Cliffe, in the meanwhile, had come out in search of her and, seeing how she was engaged, had strolled into the hotel bar. A tall, big-boned man, dressed in blue serge with brass buttons on his jacket, was talking at large, and Cliffe, stopping to listen, thought the tales he told with dry Scottish humor were good.
"You are the engineer who mended the gaff of my daughter's boat," Cliffe said. "I must thank you for that; it was a first-rate job."
"It might have been worse," Macallister modestly replied. "Are ye a mechanic then?"
"No; but I know good work when I see it."
"I'm thinking that's a gift, though ye may not use it much. It's no' good work the world's looking for."
"True," agreed Cliffe; "perhaps we're too keen on what will pay."
"Ye mean what will pay the first user. An honest job is bound to pay somebody in the end."
"Well, I guess that's so. You're a philosopher."
Macallister grinned.
"I have been called worse names, and maybe with some cause. Consistency gets monotonous. It's better to be a bit of everything, as the humor takes ye."
"What kind of engines has your boat?" Cliffe asked. He was more at home when talking practical matters.
"As fine a set o' triples as I've clapped my eyes upon, though they have been shamefully neglectit."
"And what speed can you get out of her?"
"A matter o' coal," Macallister answered with a twinkle. "A seven-knot bat will suit our purse best."
Cliffe saw that further questions on this point would be injudicious, but the man interested him, and he noted the flag on his buttons.
"Well," he said, "the Enchantress must be a change from the liners you have sailed in."
"I find that. But there's aye some compensation. I have tools a man can work with, and oil that will keep her running smooth. Ye'll maybe ken there's a difference in engine stores."
"I've heard my manufacturing friends say something of the kind."
Cliffe ordered refreshment, and quietly studied his companion. The man had not the reserve he associated with the Scot, but a dash and a reckless humor, which are, nevertheless, essentially Scottish too. Cliffe wondered curiously what enterprise he and his companions were engaged upon, but he did not think Macallister would tell him. If the others were like this fellow, he imagined that they would carry out their plans, for he read resolution as well as daring in the Scot's character; besides, he had been favorably impressed by Grahame.
After some further talk, Macallister left, and Cliffe joined his wife and daughter.
The next morning, Evelyn, getting up before most of the other guests, went out on the balcony in front of her room and looked across the bay. The sun was not yet hot, and a fresh breeze flecked the blue water with feathery streaks of white, while the wet beach glistened dazzlingly. There was a refreshing, salty smell, and for a few minutes the girl enjoyed the grateful coolness; then she felt that something was missing from the scene, and noticed that the Enchantress had vanished. The adventurers had sailed in the night. On the whole she was conscious of relief. They had gone and she could now get rid of the restlessness that their presence had caused. After all, there was peril in the longing for change; it was wiser to be satisfied with the security and solid comfort which surrounded her.
Looking down at a footstep, she saw Gore strolling about the lawn, faultlessly dressed in light flannel, with a Panama hat. There was not a crease in his clothes that was out of place; the color scheme was excellent – even his necktie was exactly the right shade. He stood for all her mother had taught her to value: wealth, leisure, and cultivated taste. Reggie was a man of her own kind; she had nothing in common with the bronzed, tar-stained Grahame, whose hawk-like look had for the moment stirred her imagination.
"You look like the morning," Gore called up to her. "Won't you come down and walk to the beach? The sun and breeze are delightful, and we'll have them all to ourselves."
Evelyn noticed the hint of intimacy, but it did not jar upon her mood, and she smiled as she answered that she would join him.
A few minutes later, they walked along the hard, white sand, breathing the keen freshness of the spray.
"What made you get up so soon?" Evelyn asked.
"It's not hard to guess. I was waiting for my opportunity. You're in the habit of rising in good time."
"Well," she said with a bantering air, "I think waiting for opportunities is a habit of yours. Of course, you have some excuse for this."
Gore looked puzzled for a moment and then laughed.
"I see what you mean. As a rule, the opportunities come to me."
"Don't they? I wonder whether you're much happier than the men who have to make, or look for, them."
"I can't say, because I haven't tried that plan. I can't see why I should look for anything, when I don't have to. Anyway, I guess I'm a pretty cheerful person and easy to get on with. It's the strivers who're always getting after something out of reach that give you jars."
"You're certainly not a striver," Evelyn agreed. "However, you seem to have all a man could want."
"Not quite," he answered. "I'll confess that I'm not satisfied yet, but I try to make the most of the good things that come along – and I'm glad I got up early. It's a glorious morning!"
Evelyn understood. Reggie was not precipitate and feared a rebuff. She believed that she could have him when she liked, but he would look for some tactful sign of her approval before venturing too far. The trouble was that she did not know if she wanted him.
She changed the subject, and they paced the beach, engaged in good-humored banter, until the breakfast gong called them back to the hotel.
In the afternoon, however, Evelyn's mood changed again. The breeze died away and it was very hot. Everybody was languid, and she found her friends dull. Although Gore tried to be amusing, his conversation was unsatisfactory; and the girls about the hotel seemed more frivolous and shallow than usual. None of these people ever did anything really worth while! Evelyn did not know what she wished to do, but she felt that the life she led was unbearably stale.
When dark fell and the deep rumble of the surf filled the air, she sat with her father in a quiet corner of the garden.
"Didn't you say you might make a short business trip to the West Indies?" she asked him.
"Yes; I may have to spend a week in Havana."
"Then I wish you would take me."
"It might be arranged," said Cliffe. He seldom refused her anything. "Your mother wouldn't come, but she has plenty of engagements at home. Why do you want to go?"
Evelyn found this hard to answer, but she tried to formulate her thoughts.
"Cuba is, of course, a new country to me, and I suppose we all feel a mysterious attraction toward what is strange. Had you never a longing for something different, something out of the usual run?"
"I had when I was young."
"But you don't feel it now?"
"One learns to keep such fancies in their place when business demands it," Cliffe answered with a dry smile. "I can remember times when I wanted to go off camping in the Canadian Rockies and join a canoe trip on Labrador rivers. Now and then in the hot weather the traffic in the markets and the dusty offices make me tired. I'll confess that I've felt the snow-peaks and the rapids call."
"We went to Banff once," said Evelyn. "It was very nice."
"But not the real thing! You saw the high peaks from the hotel garden and the passes from an observation car. Then we made one or two excursions with pack-horses, guides, and people like ourselves, where it was quite safe to go. That was as much as your mother could stand for. She'd no sympathy with my hankering after the lone trail."
Evelyn could see his face in the moonlight, and she gave him a quick look. Her father, it seemed, had feelings she had never suspected in him.
"But if you like the mountains, couldn't you enjoy them now?"
"No," he said, rather grimly. "The grip of my business grows tighter all the time. It costs a good deal to live as we do, and I must keep to the beaten tracks that lead to places where money is made."
"I sometimes think we are too extravagant and perhaps more ostentatious than we need be," Evelyn said in a diffident tone.
"We do what our friends expect and your mother has been accustomed to. Then it's my pleasure to give my daughter every advantage I can and, when the time for her to leave us comes, to see she starts fair."
Evelyn was silent for a few moments, feeling touched. She had formed a new conception of her father, who, she had thought, loved the making of money for its own sake. Now it was rather startling to find that in order to give her mother and herself all they could desire, he had held one side of his nature in subjection and cheerfully borne a life of monotonous toil.
"I don't want to leave you," she said in a gentle voice.
He looked at her keenly, and she saw that her mother had been speaking to him about Gore.
"Well," he responded, "I want to keep you as long as possible, but when you want to go I must face my loss and make the best of it. In the meanwhile, we'll go to Cuba if your mother consents."
Evelyn put her hand affectionately on his arm.
"Whatever happens," she said softly, "you won't fail me. I'm often frivolous and selfish, but it's nice to know I have somebody I can trust."
CHAPTER VI
ON THE SPANISH MAIN
There had been wind, but it had fallen toward evening, and the Enchantress rolled in a flat calm when her engines stopped. As she swung with the smooth undulations, blocks clattered, booms groaned, and the water in her bilges swirled noisily to and fro. It was difficult to move about the slanted deck, and two dark-skinned, barefooted seamen were seated forward with their backs against the rail. A comrade below was watching the engine fires and, with the exception of her Spanish helmsman, this was all the paid crew the Enchantress carried.
She drifted east with the Gulf Stream. Around her there hung a muggy atmosphere pervaded with a curious, hothouse smell. Grahame stood in the channels, heaving the lead. He found deep water, but white patches on the northern horizon, where the expanse of sea was broken by spouts of foam, marked a chain of reefs and keys that rose a foot or two above the surface. A larger streak of white was fading into the haze astern, but Grahame had carefully taken its compass bearings, because dusk, which comes suddenly in the Bahama Channel, was not far away. He dropped the lead on deck, and joined Macallister, who stood in the engine-room doorway rubbing his hands with cotton waste.
"No sign o' that steamboat yet?" the Scot asked.
"It's hazy to the east," said Grahame. "We mightn't see her until she's close if they're not making much smoke. Still, she ought to have turned up last night."
"She'll come. A tornado wouldna' stop her skipper when he had freight to collect; but ye were wise in no' paying it in advance."
"You haven't seen the fellow."
"I've seen his employers," Macallister replied with a chuckle. "Weel I ken what sort o' man would suit them. Gang canny when ye meet him, and see ye get the goods before ye sign the bill o' lading."
"I mean to take precautions. No first-class firm would touch our business."
"Verra true. And when ye find men who're no' particular about one thing, ye cannot expect them to be fastidious about another. When I deal wi' yon kind, I keep my een open."
"Where's Walthew?"
Macallister grinned.
"Asleep below, wi' his hair full o' coal-dust, looking more like a nigger than the son o' a rich American. Human nature's a verra curious thing, but if he can stand another month, I'll hae hope o' him."
"I think the lad's right. He wants to run his life on his own lines, and he is willing to pay for testing them by experience."
Grahame, glancing forward, suddenly became intent, for in one spot a dingy smear thickened the haze. It slowly grew more distinct, and he gave a seaman a quick order before he turned to his companion.
"That must be the Miranda. You can start your mill as soon as we have launched the dinghy."
By the time the boat was in the water the steamer had crept out of the mist. She came on fast: a small, two-masted vessel, with a white wave beneath her full bows and a cloud of brown smoke trailing across the sea astern. She was light, floating high above the water, which washed up and down her wet side as she rolled. A few heads projected over the iron bulwark near the break of the forecastle, and two men in duck stood on the bridge. Studying them through the glasses, Grahame saw they had an unkempt appearance, and he was not prepossessed in favor of the one whom he took to be the captain.
He rang the telegraph, and when the engines stopped he jumped into the dinghy with Walthew and one of the seamen. Five minutes later, they ceased rowing close to the steamer's side, which towered high above them, red with rust along the water-line. The black paint was scarred and peeling higher up, the white deckhouses and boats had grown dingy, and there was about her a poverty-stricken look. The boat swung sharply up and down a few lengths away, for the sea broke about the descending rows of iron plates as the vessel rolled.
"Enchantress, ahoy!" shouted one of the men on her bridge. "This is the Miranda. S'pose you're ready for us?"
"We've been ready for you since last night," Grahame replied.
"Then you might have got your gig over. We can't dump the stuff into that cockleshell."
"You can't," Grahame agreed. "The gig's hardly big enough either, and I won't risk her alongside in the swell that's running."
"Then what do you expect me to do? Wait until it's smooth?"
"No," said Grahame; "we'll have wind soon. You'll have to take her in behind the reef, as your owners arranged. It's not far off and you'll find good anchorage in six fathoms."
"And lose a day! What do you think your few cases are worth to us?"
"The freight agreed upon," Grahame answered coolly. "You can't collect it until you hand our cargo over. I'll take you in behind the reef and bring you out in three or four hours. There'll be a good moon."
The skipper seemed to consult with the man beside him, and then waved his hand.
"All right! Go ahead with your steamer and show us the way."
"I'd better come on board," Grahame answered. "It's an awkward place to get into, but I know it well."
A colored seaman threw them down a rope ladder, and, pulling in cautiously, Grahame waited until the rolling hull steadied, when he jumped. Walthew followed, and in a few moments they stood on the Miranda's deck. Walthew had been wakened when the boat was launched, and he had not had much time to dress, but he wore a fairly clean duck jacket over his coaly shirt. His bare feet were thrust into greasy slippers, and smears of oil darkened the hollows round his eyes.
