CHAPTER XII

MARTIA'S SECRET

Martia had a terrible secret; a secret known only to her mother and herself; a secret only half-guessed by Behrens.

In the war, whilst she had been driving an ambulance, the disaster had occurred which still overshadowed her life.

There are disasters that finish themselves and everything round them, like a bursting shell, in a moment of time, and there are disasters that, having done their work, go on living like horrible reptiles, ruining the lives of their victims, ay, and of their victims' children and grandchildren.

The Hares, before the war, had been very well-to-do, drawing some six thousand a year from a business in Birmingham that seemed solid as the town-hall itself. It tottered under the new condition of things, fell, and went to smithereens, leaving Richard Hare dead amidst the ruins with a pistol bullet in his heart; leaving also his wife, Martia, and his youngest daughter, Violet, almost unprovided for.

Mrs. Hare had a hundred and fifty pounds a year of her own, Violet obtained the post of companion to a woman of means, and Martia joined with Miss Beaman as working partner in the agency. The money she made was just sufficient to maintain herself whilst helping her mother, and in making it she had nearly ruined her health. For several years she had not taken a proper holiday. And on top of everything was the fact of Isaac Behrens' death.

It was old Jacob Behrens who had forced her hand, made her see that work without health was impossible, promised to keep an eye on her mother should any accident happen to the expedition, and by pure will power made her accept a hundred pounds for an outfit and expenses, to be repaid--some day.

"Should the affair be successful, there will be much money in it," said Jacob. "It is a business affair pure and simple. Leaving everything else aside, I wish you to go as a person who has a knowledge of business, and common-sense. I trust Mr. Lestrange completely, but he is younger than his years and has not seen much of the world. I have great faith, too, in a woman's intuition. I owed much of my early success to my wife Sarah. She, with her clear sight, often saved me from rogues and from my own stupidity. So, you see, you will be killing all sorts of birds with the one stone; getting back your health, establishing the business, helping to look after old Jacob's affairs and helping him to make money, of which you shall have your share. Also, Isaac would have wished it. Also, I believe you will bring luck."

He came on the evening of her departure to see her off by the six-thirty train from Waterloo, buying her a first-class ticket and entrusting her with the ship's money, some eight hundred pounds, to hand to Bobby.

Then, as the train glided out of the station and she sat in the corner of the comfortable first-class carriage she had to herself, a sense of relief and release came to her such as she had never before experienced.

Gone were the cares of the office and the weariness and worries of life; Fleet Street and White Lion Court, journeys in omnibuses to save shillings, and all the petty and mean details that make up the life of the poor--not the poor of the slums, but the poor of the middle-classes, who have to keep up an appearance on insufficient means.

She was free, free as a bird. To-morrow she would not awake to breakfast in a hurry and catch the train from Hampstead to the City, there to spend the day wrestling with other people's affairs, returning at night wearied out or going to a theatre she would be too tired to enjoy.

All that was over, for the present at least. Life had turned over for her an entirely fresh page, all the more charming because it was unwritten upon.

Martia had no illusions about Jacob Behrens. She knew him to be a good man; but she knew that he was also a trader, whose business followed him everywhere, and whose business it was to make money. She knew that he was really in earnest in urging her to take up this affair for the benefit of her health, knowing as he did that what she wanted was not only change of air but excitement and an absolutely new environment. But she also knew that his keenness in this matter had been whetted by his estimate of Bobby as a person excellent in every way but as a business man.

So this new blank page that life had turned over for her had the additional attraction that the writing on it would be partly hers in the success or failure of the expedition which it would record.

The express drew into Poole Station at eight minutes past nine, and the first person she saw on the lamp-lit platform was Bobby.

He helped her to get her small luggage from the carriage and her trunk from the van, then, followed by a porter wheeling the lot, they started on foot for the inn.

"Is everything all right?" she asked.

"Everything. The crew's on board; stores, water, and everything. We swung her to-day to test the compass, and we are due out at sunrise. I've got a room for you at the inn for to-night, and they'll wake you up in time to-morrow morning, so that you can settle down and get your gear stowed before we start. Hackett is coming along as skipper."

"Oh!"

"He's the best man we could possibly have, and he's coming just for the fun of the thing."

"Are you sure he is responsible?"

"Quite."

Here was a relief. Evidently she had no objection to Sam, whatever she may have known of him before this.

As he led the way into the coffee-room of the _Anchor_, they met Hackett, who was just coming out. He had shaved off his beard, and looked like the old Sam again. Bobby introduced him to the girl, and watched as they shook hands.

Yes, without any manner of doubt these two had met before. He could tell by their manner, by their faces, by the way they shook hands. Yet not one word did they say in confirmation of the evident fact. Then, after a few commonplace remarks about the weather and the time of starting in the morning, Sam went off to the boat, where, having seen the girl comfortably settled at the inn, Bobby followed him, found him on deck, and, unable to restrain his curiosity, asked him the question right out.

"Sam," said Bobby, "have you met that girl before?"

"Yes," replied Sam. "And, if it's all the same to you, I'd rather not talk about it."

"I don't want to talk about it or pry into your affairs. It's only just this: when you asked me her other name, I told you the nickname she was known by as a child. I did so because--well, it doesn't matter. But I've only just thought that if there has been any unpleasantness between you and her, I was maybe wrong, and----"

"There has been no unpleasantness," cut in the other. "And if it's all the same to you, we'll say no more on the subject."

"All right," said Bobby. "We'll leave it at that."

He went below and turned in, and lay awake for an hour revolving in his mind the problem of it all. What in the name of common-sense could have happened between these two to make them--having known each other--meet like strangers? Sam had evidently done nothing wrong, or Martia would have refused to sail with him. And Martia _couldn't_ have done anything wrong. Had they cared for one another in the past and quarrelled? No, their manner did not point to that, and Martia, when he told her that Sam was coming along with them, had shown little surprise and no sign of hesitation.