CHAPTER II

MAN OVERBOARD

I find upon refreshing my memory that the tragedy really had its beginning on the yacht _Mary Rose_, although no one was aware of it at the time. But the diabolical forces that created it were present and at work then, and to give you a proper understanding of its elements, I must proceed chronologically, from the time the _Mary Rose_ made its graceful exit out of the New York harbor.

After settling down in my snug cabin, I discovered the need of some masculine conversation. That session with the photographers and Mrs. Breese had provided all the feminine chatter I could stand. My steward proved a forbidding Jap with a perpetual scowl who gave me no encouragement. I discovered later he understood practically no English. Somewhere in her wanderings, Mrs. Breese had collected him, as she told me, for his scowl. So, somewhat disconsolate, I made my way to the music-room, and there I saw stretched out at his ease upon a silken couch the young man who had fought so valiantly for Mrs. Breese’s good name.

I have already indicated that industry is not my forte, but Guy Thomas at ease was a picture that made even me squirm. Every line of his body bespoke self-pampering that would be unseemly in a spoiled child. His hands hung listlessly. His eyes were somnolent. He was smoking a cigarette, but even this effort seemed too much for him, for he dropped it weakly in the tray and shifted slightly for additional comfort. Finally he felt me looking at him and rose slowly. There was a challenge in the vacuous eyes now. He had not yet quite ascertained my status in the ménage. And for that matter I was but vaguely acquainted with his.

“Don’t let me disturb you,” I pleaded. “I was just wondering if I could rustle up a drink.”

“Ring the bell,” he drawled, indicating a tiny button set near the couch. I obeyed. He slumped back into his old position on the couch, and the Japanese steward with whom I had held preliminary negotiations appeared.

“Cocktails!” Mr. Thomas commanded, and the scowling servitor nodded and disappeared.

Mr. Thomas suppressed a yawn. Somehow the idea occurred to him that it would be discourteous to sit there in slothful silence. So with obvious reluctance he sat up, and lit another cigarette. I consulted my pipe.

“Where are the others?” I asked after a while.

“Oh, here and there,” he drawled. “Dora--Mrs. Breese--generally rests before luncheon. The Countess is up on deck, reading. I don’t know where Henry happens to be. He and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms.”

This was the first I had heard of it, and I suppose my expression indicated as much.

“Oh yes,” he nodded, as if in answer to my unspoken query. “He’s a nice boy, but he just doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand my friendship with his mother. Now you’re a man of the world--you’d have no trouble understanding. But a boy like that has curious ideas.” He flicked a cigarette. “It’s damn annoying!” His face clouded. “It spoils things, you know.”

I said nothing, and he continued as if he had finally found a confidant: “I wanted everything to be pleasant, damn it. We can have a jolly fine time on this boat. I’ve been on it before, but naturally you don’t feel very comfortable if the son of your hostess is always looking at you as if you don’t belong.”

The steward appeared with the cocktails, and refreshment further loosened the tongue of the aggrieved young man.

“You and I ought to be pals,” he offered graciously. “I mean to say, we’re in the same position. What I mean is, we’re going along because Mrs. Breese wants us to, damn it! She likes our company and that’s all there is to it. But you’ll find out before you’re on here very long that that young boy is going to make all kinds of remarks. Lounge lizard! He had the nerve to call me that one time. And he’ll be calling you that, too.”

I pointed out in embarrassed self-defense that I had come along in a professional capacity. But Mr. Thomas merely smiled.

“Of course, of course,” he gestured in dismissal of the excuse. “But Mrs. Breese took you along because she liked you. She really doesn’t want a thing, I assure you. Finest woman I ever met. She doesn’t expect anything. Why, one night in Paris, I remember I was dog-tired and she wanted to dance and I said ‘I’m dog-tired,’ and what do you think she did? She said ‘In that case, we’ll stay home.’ Hang it all, there’s a woman for you.”

I cite Mr. Thomas at vacuous length to give you some idea of his mentality and his attitude. There was no question in my mind that the problem of marriage between Mrs. Breese and himself had not come up. Their relationship was still undetermined.

After the cocktails had been consumed, Gordon Rice joined us. He seemed more florid than ever in checked grey and plus fours. He had evidently been up on deck and his face was wind-blown. He greeted the sight of glasses with an expansive chuckle and I pressed the bell for reinforcements.

“Great weather!” Mr. Rice rubbed his cold hands. “I tell you, there’s nothing like an ocean trip to set you right. I’ve been feeling foggy for the last three months, and one hour on deck has sure made a difference.” He sat down heavily. He turned to me. “Well, what are you writing up? Got any big news?”

I laughed and said I didn’t expect any more big news. Incidentally, I had determined (to salve my conscience) that part of my job would be to suppress such news as Mrs. Breese thought fit for public consumption. If I could do nothing else, I could at least prevent her from making a fool of herself.

“You’ll like Havana in the spring,” Mr. Rice assured me. “It’s past the season and all that, but it’s delightful. I was there all through the summer once. ’Ninety-eight. Our little fracas with Spain. Funny, nobody remembers that war. I guess they’ll be forgetting the last one before you know it.”

“And they should,” said the actor. “Hang it all, who wants to remember the war?”

Mr. Rice looked at the young man with some distaste. I had noted before that he did not quite approve of Mrs. Breese’s gigolo. I could sense now a healthy active man’s dislike of an idler.

Perhaps the actor felt the antagonism, too, for he protested: “I was in the war myself.”

Rice raised his eyebrows half skeptically.

“Not exactly in the war. Spent almost a year drilling in camp. And a fine time I had of it! One of those pests of a second-lieutenant, you know. He and I never got along.” Thomas smirked. “Not after I took his girl away from him. Then he tried to make life really miserable. Why, he wouldn’t even let me wear the uniform my tailor made. Insisted I put on those terrible togs the quartermaster issued.”

I tried to steer Mr. Thomas away from his woes, but with scant success.

“I could have killed that wretch!” he muttered with the first sign of conviction I had heard in his voice since his torture on the witness stand. “I would have, too, if it weren’t for the armistice.”

“You’d never have the go to kill anyone,” Rice laughed in his bluff way. “Too much work.” His antagonism now was quite frank. But Thomas only smiled feebly, and said: “I don’t know about that. I think a man can stand just so much and no more, and then he’s just not responsible for himself, damn it.”

Rice looked at him as he would at a particularly unpleasant insect. He took no pains to hide his feelings.

“Having been an officer myself,” he said, “my sympathy is all for the lieutenant. Probably thought he could make a soldier of you if he tried hard enough.”

The conversation was getting embarrassing for me. Suddenly I heard Thomas exclaim as if he had been startled. I looked up. In the doorway stood young Henry Breese. I caught only a fleeting glimpse of the boy’s face, but there was vindictive hatred in the flash of his eyes. Then he darted out of my sight.

“Now what did he want to do that for?” Thomas whined. Rice continued to look at him. I didn’t know what to say. Fortunately at this moment Mrs. Breese sailed into the room, and in relief even Thomas rose to his feet with some alacrity.

“Someone give me a cocktail!” she demanded gaily, and Rice was the first to reach the shaker, and with quiet ceremony fill and give her a glass of what seemed to me a perfect Martini. “Everybody having a good time? I do want everybody to have a good time.” She never waited for an answer. “I’ve ordered luncheon for one. This sea-air should give you all an appetite. I know I feel perfectly marvellous.” I doubt if she had even been on deck.

Thomas said he still had some unpacking to do and excused himself. She smiled sweetly at him, and as he left the room her faded blue eyes seemed to follow him appraisingly.

“I think he’s perfectly sweet,” she murmured, and I could hear Rice grunt in disapproval. Mrs. Breese frowned.

“Gordon, I don’t know what you see in Guy that you don’t like, but for my sake you might try to understand him. You know you don’t understand him or you’d like him.”

“Nothing to understand,” muttered Rice. There was a moment’s silence. Rice seemed to feel uncomfortable. He said finally that he, too, had some unpacking to superintend, clearly a lame excuse, and left us.

Mrs. Breese sighed.

“I don’t know what to do. Gordon is a dear, but he just won’t understand there are men who can do something else beside worry about business all day long.” She took a Russian cigarette from her vanity case and I lit it for her. “It makes it so embarrassing!”

She turned suddenly to me.

“What would you say if I were to tell you that Guy and I were engaged to be married?”

I thought the woman had no further shocks in store for me and I was stunned. She seemed to enjoy my open-mouthed amazement.

“I know I do things in my own strange way. But I’ve been thinking deeply about this, I assure you. And I’ve just about made up my mind. I want you to wireless all the newspapers and tell them that just as soon as we reach Havana, Guy Thomas and I will be married. The decree is final. I’m free to marry if I want to. And Guy has always been free.”

I breathed deeply. I shared some of Rice’s feelings towards the actor.

“But are you sure it’s wise?” Then I added hastily, “Of course, I don’t mean your marriage. I don’t presume to discuss that. But you know an announcement like that would only confirm your husband’s charges. It would only confirm the gossip.”

“I can’t help that!” Mrs. Breese shook her head obstinately. “It’s my husband’s own fault. I assure you I never looked at Guy as anything but a nice young man until the trial. But now I’ve discovered I love him, and nothing the world can say or do will part us.”

Mrs. Breese was huskily melodramatic, as if the entire universe at that moment were in conspiracy to deprive her of her true love. “Of course, you’ll have to word it very discreetly. You can quote me as saying that through common suffering at the trial, we were thrown together. We discovered that our friendship had ripened into something deeper, more significant.”

I nodded miserably.

“I want the world to understand that for twenty-six years I have tried to do my duty as a wife to a man I did not love. I married Henry Breese because my family insisted on it. I made my sacrifice.” She looked annoyed at me. “But you’re not taking a note!”

“I’ll remember every word,” I assured her. She seemed doubtful.

“It was through no act of mine that I was freed from my dreadful burden.... I do wish you’d take notes.... Very well ... our union was wrecked despite all my efforts to preserve it for the sake of our children. Mr. Breese wanted to make me an outcast. But there is still some justice in this world, and I was exonerated. I was made free. And in my struggles I discovered that Guy Thomas and I were meant for one another. I still have my life to live, now that I have done my duty to my husband and my children. I intend to capture some happiness for myself.... I don’t see how you’re going to remember all this.... _Very_ well.... Of course, ours will be a companionate marriage.... That is distinctly understood.... There shall be no primitive possession.... Ours will be a union of faith and understanding....”

There is no need to continue. You are acquainted with the rest from the stencils of the newspapers. And then Guy Thomas rejoined us.

“Guy!” Mrs. Breese exclaimed significantly. “I have just announced our engagement!”

I would have sworn that the young man so chosen had no inkling of his good fortune. Certainly, I could see he was dumbfounded. His mouth opened and he smirked idiotically. Then he leaned over and kissed her. I found I could not even murmur congratulations. I felt sure, and do to this day, that Mrs. Breese wasn’t thinking of marriage or love or anything else at the moment. She was already glorying in the sensation that would be caused in New York. Newsprint can take hold of human beings with the malevolent claws of a narcotic. For she said: “Now I want you to quote Guy, too. What would you like to say, dear?”

“Eh?” said Guy conclusively. But Mrs. Breese characteristically did not even wait for any profundities from him. She said: “I think all you need from Guy is simply that he, too, believes in the terms of our union, that we were thrown together by our common suffering. Please don’t forget that. And----”

“I’d like to say,” said Guy, suddenly, “that I’m not leaving the stage.”

This thunderbolt made little impression upon either Mrs. Breese or myself.

“Of course not, dear,” she soothed. “He’s not leaving the stage. I would certainly not let anything interfere with my husband’s career.”

Thomas nodded sagely. Slowly the full significance of the news began to envelop him and I could see him swell like a toy balloon. Probably he had entertained the thought of marrying a very wealthy woman. But he was not one to take the initiative. His berth as companion was too comfortable to risk ambition. Now that his fondest day dream was reality a foolish grin spread over his classical features and stayed there.

“I think he’s so handsome!” Mrs. Breese confided to me while Thomas’ grin widened.

Whatever else my employer had to say was cut short by the sudden reappearance of Rice. His face was very red, and his eyes blazed angrily. He strode up to Mrs. Breese and muttered: “I’d like to see you alone, if you don’t mind.”

Mrs. Breese stared coolly at him. “Anything you have to say to me, Gordon, can be said in front of Guy,” she said.

“Well then, I’ll say it. What’s this nonsense about a marriage? I’ve just been talking to Henry. Are you mad?”

Mrs. Breese drew back proudly.

“I wish you wouldn’t take that tone. If you want an answer to your question, I’m not mad.”

“You’ll have to prove it to me,” Rice snapped. “You realize you’re fifty-one years old. This--this fellow”--such utter contempt I had rarely heard---“is young enough to be your son. He’s marrying you for your money. That’s as plain as day. You go through with this, and you’ll be the laughing-stock of everybody. You won’t have a friend in the world.”

Mr. Thomas flushed, and murmured: “I say, I say!” much in the character of the aristocratic Englishman he had once portrayed on the road.

“I’m not talking to you!” Rice shut him off curtly.

“I will not have Guy insulted!” Mrs. Breese blazed, and then suddenly she melted. “Oh, Gordon, I don’t understand you. I thought you were really a friend--a true friend.”

“That’s what I’m trying to be,” said Rice, and his tones grew softer, too. He swallowed uncomfortably. “You know I wish you all the happiness in the world, Dora. I always have. But you don’t want to do this thing. After all, there are the children----”

“I’ve already told the Countess,” Mrs. Breese protested. Mrs. Breese always granted the patent of nobility to her daughter, who had divorced an improvident Baltic nobleman. “And I’ve told Henry. Of course, Henry was a little upset. He’s jealous, naturally. But he’ll get over it. Henry is a dear boy.”

“I’ve just spoken to him,” said Rice, “and I don’t agree with you. You know how he felt in college during the trial. He’s had to go through a lot. You know how sensitive he is. He’s fond of his father, just as fond as he is of you. But he was loyal to you. Now if you want to have the newspapers barking again, as I suppose you do, that’s your look-out. I just want to tell you that I’m against it, and I’ll do everything in the world to stop you from throwing your life away.”

Mrs. Breese did not answer but turned to me. “Will you go right into the radio room and wireless all the newspapers ... and I do wish you had taken notes.”

“You send that story and you’ll be accountable to me,” Rice moved to block my path.

“No use threatening me,” I protested. “I’m in Mrs. Breese’s employ and I’ve got to follow orders.” She smiled triumphantly at him. “But I don’t have to, if I resign. So, Mrs. Breese, if you don’t mind, I’ll leave the boat in Havana. I quite agree with Mr. Rice. I don’t think I can be of any further use to you.”

Mrs. Breese was looking daggers at me. I felt a glow of self-righteousness. After all, I was not in the Guy Thomas class of leeches. Then, just as I had started out of the room there came the sound of excited voices, and to cap them, a shrill wailing scream that startled us all. I leaped through the door and to the deck. Rice was close behind me, and even Thomas moved more quickly than ever before.

An excited sailor was hurling a life belt into the water. I saw the Countess clutching the rail, her face contorted with excitement and horror.

“What’s happened?” I asked the first sailor I could stop. But I needed no answer.

As my eyes explored the water, I could discern the slim figure of Henry Breese engulfed in a white-capped wave. He was floating. As the life lines were thrown at him, he made no move to catch at them.

Someone shouted. Someone screamed.

But the figure in the water remained still. For a moment I thought it was the figure of a man already dead. Then I realized sickeningly that he was poising himself with steely resolve for his next and final move. I had never before seen such a deliberate, calm attempt at suicide. Slowly the hands rose out of the water. Slowly the torso moved forward, circling, and then in a flash the figure had dived from view.

I heard Mrs. Breese sob back of me, and as I turned helplessly, her face was not pleasant to see. Her daughter swung at her and her eyes were red with fury.

Then before I was quite aware of it, someone brushed me out of the way. Suddenly I realized that the florid and portly Rice was now in the water and swimming with long even strokes to the spot where I had last seen the boy. I saw Rice dive. I saw him reappear without his burden. I saw him dive again. And then quite close to him the figure of the boy rose to the murky blue surface.

But the boy again vanished. Then Rice, too, disappeared, but this time when he emerged one arm held securely a kicking figure. I saw Rice bend over and deliberately punch the boy until his body was still. Then I remember the sailors dragging the two upon the deck. Mrs. Breese fell sobbing upon her son.