"No," said Celia, quietly.

"That's sad," commented her ladyship. "And so you're thrown on your own resources. Well, they look as if they'd stand by you. I'm glad you've come to the Hall, now I find that you're not a blue-stocking and don't wear spectacles. Yes, I'm glad, for I've rather taken a fancy to you. I like healthy young things, and you look as if you were a part of the morning. Sounds like poetry out of one of your wretched books."

"And now," said Celia, after a while, "I must be going, Lady Gridborough. I have been away quite a long time."

"You must come again," said the old lady.

"Do you think," said Celia, hesitatingly, as she slipped on her jacket, "that the young woman, Susie, as you call her, would let me go to see her sometimes? I should like to."

"Yes, my dear," said her ladyship, with a nod which showed she was pleased. "Go and see her, by all means. You're a girl of about her own age, and she may open her heart to you. A sad business--a sad business,"

she murmured. "And what makes it more sad for me is that I knew the young man."

She paused and appeared as if she were hesitating, then she said:

"Look here, my dear, it's scarcely a story for your ears; but I've no doubt it will come to them sooner or later, and so I may as well tell you. This place, where I have another house, where Susie Morton lived is called Bridgeford. She was in service with me, and a young gentleman who lodged in the village--he was studying engineering--made her acquaintance. I suspected nothing. Indeed, he was supposed to be in love with the daughter of the rector, Miriam Ainsley. I thought it was going to be a match, but they were both poor, and the girl suddenly married a young n.o.bleman, a man I disliked very much, a wastrel and a ne'er-do-well. But there were stories about this other young man who was supposed to be in love with her, and perhaps they came to her ears, and drove her to the other man, though it was a case of out of the frying-pan into the fire. The young engineer left the place suddenly, and disappeared, and everybody attributed poor Susie's downfall to him."

There was silence for a moment, then she went on musingly:

"Strange how even the most timid of our s.e.x can display firmness and determination when they have made up their minds to do so. Though Susie has been implored to disclose his name, she has refused to do so. Those childish little lips of hers close tightly whenever one approaches the subject, and she has absolutely refused to say one word that would lead to a clue."

"Perhaps--perhaps the young man was not guilty after all," said Celia.

Lady Gridborough shook her head.

"I'm afraid he was, my dear," she said, with a sigh and a shrug. "She was very pretty, is so still, and I took a fancy to her and let her help me when I was pottering about the garden. I used to like to have him near me, and so they were thrown together. The old story. And yet I found it hard to believe that Derrick Dene was a scoundrel, and a heartless one to boot. There! That's enough of it. But as I say, you would have heard of it sooner or later. Put it out of your head, my dear; it's not the kind of story to dwell upon; though I suppose nowadays young girls read and hear about these sort of things every day.

Now mind! you're to come to see me whenever you feel inclined."

Celia promised warmly, and the childless woman stood in the doorway and sighed as she watched the girlish figure going lightly down the drive.

Celia was feeling very happy; she would try to make a friend of Susie, and forget the story of her ruin and the name of Derrick Dene.

CHAPTER X

It was a pity that Derrick Dene was not a descriptive writer, instead of a struggling engineer, for had he been, he might have got some copy of quite a purple hue out of the "tramp" and its temporary denizens. We often hear of a literary production which is without a dull page, but it may be said with truth that Dene's life on board the _Angelica_ was without a dull moment. And without an idle one; for he had accepted the position of general utility, and the man-of-all-work is expected to do everybody else's as well as his own. So it happened that while Sidcup, for instance, who was the princ.i.p.al acrobat and trapeze man, lolled through his day with a pipe in his mouth, and only lending an occasional hand, when necessity compelled him, Dene was in request everywhere.

Fortunately he was as strong as a modern Hercules, quick and alert in his movements, and, now that he was free from the terror which had overthrown him at Brown's Buildings, was of his wonted cheerfulness.

Fortunately, also, he was a good sailor, and did not go under with the sea-sickness which soon prostrated nearly all the other members of the company. For they ran into bad weather, and once or twice, when the storm was at its worst, scenes occurred which would need the pen of a Joseph Conrad or a Morley Roberts to describe adequately; I will not attempt to do so.

The rickety old tub, straining in every plate, rolled and pitched and tossed all ways at once, like an hysterical cat, and the discomfort in which they had started rose, or rather sank, to absolute misery. Like most strong men, Derrick had the heart of a woman towards anyone in pain or trouble. There was no doctor; the so-called stewards were quite unable to cope with the well-nigh general suffering, and Derrick, in some marvellous way, found time to bear a hand. There is no doubt that, in any case, he would have been popular; but in the present circ.u.mstances he stepped at once into the position of first friend with the men, and became a hero and a little tin G.o.d in the regard of the women; and as to the children--for there were three or four in the company, young acrobats and riders--they watched for his coming, and clung to him and adored him with their pathetic eyes, as if their present and future safety and happiness were dependent on him. Often, in the middle of the night, he would be awakened by the wail of a child, and with eyes still half closed, and his mind only half awake, would make his way to it, give it a drink, and sometimes fall asleep with the poor little thing nestled up against him. To them he was no longer "Mr.

Green," but "Syd," or "Dear Syddie," and they fought for a word and schemed for a smile from him.

Among the women were some who were quite young. Many of them were pretty, and not a few of them, naturally enough, fell in love with the good-looking young man who befriended them. Like the children, but with a different kind of ardour, they waited for his coming, and laid feminine snares for him. Two girls, to particularize, thought of little else than Sydney Green as they lay in their bunks, recovering from that horrible malady at which we all laugh, and all quail. One was a fair girl, named Alice Merton. She was one of the riders, and was extremely pretty, with blue eyes and a complexion like cream and roses. She was very slight and dainty, and looked fragile; but she was a very good equestrienne, and when on a horse displayed extraordinary nerve.

The other girl--her name was Isabel Devigne, a stage name, no doubt--was tall, dark-eyed, with the regular features and blue-black hair of a Spaniard. She also was a rider; she had been in the business--pardon!

profession--since she could walk, and her experiences of life were many and peculiar. Perhaps because of their contrasting characteristics, she and Alice Merton had been drawn towards each other, and were fast friends. They occupied opposite bunks, walked and talked together, and were both in love with Sydney Green, who ministered to both, in his capacity of amateur ship doctor, with strict though unconscious impartiality.

Derrick was not of the susceptible genus, and, if he had been, he was too much driven by the incessant work to spare time for even the mildest flirtation. Besides, whenever he found time for thought, his mind always went back to a certain room in Brown's Buildings, far away in London, to a girl's face looking down at him from over the bal.u.s.trade. He thought of her only; scarcely once had his mind wandered from her to Miriam, the girl he had loved, the girl for whom he had sacrificed himself.

Sometimes, when he put his hand in his breast pocket, he could feel the five-pound note; and whenever he did so, back came the scene, and his heart grew warm.

The bad weather lasted for a week; then the storm abated, the sea grew calmer, and one morning the invalids began to crawl up to the deck.

Derrick, busy with the horses, some of which had suffered terribly, paused for a moment and looked at the wretched folk as they emerged from the companion-way. One of them was Alice Merton, and he was moved to such pity by the sight of her white face and evident weakness that he put down his curry-comb and brush and went to help her. Her face was flooded with colour as she raised her piteous blue eyes to him, and her hand shook as he drew it through his arm.

"You'll be as right as a trivet--I don't know what a trivet is, by the way--before very long," he a.s.sured her. "It's wonderful how you pull round, especially in such air as this. Here, I'll rig up a little nest against the warm side. That's what you want--warmth."

"You're very good to me," she faltered. "But you're good to everyone, and we all know how busy you are."

"That's all right," he said, cheerfully. "Nothing like plenty of work."

While he was making the nest, the tall, supple figure of Isabel Devigne came on deck; she too was weak, but she walked firmly and held her head erect. At sight of Derrick and his employment she also coloured, a rich, pa.s.sionate red, and she drew a long breath, her white, even teeth clenched tightly. Informed by the direction of Alice's eyes, Derrick turned and saw the other girl.

"Plenty of room, Miss Devigne," he said, cheerfully. "You two snuggle up together; keep each other warm. Halloa! here we are. Let 'em all come,"

he added, as a cry of welcome and joy rose from the children, who appeared now and rushed at him as if for refuge and comfort.

The two girls watched him hungrily as he caught up the smallest of the group, gave her a playful shake, and chucked her softly into the nest.

They shrilled their thanks and their love, and clamoured to him to remain; but Derrick wiped them off gently, as one wipes off a bunch of clinging bees, and promising to look them up as soon as he could, returned to the horses, which needed him quite as badly as did these humans.

"He's almost too good to be a man," murmured Alice, involuntarily, as her gaze followed him wistfully.

Isabel's dark eyes flashed, and her full and sensuous lips curved contemptuously.

"He's a man, every inch of him," she said. "He's the first man I've ever met in this G.o.d-forsaken world. You--like him, because he's been playing the nurse to all of us women; you're the sort that always wants some man to be fussing about you. I'm different. I like to see him when he's fighting it out with, and mastering, one of the horses, or holding his own with one of the men-swine who give him trouble sometimes."

"You and I are different," sighed Alice.

"I should hope so," retorted Isabel, scornfully; but the next moment, with a kind of rough tenderness, she drew the shawl closer round Alice's shoulders. "Yes, we're different; perhaps that's why I like you. And I do like you still, though sometimes, when you look up at him with the eyes of a sick calf, and make excuse to touch him----"

"Oh, don't, Isabel!" murmured Alice, in a low voice. "He--he never thinks of me."

"You idiot! He never thinks of any of us," breathed Isabel through her teeth. "That's why he gets such a hold of one; we're just a parcel of helpless, miserable wretches, who've got on his nerves and forced him to help us. Do you suppose, if this beastly old tramp went down this minute, that he'd shed a tear for any of us? Not he!" She paused a moment; then she said, with a kind of snarl, "He's got his girl. He's left her behind there, and his heart with her. Oh, don't cry! But, yes, do; your sort of woman can always find relief in tears. I can't."

An hour later, when Derrick returned to the group with a big can of soup, he found Alice asleep, with her head pillowed on the bosom of Isabel.

"Don't wake her," said Derrick.

Instantly Isabel, with a flash of the eyes, pushed the other's girl's head away from her.

"Here, wake up!" she said, roughly. "You want as much petting as a baby."

Derrick dealt out the soup, waited for a minute or two to see the children start on it, then went down below to feed the elephants. One of the huge beasts was troublesome, and as Derrick came up the man who was the cause of it gave the animal a jab on the trunk with a hay-fork.

Derrick had already warned the fellow, one of the men-swine of whom Isabel had spoken; consequently Derrick wasted no further words, but dropped the truss of hay and gave the man a blow which sent him sprawling. He got up, seized the hay-fork, and with murder in his eyes lunged at Derrick; but Derrick, too quick for him, struck up the fork, s.n.a.t.c.hed it from the man's grasp, and hit him on the head with it.

"Get out of my sight," said Derrick, without raising his voice. "Let me see you, or let me hear you, ill-treating one of the animals again, and I'll lay you up for the rest of the voyage. You may take that as a promise, and I've a knack of keeping my promises."

The man swore vilely, but suddenly stopped and slunk away, wiping the blood from his face, and Mr. Bloxford's voice, from behind Derrick, demanded shrilly: