Part 34 (2/2)
And he laughed again--and as he laughed, he ran to the door and locked it for the second time. There would be no more of that, no more interruption, no more of those tempter thoughts, no more of them! And, for the moment, no more thought even of Marie-Louise. He had need to centre all his attention upon his immediate acts now, for he must be very careful what he did. And he had little time--had not Henry Bliss said that in half an hour he would return with Myrna?
He ran back into the bedroom, tore off his coat, vest and s.h.i.+rt; and, catching up his toilet-case, hurried into the bathroom. Here, he clipped off his beard and shaved it close--then quickly, a sort of tense, keyed-up excitement constantly growing upon him, he returned once more to the bedroom, and, stripping off the remainder of his clothes, began to put on the fisherman's suit. How heavy and stiff the boots felt upon his feet, how rough and coa.r.s.e the socks were against his skin--and yet how their familiarity thrilled him! He swung his arms, wondering and laughing at the free play of his muscles in the loose s.h.i.+rt, and memories and thoughts began to press upon him--but he checked them almost instantly, for there was no time now for that.
He finished dressing hastily. He must leave no clue behind him that would occasion even a suspicion that he had not carried out the purpose that the world, and essentially those on board the s.h.i.+p, must be made to believe was the last act of Jean Laparde. Amongst a thousand, amongst the conglomerate races that cluttered the s.h.i.+p's steerage, where even amongst themselves few knew each other, where difference in language precluded all but the most scattered and superficial acquaintances.h.i.+p, none would recognise Jean Laparde in the rough-garbed fisherman--provided always that no search was inst.i.tuted, provided always that there should be no _incentive_ in the mind of any one to search, provided always that it was accepted as a fact--that Jean Laparde was dead! He could not hope perhaps, between now and the time they reached New York, or, at least, on landing, to escape the attention of the s.h.i.+p's officers or the sh.o.r.e officials; but with Jean Laparde a suicide in the mist and fog of that Atlantic night, he would be no more to them than one as rough and ignorant and poor as those others in the steerage--no more than a stowaway.
Jean dropped down on his knees again beside the trunk, and began to replace the articles he had been obliged to remove in order to get at the fisherman's suit. Nothing--not a sign of anything approaching disorder must appear. They would look through everything--Myrna and her father! He shrugged his shoulders whimsically. The visit of Henry Bliss to the cabin, the other's knowledge of the quarrel with Myrna, the other's concern over his, Jean's, moodiness, was, after all, not to be regretted! It would have its significance for Henry Bliss!
He pushed the trunk back beside its mate under the bed. Money now! A sudden, sharp exclamation, almost of dismay, escaped him. He had little or no money--a few French notes, sufficient for his needs on board s.h.i.+p only. Monsieur Bliss had said more was unnecessary--that he could make drafts through the other's banking connections in New York as he needed them. He searched through the clothes he had taken off, found his pocketbook, opened it, and counted the contents--five twenty-franc notes, a ten-franc gold piece, some silver--that was all!
Less than twenty-five dollars in American money! Well, if it was all--it was all! It could not be helped! He shoved the pocketbook philosophically into his pocket; and, gathering up the clothes he had worn, tied them into a bundle. There remained only the heavy ulster.
He looked slowly, critically about him; and, satisfied that he had overlooked nothing, walked swiftly into the sitting-room, seated himself at the writing desk, and, from one of its pigeon-holes, pulled out a sheet of the s.h.i.+p's notepaper. He hesitated a moment thoughtfully--then picked up a pen.
”_Je m'ennui de tout_--I am tired of it all,” he wrote. He balanced the pen in his fingers, and stared at the words cynically. What a commotion it would cause! What food for excitement, for the hysteria of those who cared nothing save for the self-importance it brought them in being so intimately connected with so famous a tragedy as to have been on the _same_ s.h.i.+p where it occurred! They would remember what he had eaten for dinner that night, and quarrel over who had last seen him; and they would envelope themselves with an air of pained and morbid gloom--and cling to the gloom tenaciously because they delighted in it! What an event! And out of them all, with the exception of Henry Bliss, there was none who--ah, yes! Ironically, as the grim humour of it struck him, a smile curled Jean's lips. The stewards who had looked after him would care very much! That one might die, if one wished, was all very well; but to be inconsiderate enough to jump overboard without leaving the _douceurs_ of the voyage behind, could be construed as nothing less than a personal affront! He reached suddenly into his pocket, the irony of the thought lost in a flash of inspiration, and pulled out his pocketbook. It was the one crowning touch required to stamp as a fact, beyond a peradventure of doubt, the conviction that he had made away with himself. He could ill spare any of the money; but he could much less afford to ignore anything that would lend colour to his plan and so minimise the risk of discovery!
He opened the pocketbook again, took from it three of the twenty-franc notes, tucked these into his pocket, and laid the pocketbook with the balance of the money inside of it down upon the desk. It was not a fitting amount, doubtless--but there was his pocketbook and all there was in it! What more could any one give? He took up his pen, and finished his note. ”Please divide what is in my pocketbook amongst my stewards. Adieu! Jean.”
He folded the note, placed it in an envelope, sealed it, addressed it to Henry Bliss, and, carrying it with him, returned to the bedroom and pinned it securely to the sleeve of his ulster. Then, taking up both the ulster and the bundle he had made of the clothes in which he had been dressed that evening, and leaving the lights turned on, he went to the outer cabin door, opened it cautiously, and peered out. Here, on the upper deck, there was no one in sight. He opened the door wide, marked the spot where the light, flooding from the room, lay across the s.h.i.+p's rail; then, stepping out on the deck, he closed the door softly behind him.
For a moment he stood in the darkness, looking about him, listening.
There was nothing--only the s.h.i.+p-sounds--only the confused voices and laughter of the pa.s.sengers on the deck below--only, faint-borne, the music from the s.h.i.+p's saloon. And then, he crept across the deck to the rail; and, drawing himself back to give his arm full play, he hurled the bundle with all his strength far out over the s.h.i.+p's side--and as he hurled it, in requiem as it were for Jean Laparde, through the night there crashed, and boomed, and moaned, and whined anew the sullen blast of the siren.
It startled him momentarily; but the next instant he stooped and laid the ulster upon the deck beside the rail. It was perhaps fastidious in a suicide to remove his ulster, but the light from his room, when the door was opened, that would s.h.i.+ne upon the white paper pinned on the sleeve, would disclose a sufficient motive!
It was done! In all the world now for him there was only one to share his life--a life whose future course he could not see, nor guess; but a life where, greatest of all gifts, most splendid of all splendours, was love. There was but one--only one--and that one out of all the world was she alone who cared for Jean Laparde. And she did not know yet that he was there, that he was going to her, that he would never leave her again--but in a moment she would know! In only another moment now I Ah, he could see the pure, beautiful face s.h.i.+ne in welcome with the gladdest light it had ever known; the great eyes, deep, true and fearless, grow dim and misty in their wondrous smile; those lips, divine in contour, lift in tenderest pa.s.sion to his; her arms stretch out, no more in cruel longing, in bitter emptiness, but stretch out--stretch out to him!
”Marie-Louise! Marie-Louise!”--like a prayer, softly, he breathed her name; and, thrilled, eager, his blood afire, he turned from the rail, and ran to the deck companionway.
Barring a possible encounter with a s.h.i.+p's officer who might stop and question him, he would have little trouble in reaching the steerage deck. He was not obliged to enter any part of the s.h.i.+p's saloons or alley-ways--he had only to descend to the deck below, and from there it was but a half dozen steps to the head of the ladder with its little sign ”pa.s.sengers forbidden” that led directly to the steerage deck.
True, it was possible that some of the steerage pa.s.sengers might notice him descending the ladder, but they would be too far away and it was too dark for them to see his face from any distance; and to them, in any event, unaccustomed to question, it would mean nothing more, if indeed they gave it any thought at all, than some one of the s.h.i.+p's crew in the ordinary performance of his duty.
At the head of the companionway Jean stopped to a.s.sure himself that the saloon pa.s.sengers were still avoiding the wet, unsheltered portion of the deck beneath; and then, descending quickly, he stole across the deck-s.p.a.ce below, gained the second ladder, and, boldly now, but with the swift agility born of the fis.h.i.+ng days of Bernay-sur-Mer that any seaman might have envied, swung himself down to the steerage deck. And here, almost leisurely, he turned, and, seeking the darkest shadows, and so disappearing from the sight of any of the steerage pa.s.sengers who, still huddled about the deck, might have noticed him, he stood motionless, close up against the s.h.i.+p's superstructure. It was perhaps an exaggerated precaution; but it would preclude the possibility of any one of them connecting him, when he eventually went amongst them, with the man who had come down the ladder and presumably had disappeared in some, to them mysterious, where all was mysterious, recess of the s.h.i.+p.
His heart was pounding, he could feel the hot blood flush his cheeks, as his eyes strained through the gloom and semi-darkness, searching the deck. Was she still there--somewhere? Surely, surely she had not yet gone below! For then it would be very hard, perhaps impossible, to find her until to-morrow, and he could not wait so long as that; for it was to-night that he was to take Marie-Louise in his arms again, and hold her there, and stand, they two, and look into each other's eyes, glad, beyond any gladness else, in the love that G.o.d had given back to them. To-morrow? No! To-night! To-night! It must be to-night!
Surely she was still here! Yes--who was that, whose form he could just make out in the darkness at the s.h.i.+p's side far along the deck?
He moved quickly now, still keeping in the shadows, until he reached the side of the s.h.i.+p furthest away from the ladder by which he had descended, and then stepped out across the deck. He pa.s.sed little knots of people, and voices in strange tongues that he had never heard before fell upon his ears; but he gave them no heed--there was only that figure, alone, apart, toward which he was hurrying. And now--yes--he was sure! Her back was turned, and, as before, she was leaning ever the s.h.i.+p's side, but--yes--yes--it was Marie-Louise!
He halted a yard away from her, trembling with an emotion that brought a strange weakness to his limbs, and reached out his arms--her name quivering, low and pa.s.sionate, his soul in his voice, upon his lips.
”Marie-Louise!”
She turned sharply, in a frightened, startled way, and for a moment stared at him; and then, even in the darkness, he could see her face grow deathly white, while her hand groped blindly out behind her for support.
”Dead!” she whispered. ”I was praying to the _bon Dieu_ for you, Jean.
And now you are dead, and you have come to me.”
”Ay!” he cried blunderingly in his joy. ”Ay, that is true, Marie-Louise! Jean Laparde is dead!”
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