IV.
Two entire interminable days of the voyage elapsed before Edward Henrywas clever enough to encounter Isabel Joy--the most famous and the leastvisible person on the ship. He remembered that she had said: "You won'tsee anything of me."
It was easy to ascertain the number of her stateroom--a double-berthwhich she shared with nobody. But it was less easy to find out whethershe ever left it, and if so, at what time of day. He could not mountguard in the long corridor; and the stewardesses on the _Lithuania_ weremature, experienced and uncommunicative women, their sole weakness beingan occasional tendency to imagine that they, and not the captain, werein supreme charge of the steamer. However, Edward Henry did at lastachieve his desire. And on the third morning, at a little before sixo'clock, he met a muffled Isabel Joy on the D deck. The D deck was wet,having just been swabbed; and a boat, chosen for that dawn's boat drill,ascended past them on its way from the sea level to the busy boat deckabove; on the other side of an iron barrier, large crowds ofearly-rising third-class passengers were standing and talking, andstaring at the oblong slit of sea which was the only prospect offered bythe D deck; it was the first time that Edward Henry aboard had ever seteyes on a steerage passenger; with all the conceit natural to theoccupant of a costly stateroom, he had unconsciously assumed that he andhis like had sole possession of the ship.
Isabel responded to his greeting in a very natural way. The sharpfreshness of the summer morning at sea had its tonic effect on both ofthem; and as for Edward Henry, he lunged and plunged at once into thesubject which alone preoccupied and exasperated him. She did not seemto resent it.
"You'd have the satisfaction of helping on a thing that all your friendssay ought to be helped," he argued. "Nobody but you can do it. Withoutyou, there'll be a frost. You would make a lot of money, which youcould spend in helping on things of your own. And surely it isn't thepublicity that you're afraid of!"
"No," she agreed. "I'm not afraid of publicity." Her pale grey-blueeyes shone as they regarded the secret dream that for her hung alwaysunseen in the air. And she had a strange, wistful, fragile, femininemien in her mannish costume.
"Well then--"
"But can't you see it's humiliating?" cried she, as if interested in theargument.
"It's not humiliating to do something that you can do well--I know youcan do it well--and get a large salary for it, and make the success of abig enterprise by it. If you knew the play--"
"I do know the play," she said. "We'd lots of us read it in manuscriptlong ago."
Edward Henry was somewhat dashed by this information.
"Well, what do you think of it?"
"I think it's just splendid!" said she with enthusiasm.
"And will it be any worse a play because you act a small part in it?"
"No," she said shortly.
"I expect you think it's a play that people ought to go and see, don'tyou?"
"I do, Mr. Socrates," she admitted.
He wondered what she could mean, but continued:
"What does it matter what it is that brings the audience into thetheatre, so long as they get there and have to listen?"
She sighed.
"It's no use discussing with you," she murmured. "You're too simple forthis world. I daresay you're honest enough--in fact I think youare--but there are so many things that you don't understand. You'reevidently incapable of understanding them."
"Thanks!" he replied, and paused to recover his self-possession. "Butlet's get right down to business now. If you'll appear in this play,I'll not merely give you two hundred pounds a week, but I'll explain toyou how to get arrested and still arrive in triumph in London beforemidnight on Sunday."
She recoiled a step, and raised her eyes.
"How?" she demanded, as with a pistol.
"Ah!" he said. "That's just it. How? Will you promise?"
"I've thought of everything," she said musingly. "If the last day wasany day but Sunday I could get arrested on landing and get bailed out,and still be in London before night. But on Sunday--no! So you needn'ttalk like that."
"Still," he said, "it can be done."
"How," she demanded again.
"Will you sign a contract with me, if I tell you? ... Think of what yourreception in London will be if you win after all! Just think!"
Those pale eyes gleamed, for Isabel Joy had tasted the noisy flattery ofsympathetic and of adverse crowds, and her being hungered for it again;the desire of it had become part of her nature.
She walked away, her hands in the pockets of her ulster, and returned.
"What is your scheme?"
"You'll sign?"
"Yes, if it works."
"I can trust you?"
The little woman of forty or so blazed up. "You can refrain frominsulting me by doubting my word," said she.
"Sorry! Sorry!" he apologised.