Madame walked over to where he sat, and made her last effort towards a reconciliation between the new friendless Lord of Topsham and the real world of men and women.
"Willie," said she gently, "I heard Captain Ching. He means that though he won't have Lord Topsham on his bridge he will give the most kindly welcome to our pilot Willatopy."
But Willie remained stupidly sullen. "There isn't a Willatopy any more," said he.
"I am sorry," said Madame, and for the last time she turned her back upon him. She was never a patient woman, but I think sometimes that she might have commanded a little more patience had she chosen. Willie was, after all, a boy, a boy of nineteen, puffed up and exalted by his new uncomprehended dignities. She, a woman of the world, a woman of nearly twice his age, might have dealt more gently with his boyish follies. I think that she would have acted differently had she ever borne a son of her own. She would not then have been so resentful of the snub of a silly youth.
Captain Ching, sensible that a far better pilot was watching every movement of the vessel, was taking no risks. In his cautious navigation there was nothing of the splendid free-hand verve of Willatopy. With the tide flowing under him he was content with eight knots of speed, and the Chief Engineer down below, watching the slow response of the foul-bottomed yacht to the revolutions of the propellers, gave thanks for his superior's moderation. They toddled along at a "vairy economical consumption," they kept rigidly to the deepest of channels, there was none of that spirited corner cutting so characteristic of the confident Willatopy, the performance was altogether lacking in flair, but it was safe and sound. Ching made no mistakes, and as Willie watched the course he learned yet another lesson—that no man in this world is indispensable. He had expected appeals for assistance, and might perhaps have consented to abate the dignity of his lordship, had Madame and Ching been reduced by necessity to a gratifying condition of grovelling humility. But of that there was no sign. The Skipper serenely conned the yacht from his own bridge, Madame had disappeared into the smoke-room, the sailors moved about upon their lawful occasions, the lordly passenger was wholly neglected. And above all other evidences of indifference to his feelings, the Humming Top proceeded steadily upon her way, and never came near to a bump on the reefs.
Presently Willie got up and went sullenly below. He had been allotted a handsome stateroom with bath and dressing-room attached on the main deck—it was on the starboard side opposite Madame's quarters—and thither he went and sulked by himself. I am afraid that he was not happy, and perhaps began to grasp some little inkling of the great truth that no man is happy unless he fills the place and does the job for which he is fitted. On the bridge in charge of the yacht he would have grinned joyously—the round man in the round hole which he perfectly fitted; here in a modern luxurious cabin, the boy, who had spent his life in a palm-thatched hut, or in a 30-foot yawl, was ill-placed and miserable.
A light step tripped along the corridor outside. Willie opened his door and saw Marie vanishing into a room just opposite. He called, and she, turning, showed for an instant a frightened face. Then she vanished, and Willie heard the snap of a drawn bolt. So even Marie, his white mistress, had flown at the sight of him, and bolted her door against him. He knocked, but there was silence within. He waited for what seemed a long time. But the door that he watched remained closed. Weary of waiting he went back to his cabin, lay down on the bed, and fell asleep.
I do not know what had happened to John Clifford except that he had been given a room aft on the main deck, and kept resolutely to his own quarters. His one great anxiety was to keep out of sight of that terrible straight-shooting Madame Gilbert.
When night drew on the yacht was brought to anchor under shelter of a large cay, and the Skipper drew a sigh of deep relief. He felt quite confident now that he could tackle the channels, and that his carefully constructed chart was to be depended upon. He received Madame's earnest congratulations with modesty, and the pair of them—closer friends now than at any period of their association—went down to the saloon for dinner. At the right of Captain Ching had been laid a place for William, Lord Topsham, and on his left sat Madame Gilbert. Beyond her the Chief Engineer had elected to deposit his ample person. When Willie came in, escorted by the now obsequious steward, the other three were waiting. The boy was bare-footed—he had never worn shoes in his life—and for the first time showed some sense of the inadequacy of his simple holiday dress of white shirt and Palm Beach trousers. He gazed with involuntary admiration upon our dazzling Madame—who, as always in the yacht, wore a dinner dress—and eyed the smart uniforms of the officers. He looked down at his own brown feet, and passed one hand nervously through the long frizzy tresses which stood out from his skull. The dark brown of his skin flushed into purple. Madame, who saw his embarrassment, at once spoke to him exactly as she would have done to an English guest. She drew him into the familiar chat of the group of old friends, and tried to make him forget for a moment the raw novelty of his inherited social status. Presently they were all seated at table, and Willie felt more at ease now that his obtrusive feet were hidden. Just as daring that lunch in the saloon of a fortnight earlier, he watched how the others handled their dinner tools and committed no gaucheries. Unobtrusively, Madame observed and approved. The boy had many of the instincts of a gentleman; if only he could summon sense to his aid there might be hopes for him. But when she thought of that unstable mixed blood, unstable as nitro-glycerine, she sighed. More was needed than a smattering of carefully acquired table manners to turn a half-caste Hula into a civilised white man.
Willie observed that no wine was served at dinner, and that no liqueurs accompanied the after-dinner coffee. The Humming Top had become a "dry ship." By Madame's orders—accepted heartily by Ching, and no less heartily, though sorrowfully, by Alexander—the carefully selected cellar of Sir John Toppys had been locked up, and the key deposited in Ching's pocket. As with the saloon so also with the officers' mess and foc's'le. There were many groans and deep curses, but Madame was loved, and the senior officers respected. The need for the ordinance had been discreetly explained and accepted. His lordship was heartily consigned to the bottomless pit, but there was no mutiny.