"Tell me, monsieur."
In broken words--the ship was still very busy--Mr. Greyne related the incident of the loss and finding of the diary. As he spoke a slight change stole over the Levantine"s face. It certainly became less pale.
"But you have fever now!" cried Mr. Greyne anxiously.
"I! No; I flush with horror, not with fever! The diary, the sacred diary of madame, exposed to view, read by the children, perhaps the servants!
That footman, Thomas, with the nose of curiosity! Ah! I behold that nose penetrating into the holy secrets of the existence of madame! I behold it--ah!"
She burst into a fit of hysterics, the laughing species, which is so much more terrible than the other sort. Mr. Greyne was greatly concerned. He lurched to her, and implored her to be calm; but she only laughed the more, while tears streamed down her cheeks. The vision of Thomas gloating over Mrs. Greyne"s diary seemed utterly to unnerve her, and Mr. Greyne was able to measure, by this ebullition of horror, the depth of the respect and affection entertained by her for his beloved wife. When, at length, she grew calmer he escorted her towards her cabin, offering her his arm, on which she leaned heavily. As soon as they were in the narrow and heaving pa.s.sage she turned to him, and said:
"Who can have taken the diary?"
Mr. Greyne blushed again.
"We think it was Thomas," he said.
Mademoiselle Verbena looked at him steadily for a moment, then she cried:
"G.o.d bless you, monsieur!"
Mr. Greyne was startled by the abruptness of this pious e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n.
"Why?" he inquired.
"You are a good man. You, at least, would not condescend to insult a friendless woman by unworthy suspicions. And madame?"
"Mrs. Greyne"--stammered Mr. Greyne--"is convinced that it was Thomas.
In fact--in fact, she was the first to say so."
Mademoiselle Verbena tenderly pressed his hand.
"Madame is an angel. G.o.d bless you both!"
She tottered into her cabin, and, as she shut the door, Mr. Greyne heard the terrible, laughing hysterics beginning again.
The next day an influence from Africa seemed spread upon the sea. Calm were the waters, calm and blue. No cloud appeared in the sky. The fierce activities of the ship had ceased, and Mademoiselle Verbena tripped upon the deck at an early hour, to find Mr. Greyne already installed there, and looking positively cheerful. He started up as he perceived her, and chivalrously escorted her to a chair.
Everyone who has made a voyage knows that the sea breeds intimacies. By the time the white houses of Algiers rose on their hill out of the bosom of the waves Mademoiselle Verbena and Mr. Greyne were--shall we say like sister and brother? She had told him all about her childhood in dear Paris, the death of her father the count, murmuring the name of Louis XVI., the poverty of her mother the countess, her own resolve to put aside all aristocratic prejudices and earn her own living. He, in return, had related his Eton days, his momentary bias towards the militia, his marriage--as an innocent youth--with Miss Eugenia Hannibal-Barker. Coming to later times, he was led to confide to the tenderhearted Levantine the fact that he hoped to increase his stock of knowledge while in Africa. Without alluding to "Catherine," he hinted that the cure of influenza was not his only reason for foreign travel.
"I wish to learn something of men and--and women," he murmured in the sh.e.l.l-like ear presented to him. "Of their pa.s.sions, their desires, their--their follies."
"Ah!" cried Mademoiselle Verbena. "Would that I could a.s.sist monsieur!
But I am only an ignorant little creature, and know nothing of the world! And I shall be ever at the bedside of mamma."
"You will give me your address? You will let me inquire for the countess?"
"Willingly; but I do not know where I shall be. There will be a message at the wharf. To what hotel goes monsieur?"
"The Grand Hotel."
"I will write there when I have seen mamma. And meanwhile----"
They were coming into harbour. The heights of Mustapha were visible, the woods of the Bois de Boulogne, the towers of the Hotel Splendid.
"Meanwhile, may I beg monsieur not to----" She hesitated.
"Not to what?" asked Mr. Greyne most softly.
"Not to let anyone in England know that I am here?"
She paused. Mr. Greyne was silent, wondering. Mademoiselle Verbena drooped her head.
"The world is so censorious. It might seem strange that I--that monsieur--a man young, handsome, fascinating--the same ship--I have no chaperon--enfin----"
She could get out no more. Her delicacy, her forethought touched Mr.
Greyne to tears.
"Not a word," he said. "You are right. The world is evil, and, as you say, I am a--not a word!"
He ventured to press her hand, as an elder brother might have pressed it. For the first time he realised that even to the husband of Mrs.
Eustace Greyne the world might attribute--Goodness gracious! What might not the militia think, for instance?
He felt himself, for one moment, potentially a dog.
They parted in a whirl of Arabs on the quay. Mr. Greyne would have stayed to a.s.sist Mademoiselle Verbena, but she bade him go.
She whispered that she thought it "better" that they should not seem to--_enfin!_
"I will write to-morrow," she murmured. "_Au revoir!_"
On the last word she was gone. Mr. Greyne saw nothing but Arabs and hotel porters. Loneliness seemed to close in on him once more.
That very evening, after a cup of tea, he presented himself at the office of Rook near the Place du Gouvernement. As he came in he felt a little nervous. There were no tourists in the office, and a courteous clerk with a bright and searching eye at once took him in hand.
"What can we do for you, sir?"
"I am a stranger here," began Mr. Greyne.
"Quite so, sir, quite so."
The clerk twiddled his business-like thumbs, and looked inquiring.
"And being so," Mr. Greyne went on, "it is naturally my wish to see as much of the town as possible; as much as possible, you understand."
"You want a guide? Alphonso!"
Turning, he shouted to an inner room, from which in a moment emerged a short, stout, swarthy personage with a Jewish nose, a French head, an Arab eye with a squint in it, and a markedly Maltese expression.