Now, Voyager

1

THE STRANGER

A blizzard was raging in New York, so she had read on the bulletin board before she left the ship. It was difficult to visualize sheets of fine snow driving obliquely against façades, while sitting on an open terrace in the sun gazing at calla lilies in bloom bordered by freesia. It was difficult, too, to believe that the scene before her was reality. It was more like a drop curtain rolled down between herself and the dull drab facts of her life.

She sat at a small, white iron table close to a railing, keenly conscious of the sun beating down on her shoulder blades, of the burnt-nut tang of the black Indian coffee which she was sipping, and the sharp smart of unfamiliar cigarette smoke at the back of her throat. Keenly conscious, too, of the clothes she was wearing, which were not her own. She sat close to the table, knees crossed beneath its top, one foot emerging encased snugly in light amber-colored silk and a navy blue pump. She flexed the ankle up and down as if to convince herself it was hers. At the same time she raised her hand to the back of her neck. It was as irresistible as exploring the empty space left by a pulled tooth. But she mustn’t appear self-conscious when her companion returned. He said he would be gone only long enough to send a cable.

She leaned forward on elbows lightly placed upon the tabletop and took several sips of coffee, gazing down reflectively between sips. She must tell him her name and explain why it wasn’t on the passenger list. Every time he called her Miss Beauchamp it was a reminder of the difference between herself and the vivid and vivacious Renée. And how Renée Beauchamp would hate it! She returned the cup to its saucer and raised her eyes.

In the foreground there was a luxurious garden with glimpses of steps and portions of balustrade; in the lower left-hand corner the proverbial flower-filled urn with hanging vines; behind the urn a cliff with a cascade of purple bougainvillea falling down its face, and at the top an umbrella pine leaning out against the sky at a spectacular angle. In the distance there was a glimpse of aquamarine blue sea with boats floating on its surface.

The largest boat was hers. It was an ocean liner, with two squat, black-banded funnels amidships, and long festoons of windows, portholes, and deck railings extending from stern to bow. The liner hailed from New York. It was the first time she had dropped anchor since she had backed out of her berth into the Hudson River. It was the first opportunity offered her passengers to feel the pressure of earth beneath their feet.

She had not intended to come ashore at Gibraltar. It was an old story to her. She had been here with her mother many times before. But that morning, looking out of her porthole at the crooked tiers of mellow-toned old buildings crowding down close to the water’s edge beneath the jutting rock, her consciousness had been pricked by the realization of her independence. She had never wandered alone all day in any foreign city! She had dressed for the shore with something like excitement. But now she was regretting her decision. She couldn’t keep up the false role she was playing with this strange man much longer.

She congratulated herself that she had not choked when he lit her cigarette. How surprised he would be if he knew it was the first time in her life anyone had lit her cigarette. The first time in her life she had smoked a cigarette except opposite her own reflection behind closed doors. But no more surprised than Doctor Jaquith, she imagined, if he could have seen her casually flicking ashes over a terrace railing! Doctor Jaquith would consider it a great triumph, she supposed. But she hadn’t smoked the cigarette to assert her own personality. On the contrary she’d smoked it to conceal her own personality.

She had been the last passenger to board the last tender scheduled to leave for the shore trip. The tender had in fact been held for her for several minutes. She had selected a seat as far removed as possible from the other passengers, and had kept her eyes steadfastly turned away from any possible contact with another human being—studying the shoreline, following the lazy motions of the overfed Gibraltar seagulls, plainly conveying that she did not wish to be spoken to.

She looked as if she might have been recently ill. She had little natural color, and no artificial color whatsoever. There was something that suggested old ivory about the cast and quality of her skin. Her cheekbones were high and accentuated by hollows in her cheeks. Her brows were black, well-defined, and extraordinarily far apart. Her hair was also black—what could be seen of it. It was cut very short. Her eyes were the somber blue of late-blooming monk’s hood. She was dressed in the conservative good taste that is expensive. A navy-blue costume, very plain and very perfect, with a small snug navy-blue hat on her close-cropped head. Over her shoulders hung the pelts of several little animals, probably Russian sable. She caused much comment among the other passengers because of the incongruity between her distinguished appearance and her wary manner.

Most of the cruise passengers who had signed up for the Gibraltar trip had already left the liner on the earlier tenders. At the dock there had been only a few of the local horse-drawn vehicles left. She had engaged the last one. She was seated on its narrow back seat when the effervescing and ever-present cruise manager, Mr. Thompson, had called out from somewhere behind her, Oh, Miss Beauchamp! and a moment later, Would you be so kind as to share your carriage with Mr. So-and-So? She didn’t catch the name. He had to go back to the tender for his guidebook. We’ll all be lunching together at one o’clock. I’ll see you both there. Thank you so much. Have a nice time.

Before she could think of any reason for not sharing her carriage, Mr. So-and-So was seated by her side and they were moving up the long pier toward the huddled shopping district.

I hope you don’t mind too much.

Of course not, she replied, as warmly as she knew how. (Pull your own weight, Doctor Jaquith had exhorted her that last day in his office. We’ve taught you the proper technique. Now go ahead and practice it on this cruise. Respond! Take part! Contribute! Be interested in everything and everybody. Forget you’re a hidebound New Englander and unbend. Loosen up. Be nice to every human being who crosses your path.)

We’ve already been introduced, Miss Beauchamp, her companion informed her. On deck two days ago, as we were passing the Azores, and without giving her a chance to reply, I’ve never been in Gibraltar before. If her mother had been present this statement would instantly have placed him: not alone the fact of his limited experience, but because he mentioned it. What an amusing conveyance this is! Built on the lines of a hansom cab. Female of the species, possibly, with all this lingerie and lace.

When her companion rejoined her on the terrace, he sat down opposite her and poured himself a cup of coffee from the small silver pot, blindingly bright in the sunshine.

I got the cable off finally, he announced, dropping two lumps of sugar in the cup, and stirring them vigorously. He had nice hands, bony and veined, with a scattering of dark hairs on their backs, and knuckly fingers with close-cut nails. So that’s one of the umbrella pines! And that’s a bougainvillea! And that white stuff in the garden down there is freesia blooming outdoors in March! He took off his hat, placed it on the railing, and lifted his face to the sun. Isn’t this heat simply marvelous!

Until then she would have said his eyes were brown, but now with the sun shining straight into them she saw that they were blue with brown flecks. The blue was a deep indigo. It reminded her of her fountain-pen ink in its bottle, when looking down its wide-necked top. Midnight blue-black, the label said. The most striking feature about him was the difference between his eyebrows and his hair. His hair was thin and turning gray, his eyebrows thick, and a warm sienna brown. His clothes were a nearly an American businessman’s uniform as possible—white shirt with soft collar, gray suit with an innocuous stripe, and a plain dark blue tie.

I hope you’ve had enough to eat, he said, taking a sip of his coffee. They had been over an hour too late to eat with the cruise passengers. They had lunched alone on hors d’oeuvres, cold cuts, and a bottle of wine, splitting the cost of all but the wine, which he insisted should be his contribution.

I’ve had plenty to eat, and she wished she had the confidence to add, And too much to drink. She never had wine in the middle of the day. Sometimes a glass of sherry when her mother and she were lunching at the home of one of her sisters-in-law. It always made her sleepy. Moreover, this was the hour she rested, according to her Cascade schedule. Cascade was the name of Doctor Jaquith’s sanatorium in Vermont.

It had been a strenuous morning for an invalid. Her companion had been interested in every unusual detail Gibraltar has to offer a first visitor, from its fortress at the top of the rock to its monkeys which occasionally wander down to the town from their caves on the sides of the rock. He had spent over an hour among the shops, frequently consulting a small black leather book which he had produced from his breast pocket. One of his daughters, he explained, wanted a certain brand of perfumery which she’d heard one could get cheap in Gibraltar; and another, a certain kind of English sweater; and he’d also like to find something right for a girl around twelve. He would be grateful to her if she could direct him to the right shops for such articles. She had gone farther. She had helped him select the articles.

You’re not at all what I’d expected you’d be like, Miss Beauchamp, he remarked, draining his cup and pushing it aside.

As we met for the first time only two days ago, how could you possibly expect what I’d be like? she asked in that supercilious tone which she had learned to employ to conceal self-consciousness.

Oh, but I’ve heard of you! And you’re quite different from what I expected.

Pray how am I different? she inquired briefly, making her smoke screen still thicker by a condescending shrug.

You’re so much more comfortable. I mean— She saw a slight suggestion of dark color beneath the swarthiness of his face. It immediately steadied her. I mean you’re so much easier to talk to, he floundered. I’ve heard a lot about your weekends up there at your farm in Connecticut, and your monologues, and how clever you are. I have a friend who goes to your famous parties sometimes, and he’s told me about them. Classmate of mine at college. Frank McIntyre. Have you seen Mack lately?

No. Not lately. She paused. Nor ever, she added. I don’t know Mack.

But he told me—

Please listen. I’m not Renée Beauchamp. Renée is out in Arizona somewhere. A few days before this boat sailed she had an invitation from some friend of hers to visit his ranch.

But the ship’s hostess introduced you as Miss Beauchamp. And this morning Thompson—

I know. And the headwaiter, and the deck steward too—they all think I’m Miss Beauchamp. But the purser knows all about it. I took Renée Beauchamp’s space at the last moment—too late for my name to appear on the first passenger list printed. Renée was booked only as far as Nice. Naturally if you know anything about Renée Beauchamp, you know she isn’t the type to be taking this cruise, or any cruise, if she can help it.

Oh! Isn’t she? I suppose you are getting off at Nice, then?

No, I’m taking the whole trip.

As Miss Beauchamp? Keeping your own identity a secret?

That’s an idea! But no, the only reason I didn’t correct the mistake up there on the deck when we were introduced was because there was such a crowd it would have been awkward.

Oh, then you do remember meeting me on the deck! Let’s have a liqueur on the strength of it. What do you say?

Before she could say anything he had pushed back his chair and had gone in search of a waiter. She remembered perfectly when Miss Demarest, the ship’s hostess, had introduced them. It had been her first day on the deck—her first appearance in her borrowed clothes since her transformation that last hurried day in New York.

She had lain in a state of half torpor for the first three days out of port, and for the next two had remained in her stateroom, grateful for disagreeable weather, disagreeable physical symptoms, for anything that provided an excuse for remaining a few days longer in hiding.

She had carefully kept in the background when the other passengers gathered at the deck railing to exclaim on the spectacular sight of the Azores which had appeared at the sunset hour, green as June peas on the pewter-gray sea. They were the first sight of land since the New Jersey coast had disappeared five days ago, and the first clear sunset. She was seated in her steamer chair, or rather in Renée Beauchamp’s steamer chair (it still bore her name), when Miss Demarest spied her and exclaimed with a squeal of delight, Oh Miss Beauchamp! At last! I want to introduce you to these people! And she had routed her out of the chair, and led her to a group of strangers of which this man had been one. They hadn’t exchanged a single word.

I’ve ordered two Cointreaus, he announced when he again returned to the sunny table. I hope that is all right for you. Is that the coast of Africa over there?

No, no, no! Spain! she laughed.

Bullfights. Matadors. Grilled ironwork. Señoritas, he sighed, gazing wistfully. That is, if the old traditional Spain is Hemingway and Carmen. I’ve never been there. The fact is I’ve never been much of anywhere east of New York, he laughed. I’d give anything if I could be in your shoes and take the whole cruise.

Where are you leaving the boat?

At Nice, worse luck. I’m on my way to Milan on business. Look here, he broke off, if you aren’t Miss Beauchamp, who are you, please?

I’m not quite sure, she said, glancing down at her unfamiliar foot. Not since a specialist in orthopedics had told her mother 20 years ago that she required a certain low-heeled, wide-toed shoe had she worn anything else. Again she wished she dared to reply, If there’s any truth in the adage, Clothes make the man, then at present I’m my sister-in-law, Lisa.

Not quite sure who you are?

No. But don’t be alarmed. I’m quite harmless.

A waiter approached with two tiny glasses on a tray. The glasses were filled with liquid clear as dewdrops. Her companion raised his glass high, and looking straight into her eyes, exclaimed, Well, here’s how, Stranger.

She was not accustomed to these little playful ceremonies. But she could at least do as he did. She raised her glass to the same level as his and repeated his words, Well, here’s how, Stranger.

By the way, he remarked, twirling the slender stem of his empty liqueur glass between his thumb and forefinger, don’t you think I ought to know your name before the day is over?

But I don’t know yours!

You don’t! How stupid of me to think you got it when no one ever listens to names. My name is Durrance. He spelled it. On the passenger list I’m J. D. Durrance, New York City. Now it’s your turn.

My name is Vale. She also spelled it. If I’m ever on the passenger list, I’ll be ‘C. Vale, Boston, Mass.’

I’ve heard of Boston. He smiled. And the name Vale, like Bunker Hill, rings a familiar bell. Are you one of the Vales of Boston?

One of the lesser ones.

Well, which? I don’t know yet whether it’s Miss or Mrs.

It’s Aunt. I’m the proverbial spinster aunt. Most families have one, you know. Her mouth fell into the lines of the least resistance—a downward curve, with the corners lifted into an ironical smile.

"But aunt what?"

She couldn’t keep up the persiflage any longer. My name is Charlotte Vale, she announced flatly, as if she resented the fact. "Miss Charlotte Vale."

It was several hours later when they were seated in the tender crossing the harbor to the waiting ocean liner that he produced a small package from his overcoat pocket. It was wrapped in bright pink paper, tied with fine string, strong as dental floss, with a loop so one could carry it dangling on one’s finger. He held it up before her by the loop.

I hope you’ll accept a slight offering for being my guide today. I don’t know the first thing about perfumery, but the clerk said this was all right. It’s a mixture of several kinds of flowers. It’s called Quelques Fleurs. I thought that would be safe, as I don’t know your preference in flowers. He dropped the little package in her lap.

She was glad it was dusk, for she could feel the color mounting to her cheeks. Ridiculous! At her age! But she couldn’t remember that any man had ever gone into a shop and bought a present for her. Except her father. He used to. Her companion mustn’t know she didn’t use perfumery. Her mother had brought her up to believe it was bad taste. She lifted the little package.

Thank you ever so much, was all she could manage to say at first. But later she added, I’ll put some on my handkerchief tonight.

Will you? Good! And let’s meet for a cocktail in the bar at a quarter of eight.

2

LIKE CINDERELLA

When Charlotte reached her stateroom she switched on the lights, bolted the door, took off her hat and coat and sat down before the triple-mirrored dressing-table. Glancing into one of the side panels she gazed at her profile in another mirror across the room. The profile was looking away from her, which gave her the odd sensation of gazing at someone else. So that was how she looked! For years she had avoided all such painful speculation and shunned mirrors, schooling herself never to study her reflection in order to see herself as others saw her.

But today, although her companion had not remarked upon her appearance, several times she had caught that peculiar expression of approving appraisal which she had observed in other men’s eyes directed toward other women. Her borrowed clothes alone couldn’t draw forth such a look. Today she had been borrowing more than Lisa’s clothes—her manner, posture, many of her gestures. The fact was she had seen Lisa one day last summer dressed in this very same costume, all but the furs, seated at a small iron table on a terrace at her country house, knees crossed, elbows lightly placed upon the tabletop, with Barry Firth opposite looking at her, his eyes filled with far more than approval. Lisa was her sister-in-law, the widow of her oldest brother, Rupert, who had died six months ago. For years Charlotte had been observing Lisa enter rooms, preside at tea tables, rise, sit down, light a cigarette, toss away a match—speculating, with a dull pain of envy, what was the secret of her attraction. She had never attempted to imitate her. Even today her performance had been more the result of absorption than conscious imitation.

She and Lisa didn’t look alike. Lisa was fair, with faint, delicately penciled eyebrows, grey eyes, and fawn-colored hair. While she was dark. Spanish blood might have run in her veins. Her skin was dusky where the shadows fell; sallow was her own adjective for it. Her brows were black and had always been heavy and straight, nearly touching in the middle. Her hair, too, had always been heavy and straight, and dull and lusterless except on the first day after washing. Now, as she gazed, it was as glossy as a charred log with a wavy grain shining in the sun.

Up to six months ago her figure had been as unlike Lisa’s as her coloring—blocky, bulky, uncontrolled by a restricting diet. Her mother disapproved of skinny women, especially of those who starved themselves to keep so. Her mother disapproved of short hair, too. She had never allowed her daughter to cut it. As a child Charlotte had worn it in one long, heavy braid. Later she was taught to wind it into a bun, fastened at the back of her head with sturdy hairpins. Her bun was so heavy it dragged her hair back in an unbecoming fashion, slipping down until it looked as if it were resting on her shoulders, bound in place by cords. But now the cords had been cut. As she gazed at her long neck and the modeled contour of her head, that sensation of detachment from her own personality increased.

She turned away from her profile and, adjusting one of the side mirrors, studied the back of her head. The French coiffeur, into whose hands Lisa had delivered her a few hours before he boat sailed, had made some comments which she had remembered ever since. While busily snipping at the back of her head, after the heaviest locks were cut off, he had exclaimed, Oh, Mademoiselle, I discover something very valuable, like a nugget of gold buried beneath much earth! A widow’s peak behind! So nice a border will it make upon the neck, Mademoiselle must have her hair cut very short, n’est-ce pas?

She had no opinion to offer. Lisa was absent, attending to last minute details about her wardrobe. Lisa had told her to leave everything to Monsieur Henri. She was glad to do so. She felt little interest in a proceeding which she had consented to simply because she lacked sufficient spirit to combat it. Even during the ordeal of permanent-waving she had made no protest. Physical pain had the advantage of putting mental despair in the background for the time being.

After Monsieur Henri had finished with her that day, she had been transferred to another room, and laid out prone in a lowslung, streamlined dentist’s chair. Sheets had been spread over her body. Pads had been placed over her eyes. Steaming hot compresses and ice cold had been applied to her face. Afterward, her face underwent such a process of kneading, molding, slapping, rotating, vibrating, and she knew not what else, that it became numb to the various treatments applied. What did she care? Even before her illness her motto for years had been, Follow the line of least resistance.

It had been Lisa who had been at the bottom of the plot of her banishment from home to Cascade. Banishment? No, escape rather, as it turned out. Three months of blessed surcease from her mother’s taunts that her illness was only imagination. The diagnosis of her nervous breakdown had filled her mother with scorn. Charlotte no more had a nervous breakdown than a moulting canary! No one in the Vale family had ever had a nervous breakdown! As to Lisa’s proposal that Charlotte go to that place called Cascade, no one in the Vale family had ever been an inmate in a sanatorium or asylum, either!

Her mother was lunching at Lisa’s on the day Doctor Warburton, the family doctor, took her in his own car to the train bound for Cascade, and settled her in a drawing-room with a trained nurse. It was the first time she had taken a railroad journey without her mother since her father had died when she was at boarding school. Each time she had mustered enough courage to attempt to run down to New York, or to run anywhere for a day or two without her mother, it had ended in defeat. If she persisted in any such plan, her mother always had a heart attack, and a daughter cannot abandon a mother in physical distress.

Her mother had been well on in her forties when she had been born. Three boys had preceded her. The child of my old age, she had often heard herself described when she was small. It had always filled her with a vague sense of shame, as if her existence required an explanation. Or was it that her appearance required an explanation? Several times her mother had laughingly referred to her as my ugly duckling. She used to wonder if all children of old age were ugly ducklings—branded with marks of the advanced years of their parents. Her brothers were all handsome specimens. An old-fashioned little thing, was another phrase often applied to her when she was a child. She had always felt not only apologetic to her mother, but under deep obligation to make amends for her undesired arrival.

Ever since she was a child she had worn glasses. Steelbowed spectacles when she went to kindergarten; later, hornbowed spectacles; rimless eyeglasses at her coming-out party. You’ll never have another pair of eyes, her mother always warned her before ordering her to put on her glasses, if she ever caught her without them. At Cascade Doctor Jaquith had sent her to an oculist, later announcing that glasses were no longer necessary and advising her to discard them entirely. She always felt undressed without her glasses, as if she’d left off her shoes or blouse.

Gazing now in the mirror straight at her unspectacled, unfamiliar face, apprehension about the outcome of this ridiculous camouflage returned to her. The very expression of her face had changed. Lisa herself had been shocked by her altered appearance when she returned to Henri’s that last day in New York. Charlotte had overhead her gently expostulating with Monsieur Henri. Why had he been so extreme, she had inquired. It was always safer to cut hair the first time a little too long than too short, didn’t he think? But Mademoiselle say to me do as I wish, she do not care, he had protested. And so nice a shape head she has and two widows’ peaks. One in front and one behind.

Lisa had also remonstrated with the young lady who had presided over the streamlined dentist’s chair, and less gently. I said nothing about eyebrows, Célestine. You know very well I never allow you to pluck mine. How did you ever come to do such a thing? Because they were terrable, Madame. Not like yours. Verree thick and strong, like a man’s, and they meet in the middle and make her look always scowling. She say do anything I desire. It was no matter to her. Only in the middle did I pluck much. I make her look so beautiful, n’est-ce pas? She has nice skin. Well, well, it’s done, Lisa had laughed. It can’t be helped now. The eyebrows will grow again. So will her hair in time.

When Lisa had rejoined her in the waiting room, Have you looked at yourself? she had asked. She hadn’t. She hadn’t had the courage yet. Well, let’s wait till we’re safely on the boat. It sails in less than an hour. We must hurry. Here’s one of those fur-pieces that are simply indispensable on a cruise at this time of year, and she had opened a pasteboard box bearing the name of a well-known Fifth Avenue furrier. It cost something, I confess, but it’s worth it. I had it charged to Mother Vale.

Mother Vale could well afford the fur piece. She was one of the wealthiest of the wealthy old ladies