Chapter XIII: Faces in the Mist

The evening meal in the small saloon of the _Mercur_ was bright and pleasant, even though it consisted of tinned provisions and many varieties of cheese in Norwegian style.

Captain Martin, his uniform carefully brushed, his linen spotless, and his fair moustache carefully curled, sat at the head of the table smiling brightly, while Berentsen, the bluff old whaler, and Owen Odd were the life and soul of the little party.

Paul Grinevitch had been allotted a place opposite Jervoise, but as he seated himself the Englishman had smiled affably and remarked that it was the first civilised meal he and his companion had enjoyed since leaving Vadso. The Russian having replied with equal affability, none of the party guessed that the two men had met on a previous occasion in circumstances both remarkable and tragic.

Indeed, Thyra, her lover, and Dick Jervoise were soon in animated conversation, the last-named describing their journey to Karasjok and relating many of the humorous incidents of the road.

Now and then the two men exchanged glances—quick, covert glances—each wondering what was passing at the back of the other’s mind, while Owen was laughing heartily with Martin and the grey-bearded harbour-master, the hunchback mail officer and the engineer joining in the hilarious chorus. Captain Berentsen’s broad smile lighting his weather-beaten face, told of unruffled good humour, that easy-going good-fellowship of the true-born sailor. Full of amusing anecdote and possessor of a keen sense of humour, he kept the little company in fits of laughter as he related to them some of the ludicrous experiences during his whaling days. He had, just before his appointment as harbour-master, been second in command of the copy of the Viking ship built by the Norwegian Government and sent over for exhibition at the World’s Fair in Chicago.

The voyage of the weird-looking craft across the Atlantic and the sensation it caused aboard the various vessels met on the way, he described most humorously. Some skippers, discovering it looming up on the horizon, believed that Noah’s Ark was still afloat, while others fancied it was one of the Armada vessels risen from the deep, or the Flying Dutchman himself.

“You should have been on board with me!” he was saying in English. “We had the greatest fun, I assure you. We would refuse to answer signals, and they would heave-to and come on board to see who and what we really were. The crews of some craft were evidently frightened, for they stood away directly they sighted us. They believed Old Nick himself to be aboard.”

“Yes,” remarked Captain Martin; “no doubt it was a most unusual looking vessel, and must have given a good many people a turn! One doesn’t meet Viking ships on the high seas very often in one’s life.”

“Well, we, of course, acted suspiciously in order to puzzle every ship we met,” laughed Berentsen. “And in mid-Atlantic we experienced some very bad weather into the bargain.”

The meal was enlivened throughout by nautical and other reminiscences, and afterwards, at Dick’s request, Thyra went to the piano and, smiling sweetly, sang one or two of the gay French songs she had learned from a book, called “Les Chansons de Paris,” which Captain Martin had brought her up from the south a year before.

The first she sang was “Heures d’Ivresse,” the popular ditty which Leontine Deschamps sang for so long at the Folies Bergere, and the refrain of which was:—

Veux-tu, toi que j’adore,
Me dire encore, encore,
Ces mots voluptueux,
Tendrement amoureux?
Ces phrases si grisantes,
Si folles, si troublantes.
Viens me les dire encore,
Toi que j’adore!

This she followed by the dainty chansonette of Denoisy, “Les Refrains du Printemps”:—

Quand le printemps dans les buissons
Met un bouquet de fleurs nouvelles,
Il apporte aussi des chansons,
Dedans le coeur des demoiselles;
Les p’tits jeun’s gens sont plus legers,
Et trottinant, l’amour en tete,
Ils chantent d’un air degage.
Un gai refrain de chansonette:

Titine,
Mutine,
N’a pas dix-huit ans,
Et chante,
Contente,
Voici le printemps!

Sweetly she sang, with a tuneful verve and a pronunciation full of charm, and when she had ended all the party applauded her again and again, bringing a slight flush of embarrassment to her soft cheeks.

Captain Berentsen, a fine burly, grey-bearded figure as he stood at the table, his body swaying easily with the motion of the ship as became the sailor, gave a humorous recitation in Norwegian, while Dick Jervoise, now thoroughly reassured by the Russian’s attitude of pretended disregard of the past, gave one of the Ingoldsby Legends.

Thus passed the first evening of the southward voyage, Martin and Berentsen smoking their long, Norwegian pipes with the huge bowls, and everyone contributing to the general entertainment. Captain Martin had but little to do with the navigation of the ship, for so dangerous are the channels and fjords right down to Bergen that the vessel was constantly in charge of the two pilots which she always carried to and from the North.

Paul Grinevitch’s turn came. He seated himself at the piano and, with a quick glance at Jervoise first, ran his fingers over the yellow keys, and then, in a rather good tenor voice, began:—

On la nomme la Fanchonnette,
Elle est blondes, comme les bles,
Elle a la voix d’une fauvette,
Les yeux noirs, les cheveux boucles;
Elle est frele, mignonne et blanche,
Exhale un parfum embaume;
Nous nous connumes un dimanche,
Et depuis mon coeur fut charme.

Ma Fanchonnette
Svelte et simplette
Revets tes atours gracieux;
A la folie,
Fais-toi jolie,
Et le charme de tous les yeux
Ma favorite
Profitons vite
Car les beaux jours n’auront qu’un temps,
Et dans la fete
Des amourettes
Sachons depenser nos vingt ans,
Ma Fanchonnette!

Fanchonnette! Those words, that haunting refrain of the cafe concerts, brought back to the eyes of Dick Jervoise the vision that he would fain forget—the vision of that sweet-faced girl with whom he had walked in the olive groves at sundown and in the bright moonlight by the tideless southern sea! He tried to close his ears to the words, but, alas! it was impossible. He sat rigid, staring towards that man seated at the piano, that man who was taunting him, torturing him with a refinement of cruelty of which those about them never dreamed.

It was a pretty song. Ah! yes; but they knew not the tragic memories which that tune awakened within the heart of the tall Englishman. Before him rose a grey mist, and from it a woman’s face gazed forth, at first with a look of bitter reproach in her big, blue eyes, to be succeeded a moment later by an expression of terrible haunting horror, the face of a woman who was gazing into eternity.

Once, while singing, Paul Grinevitch, turned from the instrument and again glanced at Jervoise. Their eyes met. The singer recognised by the Englishman’s countenance the effect of the song upon him, and, after a pause, commenced the last verse.

It was _her_ song! Had not they both sat and witnessed her triumphs; had they not both joined their plaudits with those of the after-dinner crowds at the Alcazar d’Ete, the Ambassadeurs, Olympia, the Parisiana, and that gilded casino beside the Mediterranean? Ah! yes. It was her song—the one he remembered so well, the one she had sung at his request on that last never-to-be-forgotten night.

His nails drove themselves into his palms and the perspiration stood upon his brow at thought of it all. There was a grim fatality, surely, that he should meet Paul Grinevitch face to face—that Grinevitch himself should sing that song out upon that chill Arctic sea!

He sat staring straight before him, not moving a muscle. His attitude, though none noticed him save the Russian, was that of a man fascinated by a peep into the future.

Strange how a simple song, the scent of some common flower, the mention of a name, recalls in both men and women after long years the vivid recollection of a tender affection of a forgotten love. For one brief moment the heart strings are touched, and respond in sympathy. Then, disregarding the present, we live again for a short space beside the one we loved and, more often than not, drink our fill of the tragedy of the past.

Fanchonnette! The very name caused a big lump to rise in the throat of Dick Jervoise. The torture of it all was beyond endurance. He could have risen and struck down that grinning man who, singing her song, knew that he was cutting deeply into his enemy’s heart more cruelly and relentlessly than by a knife thrust. Scenes, some sweet and tender, some—alas! tragic and terrible, arose in quick succession before his clouded vision. In all he saw her countenance—that pale, wan face, with the shadow of death upon it—that face upon which he had, alas! looked for the last time!

Ah! it was cruel—too cruel of Grinevitch to sing that song. It was inhuman to thus torture him, well knowing that he dare not raise his voice in complaint.

At last the singer sang the concluding refrain, and then turned to his victim. But the latter dare not raise his gaze. He was sitting pale and erect, glaring before him at that hideous ghost of the past.

“What a charming little song!” Thyra declared; and as her lover rose from the piano and rejoined her she gazed into his eyes with an expression of fervent devotion.

As soon as he could, Dick Jervoise escaped from the saloon and, followed by Owen, ascended to the deck. The night was now dark, with a tearing wind straight from the ice-pack, causing the vessel to labour heavily in the long rollers, for they were now out in the open Polar Sea again, and would remain so until they reached Hammerfest.

Behind the canvas wind-screen on the bridge the pilot, in heavy fur coat and mitts, paced up and down, his keen, deep-set eyes ever upon his difficult course. From the high funnel sparks flew out far across the angry waters, while ever and anon a huge wave would strike the bows, causing the ship to shiver from stem to stern.

“Ah!” cried Dick to his companion, as he bared his head to the wind, “it is more pleasant up here than down there in that stuffy saloon.”

“Yes,” answered the Doctor, “I noticed just now that you were a bit pale, Dick. What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, my dear fellow—nothing,” laughed the other. “I’m tired, perhaps.”

“Better turn in early to-night,” the doctor suggested. “But, I say, the young couple seem most devoted, don’t they? Thyra has been engaged to the Russian for quite a long time, I hear, though the secret, for some reason or other, hasn’t been allowed to leak out. Then, all at once, it is announced, and the marriage hurried on as quickly as possible. Rather strange, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” responded Jervoise, as they walked together towards the stern, careful to avoid stumbling against the piles of miscellaneous deck cargo. “You said, I think, that the Russian has been staying in Vardo for some time. What took him up to such an out-of-the-world place, I wonder?”

“Who knows? What took us there, for example? Only just our wanderings. Same with him, I suppose. He met her, and fell in love with her—just as you or I would probably have done had we been first on the scene. Myself, I have no hesitation in saying that she’s one of the most charming and intelligent girls I’ve ever met.”

“We were agreed on that point on the first evening we went to the harbour-master’s house,” said Dick slowly. “What do you think of the man?”

“Well, rather a good sort, I should call him,” was Owen’s deliberate reply. “I know there’s a prejudice against Russians all the world over. People believe they treat their wives badly. But I can’t imagine him treating Thyra—or, in fact, any woman—badly. He’s completely devoted to her, that’s quite apparent, and she has eyes only for him. They make a very smart pair.”

Dick Jervoise smiled.

“Love-making is always amusing and sometimes ludicrous—when you are only a witness,” he said. “The lover always puts on his best behavior before his enchantress. It is certainly so in this case. Paul Grinevitch is, I admit, good-looking, courteous, well-spoken, and essentially a ladies’ man; but——” And he paused. His mouth shut with a snap.

“But what? Don’t you think he’ll make a good husband for our little Thyra? I call her ours because we seem to have discovered her.”

“Husband!” echoed his companion quickly. “Thyra would be better off in her grave than to marry such a man.”

“Why do you anticipate unhappiness for her?” asked Owen in quick suspicion.

“Because that man, like most of his race, conceals the claws within the velvet paw. When powerless, he is humble and humiliated; but give him power over a woman and he will tire of her and crush the heart—nay, the very life—from her. Ah! you don’t know, old chap—you don’t know.”

“Why, what’s the matter with you to-night, Dick?” inquired his friend. “You don’t seem to have a very good opinion of Paul Grinevitch.”

“No,” Jervoise snapped, “I have not. Thyra will regret the day of her marriage to that man—depend upon it.”

“Don’t you think your condemnation—well, rather premature, old fellow? You’ve only been with him a few hours.”

“I’ve seen sufficient to know the truth,” was the other’s hard response.

Could it be that Dick was jealous of the Russian, his friend wondered. He had noticed his curious pre-occupied demeanour all through their journey across from Vadso. Prior to their meeting with Thyra he had been his sane, rollicking, easy-going, cosmopolitan self. Could it mean that Dick had fallen desperately in love with the daughter of the harbour-master, and now, discovering that she already had a secret lover, he hated him?

That was the only solution of the problem. Dick, dear old Dick Jervoise—who was to him almost as a brother—was deeply in love! This Russian, with his courtly airs and piercing eyes so full of passionate glances, was his rival for the hand of the beautiful Thyra.

Owen Odd was silent. The position was both painful and difficult. He had never suspected it, for he had long ago believed Dick to be proof against a woman’s smiles, case-hardened against feminine blandishments, as most men who lead cosmopolitan lives at last become. But his words were sufficient proof of the hatred and bitterness in his heart.

“You don’t appear to like Paul Grinevitch, eh?” he repeated a few moments later.

“Like him!” cried Dick. “I—I hate him.”

“Because she loves him?” slowly suggested Owen in a softer voice.

“Not for one reason alone I hate him,” declared Dick frankly, “but for many.”

At that moment he would have given worlds to have been able to unburden his heart to his friend. But, alas! it was quite impossible.

Fanchonnette! Fanchonnette! That name, the haunting music, the face of that man seated at the piano was still before him, until he almost cried aloud to the wind in agony of soul.