Antony Gray,—Gardener - LM

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in the moonlit darkness, Antony found himself again on deck, and again leaning by the rail. Yet this time he had that page from his life-book for company; and, marvelling, he perused the written words thereon. It was extraordinary that they should hold such significance for him. And why for him alone? he queried. Might not another, others even, have read the selfsame words?

      With the thought came a pang of something akin to jealousy at his heart. He wanted the words for himself, written for him alone. And yet it was entirely obvious, considering the number at the table, that they must have been recorded for others also, since, as already mentioned, they but recorded the fact of her presence. But did they hold the same significance for the others? There was the question, and there possibly, nay probably, lay the comfort. Also, what lay on the other side of the page? Unanswerable at the moment.

      He looked down at the gliding water, alive, alight with brilliant phosphorus. A step behind him made his heart leap. He did not turn, but he was conscious of a figure on his right, also looking down upon the water. Suddenly there was a faint flutter of drapery, and the breeze sent a trail of something soft and silky across his eyes.

      “Oh, I am sorry,” said a voice in the darkness.

      Antony turned.

      “The wind caught it,” she explained apologetically, tucking the chiffon streamer within her cloak.

      Now, it is quite certain that Antony had here an opportunity to make one of those little ordinary pleasant remarks that invariably lead to a conversation, but none presented itself to his mind. He could do nothing but utter the merest formal, though of course polite, acknowledgment of her apology, his brain seeking wildly for further words the while. It found none.

      She gave him a little bow, courteous and not at all unfriendly, and moved away across the deck. Antony looked after her figure receding in the darkness.

      “Oh, you idiot,” he groaned within his heart, “you utter and double-dyed idiot.”

      He looked despairingly down at the water, and from it to the moonlit sky. Fate, so he mused ruefully, writes certain sentences in our life-book, truly; but it behoves each one of us to fill in between the lines. And he had filled in—nothing.

      An hour or so later he descended dejectedly to his cabin.

       Table of Contents

       Table of Contents

      He saw her at breakfast the next morning; and again, later, sitting on a deck-chair, with a book.

      Once more he cursed his folly of the previous evening. A word or two then, no matter how trivial their utterance, and the barriers of convention would have been passed. Even should Fate throw a like opportunity in his path again, it was entirely improbable that she would choose the same hour. She is ever chary of exact repetitions. And, if his stammering tongue failed in speech with the soft darkness to cover its shyness, how was it likely it would find utterance in the broad light of day? The Moment—he spelled it with a capital—had passed, and would never again recur. Therefore he seated himself on his own deck-chair, some twenty paces from her, and began to fill his pipe, gloomily enough. Yet, in spite of gloom, he watched her—surreptitiously of course. There was no ill-bred staring in his survey.

      She was again dressed in black, but this time the lace ruffles had given place to soft white muslin cuffs and collar. Her dark hair was covered by a broad-brimmed black hat. She was leaning back in her chair as she read, the book lying on her lap. Suddenly the gravity of her face relaxed. A smile rippled across it like a little breeze across the surface of some lake. The smile broke into silent laughter. Antony found himself smiling in response.

      She looked up from her book, and out over the sun-kissed water, the amusement still trembling on her lips and dancing in her eyes.

      “I wonder,” reflected Antony watching her, “what she has been reading.”

      For some ten minutes she sat gazing at the sunshine. Then she rose from her chair, placed her book upon it, and went towards the stairway which led to the lower deck.

      Antony looked at the empty chair—empty, that is, except for a pale blue cushion and a deeper blue book. On the back of the chair, certain letters were painted—P. di D.

      Antony surveyed them gravely. The first letter really engrossed his attention. The last was merely an adjunct. The first would represent—or should represent—the real woman. He marshalled every possibility before him, merely to dismiss them: Patience, Phyllis, Prudence, Priscilla, Perpetua, Penelope, Persis, Phœbe, Pauline—none were to his mind. The last appeared to him the most possible, and yet it did not truly belong. So he summed up its fitness. Yet, for the life of him, he could find no other. He had run through the whole gamut attached to the initial, so he told himself. Curiosity, or interest, call it what you will, fell back baffled.

      He got up from his chair, and began to pace the deck. Passing her chair, he gazed again upon the letters painted thereon, as if challenging them to disclose the secret. Inscrutable, they stared back blankly at him.

      Turning for the third time, he perceived that she had returned on deck. She was carrying a small bag of old gold brocade. She was in the chair once more as he came alongside of her; but the blue book had slipped to the ground. He bent to pick it up, involuntarily glancing at the title as he handed it to her. Dream Days. It fitted into his imaginings of her.

      “Do you know it?” she queried, noticing his glance.

      “No,” replied Antony, turning the book in his hands.

      “Oh, but you should,” she smiled back at him. “That is if you have the smallest memory of your own childhood. I was just laughing over ‘death letters’ ten minutes ago.”

      “Death letters?” queried Antony perplexed, the while his heart was singing a little pæan of joy at the vagaries of Fate’s methods.

      “Yes; a will or testament. But a death letter is so infinitely more explanatory. Don’t you think, so?”

      Antony laughed.

      “Of course,” he agreed, light breaking in upon him.

      “Take the book if you care to,” she said. “I know it nearly by heart. But I had it by me, and brought it on deck to look at it again. I didn’t want to get absorbed in anything entirely new. It takes one’s mind from all this, and seems a loss.” A little gesture indicated sunshine, sea, and sky.

      “Yes,” agreed Antony, “it’s waste of time to read in the open.” And then he stopped. “Oh, I didn’t mean—” he stammered, glancing down at the book, and perceiving ungraciousness in his words.

      “Oh, yes, you did,” she assured him smiling, “and it was quite true, and not in the least rude. Read it in your berth some time; you can do it there with an easy conscience.”

      She gave him a little nod, which might have been considered dismissal or a hint of emphasis. Antony, being of course aware that she could not possibly find it the same pleasure to talk to him as he found it to talk to her, took it as dismissal. With a word of thanks he moved off down the deck, the blue book in his hands.

      He found a retired spot forward on the boat. A curious shyness prevented him from returning to his own deck-chair, and reading the book within sight of her. In spite of his little remark against reading in the open, he was longing to make himself acquainted with the contents immediately. Had it not been her recommendation? Death letters! He laughed softly and joyously. He had never even given the things a thought before, and here, twice within ten days, they had been brought to his notice in a fashion that, to his mind, fell little short of the miraculous.

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