Man overboard!

CHAPTER I The Ship

-I am so glad we decided against the men!... And Marion Cody settled luxuriously among the cushions.

- I thought it was the men who decided against us. Sylvia Howard’s lips were drawn in the faintest smile.

- Now, Sylvia, don’t carp. Miss Cody patted her friend’s hand with generous authority. You know I am jealous of the men’s falling in love with you, my dear. You know I want you all for myself.

- But you love to sparkle, Cody, and you can’t all the time with just me.

- Don’t I sparkle for you, dear?

- Beautifully! But a diamond needs many candles.

- Now, Sylvia, I don’t want to be a diamond. I want to be a damned electric light.

- An arc light! You are! murmured Sylvia.

- Not enough either! 1 want to be a power-house.

- You run me, dear.

- It requires a complete electric system to do that. Look at that landscape. Have I not chosen well?

Their car was sweeping around a patterned valley that spread like a Persian rug before the mountain... Meadows, tilled fields, and villas, swung like tapestry, and curving drive- ways gave perspective to the design. Soon the driver turned into a private gate, standing open, and began to climb the leisurely ascent. First, they penetrated a young grove of eucalyptus, then crossed an extended flat of fresh-sprung barley. A thin hedge of pink geraniums screened the sea view, the top- most blossoms full eight feet above the ground.

- A man for pink ! laughed Miss Cody sententiously. Don’t tell me the men aren’t sentimental. They wallow in sentiment. Pink! That’s for love. And pink roses on the terraces!... I told you.

- Mr. Morgan was thinking of a contrast to the sea. He explained it to me on the train that pink gives more depth to the turquoise.

- Love, my dear, love was what he was thinking of. Even I am falling into Swinburnian rhymes. Love and of... 0, fiddle! I suppose all the men pronounce it uv.

- There’s the house behind the pepper trees. Isn’t it stunning! It heaves against the sky like a great white ship.

- Sylvia, you are the poet. To hell with Swinburne! Ship ahoy!... An idea... We’ll call it The Morganatic! How’s that for a pun? You are a genius.

- If it is a ship, Cody, you are the captain. There’s

Q

O none that can stand up against you.

- Then you shall be the mate. And this ear shall be the pinnace... Bo’sn, lay hard off the larboard bow. I say, Carlos, have you ever sailed a boat?

- Ma’am? questioned the driver deferentially... No. ma’am, I’ve always kept to the land.

- No more have I. But we shall call you Bo’sn. That’s sea-dog for boatswain. Now, remember.

- Yes, ma’am.

- No: you must say Ay, ay, Sir!

- Ay, ay, sir.

- It sounds like a boys’ club in a social settlement when the director asks for volunteers to pass programs. And, Cody...

- Captain, sir, corrected that lady authoritatively. When you speak of me, you may call me the skipper...

- I think, Captain Cody, went on Miss Howard in mock seriousness, I think the man who runs the pinnace is the cockswain.

- If you are going to quibble, matey, I think sailors do not speak of running a boat. But I sail above all such trivialities. I mean to go in for general effect only. Genre stuff, as our friends, the artists, put it.

At this moment the car drew up at a Gothic door set under a white stucco porch of Spanish architecture. Marigolds crowded thick about.

- It feels like a church rather than a ship, laughed Sylvia as she stepped inside the door-way.

- The cathedral builders had the same feeling when they called their main edifice the nave.

Mrs. Stowe was helping with the luggage.

- All right, Carlos, she was saying.

- Don’t forget, Bos’n, admonished the Captain.

- Ay, ay, Sir, Ma’am! Carlos bowed politely.

- It’s a ship, Mrs. Stowe, explained Miss Cody grandly. I am the Captain, and this is Miss Howard, the Mate. I will show her the cabin; you needn’t bother.

- Your state-rooms are all ready, Captain Cody.

- Ay, ay, Sir! replied the Captain still more grandly.

- Hall, English. I like the stairway; said Sylvia, admiring, and giving the Captain’s hand a delighted squeeze.

- Here is the dining-room: more on the Spanish order again; but dining-rooms the world over I fancy suggest mortuary rites rather than festivity.

-Oh, but the long windows give out to the sea! and Sylvia pushed through on to an open gallery, that extended the full length of the house.

This gallery had groined vaulting, like a cloister, supported on the outside by a row of stuccoed pillars, between which ran a bench-like balustrade. Around these the vivid red poinsettias trailed their flower-foliage against the whiteness of the plaster, forming most dramatic frames for the panels of the sea as the gazer paced down the sheltered corridor.. . turquoise, lapislazuli, malachite, jade, chrysophrase, amethyst and garnet... pigment colors could not name them, they were luminous, made of sunlight transmuted through water... far from sight lay the delectable islands, but 5 their presence was suggested by the floating continent of sea-kelp that mingled its Tyrian purples in the tides.

Sylvia walked down the full length of the open gallery, marvelling at each landscape vision as she passed it. The foreground was their lawn of native grasses, unmown and sprinkled in with flowers introduced with such modest art of the gardener as to yield the effect of natural bloom-strown meadow. Great boulders heaved their smooth backs here and there, while the receding slope of their hill-top gave so unobtrusively into the wide terraces of the garden that the result was one of centuries of old-world horticulture, but stimulated by the southern enthusiasm of California. The terraces were chiefly given over to olive orchard and vineyard, the spacious flats doubly planted with vegetable beds, where sometimes homelike flowers were interblended. A palm tree rose stately and lone at the abrupt ledge terminus of the second terrace, giving perspective to the sea view on the left, while on the right, where the terraces disappeared around the hill, the sea view rose beyond an orchard of tangerines and grapefruit, shimmering away into the tints of lost horizons.

Sylvia stood for some moments at the north end of the gallery where the stuccoed arch gave view up a glowing valley and thence away o’er the rounded backs of red-gold hills. Their own thorny rugged mountain lay to the left or westward, and could only be glimpsed around the pepper trees. The eucalyptus grove of the drive-way lay below, while to the right of it extended the barley fields and meadows, plumed frequently with 6 green live-oaks like aged apple trees, and sloping down distantly to the sea in a peninsula with a blue mountain at its point.

Sylvia turned to her companion enthusiastically, grasping her two hands and holding them, a sunshine of gratitude in her moist eyes like reflections in a brown meadow brook.

- Cody, let’s live here always, will you?... away from the world of strife, and men.

Marion Cody’s laugh was always a little hard, but now it mellowed with victorious content.

- It takes strife to acquire all this, matey. The men, I grant you, we could do very well without. But take a look at the music room before we go out to our hut.

They stepped through another of the full-length, open windows, and were in a hall more than ever like a church. Indeed, it resembled the interior of a Roman basilica, and held much of that same sense of sheltering space. The timbered and coffered ceiling was lofty, there was a gallery with alcoved stairway across one end; at the opposite end, a triple-arch window of soft translucent glass; on the veil wall side, a great chimney piece built in, like a chapel; withal an atmosphere for incense and rest-worship. There was no organ in the gallery as one would expect. Instead, the space was fitted with a library, lighted by low, balcony-giving windows. On a platform, just in front, was a grand piano standing open, drawn forward from beneath the gallery sufficiently so that its low architrave would not interfere with the sound.

Sylvia threw off her hat and gloves and running to it with laughing seriousness struck the first bars of the Pilgrims’ Chorus. The accoustics proved good, the melody rolled, and both women gave up to its enjoyment. Then, as if well arranged by a stage manager, a door opened softly beneath the gallery, and in pranced the athletic figure of a dancer, a buxom young woman of five and twenty, clad in the scantiest costume of trunks and tunic, bare arms, bare legs, her round head wreathed with lilies, taking rhythmically, in accordance with the music, the attitudes expressive of the theme.

Behind her, in the doorway, stood another young woman, but conventionally dressed, this one like a saucy bunch of sunshine in gay laughter, her white ruffled frock set off with clusters of nasturtiums arranged audaciously at her throat and at her belt. Still back of her appeared two other women, arm-linked, one a mannish little figure in gray walking costume, with thin hair and sallow 7 face and bead-bright eyes, her companion, more youthful and of a melancholy richness, slender, passionate, dark, and wfith a sensitive petulance in her smiling that gave warning of anger to be aroused. These were respectively dancer, pianist, poet, painter, already established members of the household, and they were coming into the studio for their regular afternoon session of work, each one equipped with the paraphenalia of her profession, and all, except the dancer, somewhat dismayed at the intrusion 8 and- familiar occupancy of the new arrivals, whom they supposed had gone directly to their rooms.

Each one had met the surprise in characteristic manner: the dancer... her name was Cecily Blount... had accepted music and an audience as her natural element, and like a gold-fish that has found a new retreat in its aquarium, had begun to swum in it on a tour of exploration; the ingenuous pianist, also familiar with audiences of strangers, had only to be gay and look pretty; the poetess, who took all thrills very seriously, felt bound to be quite shivery w T ith this one; the painter, who had lived much alone and was more suspicious, wondered why the new T guests had not announced themselves in more formal manner... their taking thus possession seemed somew 7 hat fonvard.

But Miss Cody was a woman of the wmrld, and passing the dancer w r ith gay mimicry of mock obeisance, she advanced cordially to the hesitating artist, and addressing her as Miss Gaylord, the hostess, made apology and explanation for their presence, calling Sylvia for formal introduction.

- She has just escaped from a religious aunt in Los Angeles, she said laughing, and too much liberty has affected her brain.

With such chatter a pleasant basis was established and everything settled down into its natural sequence, the pianist, Miss Knox, began arranging her music for the dancer, Miss Gaylord brought forth her easel and scrutinized the canvas critically, the poetess, who had been introduced as Mrs. Letitia Sw T an, took out her tab- 9 let and awaited inspiration, while the new arrivals went off to their rooms, which were in a rustic hut on a lower terrace of the garden, on a rounded point with the citrus grove beneath it, and looking across to an added expanse of sea.

- How did the poetess ever get among them? queried Sylvia while preparing for the bath. But I suppose there must always be a discord to accent the harmony of the composition.

- How clever you are, matey, to grasp a situation! Now when I was here last week, I thought the poetess the most interesting of the bunch. But today, her voice did grate on my nerves. The greatest gift a woman can have is not beauty, or sympathy, it seems, but rather, a mellow, vibrant voice.

- It is the sympathy, behind, that gives real mellowness, said Sylvia from the bath-room, in the midst of splashing.

Miss Cody was taking down her hair before the panel-glass, and its glossy blackness always had the effect to make her silent.

- Her voice is raspy like her manner, went on Sylvia. Is Swan her maiden name, or the name of her divorced husband?

- Husband’s name, I fancy. I’m not sure. 1 should like to get a glimpse of the man who would marry her.

- If ’twas long ago, no doubt she was prettier.

- Sylvia, do you think 1 have a mannish voice?

- Strong and rich, but not mannish, assured Sylvia promptly. At least not masculine. You sometimes af- 10 feet the mannish.

- A protest against my timidity, asserted Marion.

- The pianist is the nicest, resumed Sylvia musing, But Beatrice Knox is not a suitable name for her.

- Bee, or Trixie, would not go so badly.

- But Knox! It sounds like the prize ring, or the War Department Building.

-She ought to be Cecily instead of that Amazonian dancer. Why will women with fat legs persist in showing them?

- Or skinny legs either, for that matter, urged Sylvia, I hate nudity in women. It’s repulsive.

- In women! It’s more repulsive in men.

- They are not given to showing themselves... the manly ones.

- And what is your impression of Miss Gaylord? Charlotte now becomes her very well.

-Jealous, restless, morbid, extremely sensitive... deliberated Sylvia, I think we shall like her the best of the lot. I suppose such combinations as this are always bizarre.

- They fit in with each other better than we do with them. But I mean to cultivate every one just the same. I shall put them all into my next novel.

- I suppose it was Mr. Morgan who rounded them up.

- My dear, we are not cattle nor he a ranche-man. Turn on the water for me when you have finished. How fresh you look in that pink robe! Yes, lovely! You really ought to have an evening gown of pink.

- I am partial to pale green; pink is infantile.

- You have the complexion of an infant. Now, don’t pout. Your high forehead suggests Minerva.

- Minerva with a Roman nose! 0, Cody!

- A Roman nose is better than a dished one, and my face is spotted like a strawberry bed. Yes, Sylvia, you are the beauty of our corporation. You may as well be resigned to play the part.

- 1 don’t have any more style than a mouse, and you walk like a grenadier in full uniform.

- Darling, don’t the grenadiers ride?

- Not in the illustrated papers... I wish my name were Letitia.

- It would suit your prim little mouth better than it does that steel trap it belongs to.

- I didn’t notice Mrs. Swan’s mouth was like a steel trap. Her eyes were pleasant... Let’s loll until it’s time to dress for dinner.

- You moon about the view while I am in the bath. It is glorious. Even my prosaic self am disposed to eulogize.

Sylvia was half reclining in the window-seat, looking out over the opaque sheen of the Pacific. A palm tree stood close by to aid perspective and a thin hedge of pink roses laced the foreground which was a tilled terrace planted with olive trees and kitchen vegetables. An acequia flowed over gray boulders close by the hut, tempering the heat with a constant coolness of tinkling water. Even colors were made to contribute to the effect of freshness, for the kitchen garden contained 12 nothing of the hot greens of potatoes or carrots, but the blues of cauliflowers leeks and cabbage blended in with the gray leafage of the olives, while against the wall vined the acanthus-like tendrils of the artichoke in harmonious softness of cool tones. Below the three broad terraces were grass-clipped pastures, plumed with live-oak trees suggesting ancient orchards, their shade sparsely dotted with resting sheep.

- It is Arcady, save Pan and his shepherds! sighed Sylvia. It the Isles of Greece...

- The Isles of Greece, where burning Sappho loved and sung... spouted Marion. Don’t ask me for more, though it was in my ‘Favorite Selections’. .

- Do you know, I have half a hankering for Byron.

- Sylvia Howard, will you leave such degeneracies with the Hoosier dialect? Can I not rouse you with mention of all the poetry journals on the continent, and the adulations paid therein to S. H., the subtlest mistress of the rhythms and imagery of vers libre? If California is going to sentimentalize you back to Byron we’ll take the first train for New York. Next thing you will be yearning for Felicia Dorothea Hemans, or Jean Ingelow. My God, Matey, what an old woman I have become ! It was aeons ago I used to read the Bells of Enderby... “Play uppe, play uppe... in some way I imagined that rhymed with puppy -

- And I used to dote on The Letter L, mused Sylvia.

- “You are old, Father William...” Come, let’s be seaworthy. We’re aboard The Morganatic. Tomor- 18 row I shall get busy with the ship’s log, in land-lubber terms, the eighth chapter of my novel; and you, my dear, must finish your volume of poems: the publishers, the critics, the public, all demand it.

They set about their dressing for dinner with all the care of ladies who are to dine formally. They recognized that women are more exacting about such niceties than when there are to be men at the table. Miss Cody was resplendent in white satin, extremely low cut and generous as to train. With bare shoulders, her imperially crowned head showed to advantage; and while her features were irregular, they were strong, and did not belie the proud dignity ,of her gracious carriage. Sylvia was gowned in her favorite pale green... round cut neck, and silver fillet in her hair. Sylvia was always sweet and lovely, but with a modesty that was at the same time placid and self-contained

As the two walked along the gravel path to the house, they were well worthy of the admiration they elicited from the group awaiting them on the long gallery, itself a colorful picture framed in by the poinsettia-laced pillars. Beatrice Knox was dressed in white with marigolds in her sunshiny hair and at her belt. Charlotte Gaylord was in purple silk with amber beads. Cecily Blount, in nasturtium red and t yellow. Letitia Swan looked hot and sallow in gray, while another lady, cool and pallid in the same color, stood formally awaiting introduction.

- Dr. Maxwell, brusquely explained the stuffy poetess. Miss Cody and Miss Howard, she added.

It was as natural for Marion Cody to take the leadership as it was for the others to follow. None the less, it was Miss Gaylord who acted as hostess and took the place to serve at the head of the table. As Miss Cody was placed at the foot, socially speaking, the table turned a summersault in an instant; or was it that Miss Cody became the host, whereas Miss Gaylord still retained her serving office?

- This villa has many perfections, began Marion, as all seemed to be awaiting her comment, but not the least of them, I think you will agree with me, is the fact that there are not any men.

- Confusion to the men! proclaimed Mrs. Letitia Swan.

- If we wish them confusion, laughed Beatrice Knox with a flash, I think we should charge them like an army.

- Or like sunlight in a marsh, said Sylvia prettily, her glance of approval showing where the compliment was directed.

- I’m sure I don’t wish the men more confusion than they are already in, corrected Charlotte Gaylord.

- My dear lady, Miss Cody took the reins, I assure you I was not defaming the noble creatures, I was selfishly thinking only of ourselves. I believe we are all here to work, and men, to say the least, are an interruption.

- They have to be amused, chimed silvery Sylvia.

- Flatter them and ’tis done, laughed Miss Knox.

- Yes, men are bowled over by flattery, echoed the poetess.

- We must not allow them a monopoly of that weakness, urged Miss Cody; you speak now of a drink of which I am particularly fond.

- Why not a flower, Cody? asked Miss Howard.

- It is stronger than a flower: it is a liquor. Does it not intoxicate, even to folly, if not to madness?... Flatter me, friends, flatter me, and I am your slave!

The poetess was put out, and turned to the Doctor. The conversation became divided and personal, it was not until they had retired to the library for coffee that Miss Cody broached her theory of the ship.

- It is a ship, and I am the Chief Steward, announced the poetess, who had returned to spokesmanship.

- Salute the Chief Steward ! said Miss Cody taking command.

- Then I ought to be the Engineer, suggested Charlotte Gaylord in the trembling hope that they would name her for Captain.

- Salute the Engineer! commanded the commanding Marion.

- I propose Miss Cody for Captain. It was the innocence of Beatrice Knox that made the rush.

- Salute Captain Cody! said Sylvia softly; and at once they all felt it had to be.

- I am going to be a Midshipman, announced the guy Beatrice. I shall carry all the intimate orders to the mate.

- But who will be the Mate? asked Cecily Blount.

I shall be Purser: he’s always fat.

- There’s nobody left, but Miss Howard, if Miss Maxwell reserves her prerogative as Ship’s Doctor.

- Matey, you’re elected! declared the Captain.

- When the question of a name for the ship was introduced, it was the Captain who proposed The Morganatic. - While genuine, it is unofficial, she put forth, and I am sure our landlord will enjoy the pun.

Mrs. Stowe, the Cabin Steward, was consulted, and she assured them Mr. Morgan would be delighted. When she had rented the villa of him for a boardinghouse, they had tried to introduce the word, pension, to apply to it, but it didn’t take... many people could not pronounce it, and the place was now inconveniently nameless.

Then the question came up of a formal christening with a bottle of champagne in nautical fashion, but always the interest of the discussion centred around men... should they invite men aboard their ship, or should they exclude them? They finally put the matter to ballot, wherein each voter was asked to give her reasons. The Purser took charge of the roster, Each speaker was allowed two minutes uninterrupted. Here is the report of the Purser, taken from the ship’s log:

“Captain Marion Cody being first asked for vote with statement, deposed and pronounced as follows...

‘Each one of us has come here for her winter’s work... I speak only for myself: I have to finish a novel; my publishers must have the manuscript by April, and it is already the seventh of January... Now, men 17 guests mean entertainment, conversation. Also vve must accept their invitations in return. We all know how much energy this consumes, not to speak of the time. If one. has the right to invite guests, we all have, and we will soon be rivaling each other in hospitality. We make no rule about entertaining on shore. There is a club house along side at which we all have cards. Here on board, we are practically all strangers to each other, and we have ample opportunity among ourselves for companionship and entertainment. As for taking men on board the Morganatic, my vote is... No. Please so record it.

“Mate Sylvia Howard spoke as follows: ‘I like men and their company, but I’ve come to rest; also, a little, I hope, to work. 1 vote... No, for reasons similar to the Captain’s.

“Chief Engineer, Charlotte Gaylord, said: ‘I don’t wan’t to ask any men, myself, but just to stand out for individual freedom, I vote... Yes. {applause)

“Chief Steward, Letitia Swan... 'God damn the ..jen I I say every time. If 1 could, I’d vote ’em off the face of the earth. ( cheers )

“The Purser, Cecily Blount... As 1 want to make my exercises practically nude, I must selfishly vote... No, to all men.

“The Midshipman, Beatrice Knox... ‘Men are nice, and 1 like them, and I don’t care; I think I’ll vote... Yes: against the Captain.

“The Doctor, Priscilla Maxwell... ‘The matter is one of complete indifference to me. If men are about, 18

I do not notice it. Neither do 1 notice it if they are away. I wish to work constantly at my micropcope. But not to seem to oppose men, I vote... Yes.

Summary: the vote stands, four against, and three for. Decision... Men shall not be permitted on board.

CHAPTER II The Man

A week of plain sailing passed over the Morganatic, only ruffled by the arrival of two more shipmates, a sculptress and her daughter from St. Louis, who were immediately dubbed The Passengers, First and Second Class.

Irene Duke was a woman still in the prime of her beauty at forty, and a formidable rival for younger women whenever men entered into consideration... True, she was not tall like the Captain; she had nothing of the sweet sensitiveness of the Mate. These two latter women immediately pronounced her bold, and if a Greek statue could be characterized as bold, their dictum might be justified by reasons. Familiar with nude figures from her girlhood, she had no sense of shame about exposure. She, herself, had much of the Greek in her figure, cultivated as it had been along lines of aesthetic sentiment. Her feet, limbs, and torse 22 had never been confined by tight clothing, her throat had never been marred by stiff collars, her arms gave naturally to free, upward movement, and her round head, strongly poised on supple neck, lent expression genuinely statuesque to her features which were regular and not unlike the Greek, while her soft skin had the placidity of pink-tinged marble. Indeed, she was in every way superior to the over-practiced figure of Cecily Blount: for whereas the dancer had studied only for display, and had taken her exercises accordingly, the sculptress had kept beauty for her ideal, and, not applying it consciously to. herself, had grown into it through devotion to the universal. She was fond of making her person beautiful, it is true, and was wont to twine leaves in her smooth braids, that were always bound crown-like around her head; but she had the sculptor’s faculty of seeing her beauty outside of herself, for its own sake, rather than as satisfaction to her vanity. Her eyes were gray, her brows level and cleanly penciled with ashen brown to match her hair. Her lips were pink with the health of a young girl; they knew how to take pretty curves, quite coquettishly , for notwithstanding her marble-like serenity, she was in no way a woman of stone.

Her daughter, Tessie, as is not unusual among the daughters of ‘advanced women’, was conventional in figure, dress, and manner. Of russet freckled complexion, brown eyes and brilliant red hair - like sunlit copper - she cultivated high-heeled shoes and tight-laced clothing, stiff collars, long sleeves, and fashionable 23 hats, but in methods of flirtation, *ar ahead of her mother, which went well with her scarce now twenty years. She immediately became chums with Beatrice Knox. She looked somewhat askance at Cecily Blount. Being familiar from childhood with her mother’s free ways, she never considered them questionable, or did not seem to... She was healthy, normal, spirited, not pretty, and soon became the pet and friend of all. She could sing, dance, play the piano, do various ‘stunts’; and with the Midshipman, gave the entire company a flavor of youthfulness: even the Doctor and the Chief Steward learned to skip, rejuvenated by this innoculation of girlhood buoyancy.

The Morganatic, itself, was like a landscape in a honeymoon; for the name was made to include the grounds and garden as the three huts were well outside the lawn of the house. The estate had been designed by Mr. Morgan, before the fatal illness of his wife, for a group of artists they had gathered about them... the music-room had been a studio for the painters, and the three huts for their private accommodation. When Mr. Morgan found himself alone, being left, as he was, childless and without family attachment, he had found the place too suggestive of old memories and withdrawn to the comfortable bachelorhood of the Country Club. At first he had planned to let the villa, but that would involve the dismissal of the househeeper, Mrs. Stowe; the servants, too, had become attached to the place, and there was always the probability of return, so it was decided to keep the household together. But the 24 stables, the garden, the garage, were a heavy expense, to lighten which, the thrifty Mrs. Stowe hit upon the plan of a pension. Also it would not be in the hands of strangers, as all the guests were friends of Mr. Morgan who would respect his personal affection in all details. He was fond of a house full of company, perhaps more than ever in his loneliness, and without seeming to entertain in his years of mourning, this business arrangement would keep him in contact with sympathetic and clever women for whom he held a cultivated appreciation gained from a life of leisure and observation.