“Well, for goodness’ sake, suggested what?”
“Everybody else has berths,” he said. “You better let me get you one, because there’s no sense in your sitting up all night. There’s no knowing when we’ll get in.”
“But, Paul, I hate to have you spend so much. I could sleep a little right here.” A vision of the office went through her mind, and she saw herself, sleepy-eyed, struggling to get messages into the right envelopes and trying to manage the unmanageable messenger-boys. She was tired. But it would be awfully expensive, no doubt. “And besides, I’d rather stay here with you,” she said.
“So would I. But we might as well be sensible. You’ve got to work, and I’d probably go to sleep, too. Come on, let’s see how much it is, anyhow.”
They found the right place after wandering twice around the boat. A weary man sat behind the half-door, adding up a column of figures. “Berths? Sure. Outside, of course. One left. Dollar and a half.” His expectation brought the money, as if automatically, from Paul’s pocket. He came out, yawning, a key with a dangling tag in his hand. “This way.”
They followed him down the corridor. Matters seemed to be taken from their hands. He stepped out on the dark deck.
“Careful there, better give your wife a hand over those ropes,” he cautioned over his shoulder, and they heard the sound of a key in a lock. An oblong of light appeared; he stepped out again to let them pass him. They went in. “There’s towels. Everything all right, I guess,” he said cheerfully. “Good night.”
Their eyes met for one horrified second. Embarrassment covered them both like a flame. “I—Helen! You don’t think—?” They swayed uncertainly in the narrow space between berths and washstand. Did the boat jolt so or was it the beating of her heart?
“Paul, did you hear? How could—?”
“I guess I better go now,” he said. He fumbled with the door. “Good night.”
“Good night.” She felt suddenly forlorn. But he was not gone. “Helen? It might be true. We might be married!”
She clung to him.
“We can’t! We couldn’t! Oh, Paul, I love you so!”
“We can be married—we will be—just as soon as we get to Sacramento.” His kisses smothered her. “The very first thing in the morning! We’ll manage somehow. I’ll always love you just as much. Helen, what’s the matter? Look at me. Darling!”
“We can’t,” she gasped. “I’d be spoiling everything for you. Your mother and me and everything on your hands, and you’re just getting started. You’d hate me after a while. No, no, no!”
They stumbled apart.
“What am I saying?” he said hoarsely, and she turned away from him, hiding her face.
A rush of cold moist air blew in upon her from the open doorway. He was gone. She got the door shut, and sat down on the edge of the berth. A cool breeze flowed in like water through the shutters of the windows; she felt the throbbing of the engines. Even through her closed lids she could not bear the light, and after a while she turned it out, trembling, and lay open-eyed in the darkness.
The stopping of the boat struck her aching nerves like a blow. She sat up, neither asleep nor awake, pushing her hair back from a face that seemed sodden and lifeless. A pale twilight filled the stateroom. She smoothed her hair, straightened her crumpled dress as well as she could, and went out on the deck. The boat lay at the Sacramento landing.
A few feet away Paul was leaning upon the railing, his face pale and haggard in the cold light As she went toward him the events of the night danced fantastically through her brain, as grotesque and feverish as images in a dream.
“You don’t hate me, do you, Helen?” he pleaded hopelessly.
“Of course not,” she said. Through her weariness she felt a stirring of pity. For the first time in her life she told herself to smile, and did it. “We’d better be getting off, hadn’t we?”
The grayness of dawn was in the air, paling the streetlights. A few workmen passed them, plodding stolidly, carrying lunch-pails and tools; a baker’s wagon rattled by, awakening loud echoes. She tried to comfort Paul, whose talk was one long self-reproach.
He hoped she would not get into a row with the folks where she stayed. If she did, she must let him know; he wouldn’t stand for anything like that. She could reach him in Masonville till Saturday; then he would come down again on his way home. He hadn’t thought he could stop on the way back, but he would. He’d be worried about her until he saw her again and was sure everything was all right. He had been an awful boob not to be sure about the boat; he’d never forgive himself if—
“What is it?” he broke off. She had turned to look after a young man who passed them. The motion was almost automatic; she had hardly seen the man and not until he was past did her tired mind register an impression of a cynically smiling eye.
“Nothing,” she said. She had been right; it was McCormick. But it would require too much effort to talk about him.
The blinds of Mrs. Campbell’s house were still down when they reached it. The tight roll of the morning paper lay on the porch. She would have to ring, of course, to get in. They faced each other on the damp cement walk, the freshness of the dewy lawns about them.
“Well, goodbye.”
“Goodbye.” They felt constrained in the daylight, under the blank stare of the windows. Their hands clung. “You really aren’t mad at me, Helen, about anything?”
“Of course I’m not. Nothing’s happened that wasn’t as much my fault as it was yours.”
“You’ll let me know?”
She promised, though she had no
