The Wings of the Morning | Page 2

uneasiness," he said. "Of course, typhoons in the China
Sea are nasty things while they last, but a ship like the Sirdar is not
troubled by them. She will drive through the worst gale she is likely to
meet here in less than twelve hours. Besides, I alter the course

somewhat as soon as I discover our position with regard to its center.
You see, Miss Deane--"
And Captain Ross forthwith illustrated on the back of a menu card the
spiral shape and progress of a cyclone. He so thoroughly mystified the
girl by his technical references to northern and southern hemispheres,
polar directions, revolving air-currents, external circumferences, and
diminished atmospheric pressures, that she was too bewildered to
reiterate a desire to visit the bridge.
Then the commander hurriedly excused himself, and the passengers
saw no more of him that day.
But his short scientific lecture achieved a double result. It rescued him
from a request which he could not possibly grant, and reassured Lady
Tozer. To the non-nautical mind it is the unknown that is fearful. A
storm classed as "periodic," whose velocity can be measured, whose
duration and direction can be determined beforehand by hours and
distances, ceases to be terrifying. It becomes an accepted fact, akin to
the steam-engine and the electric telegraph, marvelous yet
commonplace.
So her ladyship dismissed the topic as of no present interest, and
focused Miss Deane through her eye-glasses.
"Sir Arthur proposes to come home in June, I understand?" she
inquired.
Iris was a remarkably healthy young woman. A large banana
momentarily engaged her attention. She nodded affably.
"You will stay with relatives until he arrives?" pursued Lady Tozer.
The banana is a fruit of simple characteristics. The girl was able to
reply, with a touch of careless hauteur in her voice:
"Relatives! We have none--none whom we specially cultivate, that is. I
will stop in town a day or two to interview my dressmaker, and then go

straight to Helmdale, our place in Yorkshire."
"Surely you have a chaperon!"
"A chaperon! My dear Lady Tozer, did my father impress you as one
who would permit a fussy and stout old person to make my life
miserable?"
The acidity of the retort lay in the word "stout." But Iris was not
accustomed to cross-examination. During a three months' residence on
the island she had learnt how to avoid Lady Tozer. Here it was
impossible, and the older woman fastened upon her asp-like. Miss Iris
Deane was a toothsome morsel for gossip. Not yet twenty-one, the only
daughter of a wealthy baronet who owned a fleet of stately ships--the
Sirdar amongst them--a girl who had been mistress of her father's
house since her return from Dresden three years ago--young, beautiful,
rich--here was a combination for which men thanked a judicious
Heaven, whilst women sniffed enviously.
Business detained Sir Arthur. A war-cloud over-shadowed the two
great divisions of the yellow race. He must wait to see how matters
developed, but he would not expose Iris to the insidious treachery of a
Chinese spring. So, with tears, they separated. She was confided to the
personal charge of Captain Ross. At each point of call the company's
agents would be solicitous for her welfare. The cable's telegraphic eye
would watch her progress as that of some princely maiden sailing in
royal caravel. This fair, slender, well-formed girl--delightfully English
in face and figure--with her fresh, clear complexion, limpid blue eyes,
and shining brown hair, was a personage of some importance.
Lady Tozer knew these things and sighed complacently.
"Ah, well," she resumed. "Parents had different views when I was a girl.
But I assume Sir Arthur thinks you should become used to being your
own mistress in view of your approaching marriage."
"My--approaching--marriage!" cried Iris, now genuinely amazed.

"Yes. Is it not true that you are going to marry Lord Ventnor?"
A passing steward heard the point-blank question.
It had a curious effect upon him. He gazed with fiercely eager eyes at
Miss Deane, and so far forgot himself as to permit a dish of water ice to
rest against Sir John Tozer's bald head.
Iris could not help noting his strange behavior. A flash of humor chased
away her first angry resentment at Lady Tozer's interrogatory.
"That may be my happy fate," she answered gaily, "but Lord Ventnor
has not asked me."
"Every one says in Hong Kong--" began her ladyship.
"Confound you, you stupid rascal! what are you doing?" shouted Sir
John. His feeble nerves at last conveyed the information that something
more pronounced than a sudden draught affected his scalp; the ice was
melting.
The incident amused those passengers who sat near enough to observe
it. But the chief steward, hovering watchful near the captain's table,
darted forward. Pale with anger he hissed--
"Report yourself for duty