"You are a most extraordinary person, Madame Obosky. I--I can't dislike you. No, thank you, I sha'n't sit down. I came to see you about the naming of the baby. I suppose you know that we women have decided to oppose the--"

"Yes, yes,--I know," interrupted the other. "But why should we oppose?

It is a very small matter."

"Do you really believe those men had--or have--the right to give a name to Betty Cruise's baby? I don't believe it, Madame Obosky."

"In the first place, can you blame Mr. Percivail for taking the matter out of the mother's hands? Mothers are very, oh, so very stupid sometime, you know. For example, my dear Miss Clinton, you have but to see what Mr. Percivail's mother did to him when he was an infant. She called him Algernon Adonis,--and why? Because she thought he was the most wonderful child in all the world,--and because she was silly. I can almost hear her arguing now with the father, poor man. One day I asked Algernon Adonis what name his father called him by,--I was so sure he would not call him Algernon. He said that up to the day his father died he called him Bud. That's a toy's name, you see. I am in favour of children being named by outsiders, disinterested outsiders,--a committee or something,--men preferably. I think this child should be called Doraine. Betty Cruise she do not care what she call it now that it is not possible to call it Jimmy Percivail or Percivail Jimmy. Has it occur to you that if it had been a boy, all these men would have insisted on Jimmy, without the Percivail?"

"I like the name Doraine,--we all do. What we resent is Mr. Percival's presumption in--"

"Let me tell you one more thing. Do not permit Mr. Percivail to address your indignation meeting tonight, for if you do, and he smiles zat nice, good-humoured smile and tells the ladies zat he is sorry to have displease them, and zat he is to blame entirely for the blunder,--poof!

Zat will be the end!"

"I am not so sure of that," said Ruth. "There are some very determined women among us, Madame Obosky." A faint line appeared between her eyes, however,--a line acknowledging doubt and uncertainty. "And you will not join us in the protest?"

"No," said Olga, shaking her head. "I am content to let the men have their way in small things, Miss Clinton. It makes zem--them so much easier to manage when it comes to the big things. I speak from experience. Once let a man think he is monarch of all he surveys and he becomes the most humble of subjects. As I have said before, we may all be here for a long, long time. No one can tell. So, I say, we must pat our men on the back and tell zem what great, wise, strong fellows they are,--and how good and gallant too. Then they will fight for us like the lion, and zey--they will work for us like the a.s.s and the oxen, because man he enjoys to be applauded greatly. A man likes to have his hair rubbed gently with the finger tips. He will smile and close his eyes and if he knew how he would purr like the cat. But, my dear, he do not like to have his hair pulled. Zat is something for you to remember,--you and all your determined women, as you call them."

"Of course you understand, Madame Obosky, I--and the other women,--are thinking only of Betty Cruise in this matter."

"From what I have been told, all these men out here stayed awake half the night thinking about her, Miss Clinton. They behave like so many distracted fathers waiting for news from the bed-chamber. Bless their hearts, you might think from their actions that the whole two--three hundred of them consider themselves the consolidated father of zat single infant."

"I must be getting back to my work," said Ruth abruptly. Her eyes were shining, her voice was soft and strangely thick. "But," she went on bravely, after clearing her throat, "we intend to fight it out with them, just the same, Madame Obosky."

Olga went to the door with her.

"You mean, you intend to fight it out with Mr. Percivail,--you yourself, eh?"

"It is not a personal matter with me, let me remind you once more. He is their leader. He dominates them. He is the force that holds them together. That's all."

"And you would render that force impotent, eh? I see. How wise you women are!"

Ruth stopped short, struck by the remark. "Say that again, please."

Olga repeated the words slowly, significantly, and added: "They might have a worse leader, Miss Clinton."

At another time, Ruth Clinton would have been deeply impressed by the underlying significance of the Russian's words. But she was at the mercy of a stubborn, rebellious pride. She chose to ignore the warning that lay in Obosky's remark. She felt herself beaten, and she was defiant. It was too late to hark now to the mild, temperate voice of reason.

Something rankled deep down in her soul, something she was ashamed to acknowledge even to herself. It was the disagreeable conviction that Percival ascribed her activities to nothing more stable than feminine perversity,--in fact, she had the uncomfortable feeling that he even went so far as to attribute them to spitefulness. Something in his voice and manner, as he left her that morning, suggested the kindly chiding of a wilful child. Well, he should see!

"I don't care what it all comes to, Madame Obosky," she said, a red spot in each cheek. "He shall not name that baby."

The Russian smiled. "Forgive me for saying that you will not feel so bitterly toward him when the time comes for him to name your baby."

Ruth's lips fell apart. She stared for a moment in sheer astonishment.

Then she paled with anger. Drawing herself to her full height, she asked:

"Are you deliberately trying to make me despise you?"

"By no means," replied the other, quite cheerfully. "I am merely giving you something to think about, zat is all."

"Rubbish!" was all that Ruth flung over her shoulder as she walked away.

CHAPTER V.

It was the noon hour. Scores of men were resting in the shade of the huts as she strode briskly past. They all smiled cheerily, but there was good humoured mockery in their smiles. Here and there were groups of women talking earnestly, excitedly.

Abel Landover was leaning in his doorway, watching her approach. His eyes gleamed. She was very beautiful, she was very desirable. She had been in his mind for months,--this fine, strong, thoroughbred daughter of a thoroughbred gentleman. His sleeves were rolled up, his throat was bare; his strong, deeply lined face was as brown as a berry; if anything, his cold grey eyes were harder and more penetrating than in the days when they looked out from a whiter countenance. He was a strong, dominant figure despite, the estate to which he had fallen,--a silent, sinister figure that might well have been described as "The Thinker." For he was always thinking.

"I understand you tackled the 'boss' this morning, Ruth," he said as she came up.

"I daresay the news is all over the island by this time," she replied, still angry.

"Was it worth while?" he inquired, a trace of derision in his voice.

She was on the point of replying rather emphatically in the negative, when suddenly she recalled the look in Percival's eyes and the first words he spoke to her. She caught her breath. Her eyes sparkled, her lips parted in a rosy smile.

"Yes, Mr. Landover, it was worth while," she said, and went on, leaving him to reflections that were as perplexing as they were unantic.i.p.ated.

She experienced a short spell of triumph. After all, Percival was in love with her. She did not need Olga Obosky to tell her that. She could see, she could feel for herself. A certain glee possessed her,--indeed, as she afterwards succeeded in a.n.a.lysing the sensation, it bordered decidedly on malice. She had it in her power to make him miserable and unhappy. She would enjoy seeing him unhappy!

The meanness of the woman who longs to injure the man who loves her, whether loved or unloved, revealed itself for the moment in this fair-minded, generous girl. (It is a common trait, admitted by many fair-minded and generous women!) But even as she coddled and encouraged the little sprout of vengeance, the chill of common-sense rushed up and blighted it.

She had a sickening impression that Percival would fail to play the part according to her conception. In fact, he was quite capable of not playing it at all. He would pursue the even tenor of his way--(she actually made use of the time-honoured phrase in her reflections),--and she would get small satisfaction out of that.

Moreover, there was Olga Obosky to be reckoned with. She was conscious of a hot, swiftly pa.s.sing sense of suffocation as the thought of Olga rushed unbidden into her brain,--for an instant only,--and then came the reaction: a queer chill that raced over her body from head to foot. What part would Olga Obosky play in the game?

The women congregated on the forward deck of the Doraine after supper that night. The evening repast was no longer dignified by the word dinner. The sky was inky black; not a star flickered in the vault above.

There were low, far off mutterings of thunder. The rail lanterns,--few and far between,--threw their pallid beams down into the rippling basin in a sickly effort to penetrate the gloom.

Captain Trigger and Mr. Mott, smoking their pipes on the makeshift bridge, studied the throng of women in dour silence.

"I understand the farmers are praying for rain," remarked Mr. Mott, sniffing the air with considerable satisfaction.

"It would do no end of good," said Captain Trigger, without taking his eyes from the chattering ma.s.s below.

Mr. Codge, the purser, joined them.

"What are they waiting for?" he asked. "Why don't they call the meeting to order?"

"They did that half an hour ago," said Mr. Mott. "Good Lord, man, can't you hear them talking? Have you no ears at all?"

"But they're all talking at once."