"CAN any man--a gentleman, I mean--call a woman a pig?"The little man flung this challenge forth to the whole group, then leaned back in his deck chair, sipping lemonade with an air commingled of certitude and watchful belligerence.Nobody made answer.They were used to the little man and his sudden passions and high elevations.
"I repeat, it was in my presence that he said a certain lady, whom none of you knows, was a pig.He did not say swine.He grossly said that she was a pig.And I hold that no man who is a man could possibly make such a remark about any woman."Dr.Dawson puffed stolidly at his black pipe.Matthews, with knees hunched up and clasped by his arms, was absorbed in the flight of a gunie.Sweet, finishing his Scotch and soda, was questing about with his eyes for a deck steward.
"I ask you, Mr.Treloar, can any man call any woman a pig?"Treloar, who happened to be sitting next to him, was startled by the abruptness of the attack, and wondered what grounds he had ever given the little man to believe that he could call a woman a pig.
"I should say," he began his hesitant answer, "that it--er--depends on the--er--the lady."The little man was aghast.
"You mean...?" he quavered.
"That I have seen female humans who were as bad as pigs--and worse."There was a long pained silence.The little man seemed withered by the coarse brutality of the reply.In his face was unutterable hurt and woe.
"You have told of a man who made a not nice remark and you have classified him," Treloar said in cold, even tones."I shall now tell you about a woman--I beg your pardon--a lady, and when Ihave finished I shall ask you to classify her.Miss Caruthers Ishall call her, principally for the reason that it is not her name.It was on a P.& 0.boat, and it occurred neither more nor less than several years ago.
"Miss Caruthers was charming.No; that is not the word.She was amazing.She was a young woman, and a lady.Her father was a certain high official whose name, if I mentioned it, would be immediately recognized by all of you.She was with her mother and two maids at the time, going out to join the old gentleman wherever you like to wish in the East.
"She, and pardon me for repeating, was amazing.It is the one adequate word.Even the most minor adjectives applicable to her are bound to be sheer superlatives.There was nothing she could not do better than any woman and than most men.Sing, play--bah!--as some rhetorician once said of old Nap, competition fled from her.Swim! She could have made a fortune and a name as a public performer.She was one of those rare women who can strip off all the frills of dress, and in simple swimming suit be more satisfying beautiful.Dress! She was an artist.
"But her swimming.Physically, she was the perfect woman--you know what I mean, not in the gross, muscular way of acrobats, but in all the delicacy of line and fragility of frame and texture.And combined with this, strength.How she could do it was the marvel.You know the wonder of a woman's arm--the fore arm, I mean; the sweet fading away from rounded biceps and hint of muscle, down through small elbow and firm soft swell to the wrist, small, unthinkably small and round and strong.This was hers.And yet, to see her swimming the sharp quick English overhand stroke, and getting somewhere with it, too, was--well, I understand anatomy and athletics and such things, and yet it was a mystery to me how she could do it.
"She could stay under water for two minutes.I have timed her.
No man on board, except Dennitson, could capture as many coins as she with a single dive.On the forward main-deck was a big canvas tank with six feet of sea-water.We used to toss small coins into it.I have seen her dive from the bridge deck--no mean feat in itself--into that six-feet of water, and fetch up no less than forty-seven coins, scattered willy-nilly over the whole bottom of the tank.Dennitson, a quiet young Englishman, never exceeded her in this, though he made it a point always to tie her score.
"She was a sea-woman, true.But she was a land-woman, a horsewoman--a--she was the universal woman.To see her, all softness of soft dress, surrounded by half a dozen eager men, languidly careless of them all or flashing brightness and wit on them and at them and through them, one would fancy she was good for nothing else in the world.At such moments I have compelled myself to remember her score of forty-seven coins from the bottom of the swimming tank.But that was she, the everlasting, wonder of a woman who did all things well.
"She fascinated every betrousered human around her.She had me--and I don't mind confessing it--she bad me to heel along with the rest.Young puppies and old gray dogs who ought to have known better--oh, they all came up and crawled around her skirts and whined and fawned when she whistled.They were all guilty, from young Ardmore, a pink cherub of nineteen outward bound for some clerkship in the Consular Service, to old Captain Bentley, grizzled and sea-worn, and as emotional, to look at, as a Chinese joss.There was a nice middle-aged chap, Perkins, I believe, who forgot his wife was on board until Miss Caruthers sent him to the right about and back where he belonged.
"Men were wax in her hands.She melted them, or softly molded them, or incinerated them, as she pleased.There wasn't a steward, even, grand and remote as she was, who, at her bidding, would have hesitated to souse the Old Man himself with a plate of soup.You have all seen such women--a sort of world's desire to all men.As a man-conqueror she was supreme.
She was a whip-lash, a sting and a flame, an electric spark.
Oh, believe me, at times there were flashes of will that scorched through her beauty and seduction and smote a victim into blank and shivering idiocy and fear.
"And don't fail to mark, in the light of what is to come, that she was a prideful woman.Pride of race, pride of caste, pride of sex, pride of power--she had it all, a pride strange and wilful and terrible.
