Destroy the note I sent a moment ago and substitute this one.Dear Miss May:—["Dear" does not mean anything at the beginning of a letter]—I am very sorry to learn that you feel it necessary to be absent over Monday, as I have many things to say to you. Perhaps, as you can do nothing in the meantime, it is best to let the matter rest till Tuesday morning, when I will call, promptly at ten, and we will decide everything.Yours,D.C.
Destroy the note I sent a moment ago and substitute this one.
Dear Miss May:—["Dear" does not mean anything at the beginning of a letter]—I am very sorry to learn that you feel it necessary to be absent over Monday, as I have many things to say to you. Perhaps, as you can do nothing in the meantime, it is best to let the matter rest till Tuesday morning, when I will call, promptly at ten, and we will decide everything.
Yours,
D.C.
The boy took this note, when it was sealed and addressed, and disappeared like magic. He had hardly gone when I wished I had sent a letter of different purport. There was an awful possibility that Miss May would take the chance I had undoubtedly offered, to give up the whole idea of going. She had certainly not seemed as enthusiastic as I could wish. I ran to a window, threw it open, and would have whistled to the boy, but he was nowhere to be seen.
It was like a matter of life and death to me then. Ringing in a call I took my pen again and indited the following:
Dear Marjorie:—for so you said I might call you:—I return the money that you sent back to me. Keep it till I meet you Tuesday morning at ten,when I will come prepared with a sum which will certainly meet every demand you can put upon it. You are wiser than I about feminine apparel and could not please me better than by the forethought you display. It is with great regret that I learn you are to be absent over Sunday and Monday, when I had hoped to pass some pleasant hours with you, but I cheerfully yield to your arrangement. Within a few days there will be no other friends to distract your attention from one who will prove himself the truest of them all.Sincerely Yours,D.C.No. — Thirty-fourth Street.
Dear Marjorie:—for so you said I might call you:—I return the money that you sent back to me. Keep it till I meet you Tuesday morning at ten,when I will come prepared with a sum which will certainly meet every demand you can put upon it. You are wiser than I about feminine apparel and could not please me better than by the forethought you display. It is with great regret that I learn you are to be absent over Sunday and Monday, when I had hoped to pass some pleasant hours with you, but I cheerfully yield to your arrangement. Within a few days there will be no other friends to distract your attention from one who will prove himself the truest of them all.
Sincerely Yours,
D.C.
No. — Thirty-fourth Street.
I procured a large envelope and took it into the bedroom, where I could re-insert the bank bills without danger of arousing the cupidity of young Mercury. With a lead pencil I added to the note a request that the recipient would send just a line by bearer to show that my message had arrived safely, and saw the boy depart, feeling that I had at last done the sensible thing.
Whether this proved to be the case I will leave the reader to judge when he has finished this volume.
A PRIVATE DINING ROOM.
Saturday evening was dull enough, being only brightened by a pencilled note from Miss May, reading simply, "Money received. Will see you Tuesday." I went over to the Lyceum Theatre to a play called "The Tree of Knowledge," which I now believe one of the brightest things produced on the American stage in years, though I was too full of other thoughts to appreciate it at the time.
It was an attempt to shift the burden of blame that has rested in all fiction on the shoulders of the man, to that of the woman, and was so far rather welcome to me. We are a bad lot, as a rule, I am afraid, but some allowance should be made for a case like the one in the play, where a well intentioned young fellow is used as a football by a girl who does not care if his life is ruined, so long as she accomplishes her designs.
I remember being somewhat surprised at the apparent approval of the fine audience, but that may have been due in a measure to the delightful acting of the various parts. I had not been to the Lyceum for a long time and did not remember to have seen the "wronged young man" before, but he made a most favorable impression on me as more natural and less stagey than the average. The "villain,"—the masculine one—was an excellent actor, also.As for the "wicked" woman, I thought, if Marjorie failed me, I would give her an invitation to spend the rest of the winter in the Caribbean.
Sunday was weariness itself. I poured over the newspapers, took a walk, managed to get a short nap, for I was tired, ate my lunch, and then, to fill up the time, wrote a letter to Miss Brazier, in defense of myself from the severe attack that unknown young woman had made. It was a silly proceeding, but I liked to write about Marjorie, even to one wholly unknown, and this is what I said, as near as I can remember it:
Dear Alice (Ben Bolt):—I feel justified in calling you "Alice," now it is settled that you are not to be my companion for long and (to you, doubtless) weary weeks, a liberty I should never have dreamed of taking had you decided to go. I do not know in what way I have offended you, which I judge by your letter to be the case, but as the children say, "If I've done anything I'm sorry for, I'm glad of it." (Of course I don't mean exactly that.) The reason I write this is to ask you to dine with me (in a highly respectable public dining room—no cabinet particulaire, mind!) some evening before the 12th, when I am to sail.If you will do this, I will fill your shell-like ears with such an account of your Rival that you will acquit her of intending any of the horrors you intimate. She is neither, I believe, a sinful creature nor a dunce—just a sweet, strong-minded, trusting seeker after change and rest.And I don't like your insinuations, either, about my own moral character. If you knew me, I should not blame you so much, but as you don't—it's simply reprehensible. I have no intention of "soiling my soul," or that of any other person, but ifthat awful event happens (I wonder how I would look with a soiled soul!) you will be to blame. If you really thought I was in danger, why did you not do the patriotic thing and offer to go in her place? That would have disposed of the s—s—possibility.Now, if you have not already thrown this down in a rage—I judge you to be a woman of the most fiendish temper!—let me be sensible for just one moment. I am recovering slowly from a long illness and am as harmless as a dove. I have, honestly, some work for a typewriter to do, and my physician has advised me to take one. The young lady who has agreed to go is not the sort you seem to imagine. She has consented only after the most distressing stipulations in regard to my conduct—all of which were entirely unnecessary, by the way. I am to file a bond to return her to New York by May 1st in absolutely perfect condition.Come and dine with me, Alice dear, and have your doubts removed. I won't bite you, nor offer the slightest familiarity, upon my word! Name your hotel and, provided it is of undoubted respectability, I will meet you there at any hour you choose, after 6 P.M., or I will send a carriage for you. I only wish I could bring 'Marjorie'—isn't it a perfectly sweet name! One sight of her soulful eyes would say more than all my protestations. Unhappily she is out of town, and I am afraid she wouldn't like to be exhibited, if she were here.You'd best come.Yours Fraternally,D. CAMWELL.The Lambs, Dec. 31, 1897.
Dear Alice (Ben Bolt):—I feel justified in calling you "Alice," now it is settled that you are not to be my companion for long and (to you, doubtless) weary weeks, a liberty I should never have dreamed of taking had you decided to go. I do not know in what way I have offended you, which I judge by your letter to be the case, but as the children say, "If I've done anything I'm sorry for, I'm glad of it." (Of course I don't mean exactly that.) The reason I write this is to ask you to dine with me (in a highly respectable public dining room—no cabinet particulaire, mind!) some evening before the 12th, when I am to sail.
If you will do this, I will fill your shell-like ears with such an account of your Rival that you will acquit her of intending any of the horrors you intimate. She is neither, I believe, a sinful creature nor a dunce—just a sweet, strong-minded, trusting seeker after change and rest.
And I don't like your insinuations, either, about my own moral character. If you knew me, I should not blame you so much, but as you don't—it's simply reprehensible. I have no intention of "soiling my soul," or that of any other person, but ifthat awful event happens (I wonder how I would look with a soiled soul!) you will be to blame. If you really thought I was in danger, why did you not do the patriotic thing and offer to go in her place? That would have disposed of the s—s—possibility.
Now, if you have not already thrown this down in a rage—I judge you to be a woman of the most fiendish temper!—let me be sensible for just one moment. I am recovering slowly from a long illness and am as harmless as a dove. I have, honestly, some work for a typewriter to do, and my physician has advised me to take one. The young lady who has agreed to go is not the sort you seem to imagine. She has consented only after the most distressing stipulations in regard to my conduct—all of which were entirely unnecessary, by the way. I am to file a bond to return her to New York by May 1st in absolutely perfect condition.
Come and dine with me, Alice dear, and have your doubts removed. I won't bite you, nor offer the slightest familiarity, upon my word! Name your hotel and, provided it is of undoubted respectability, I will meet you there at any hour you choose, after 6 P.M., or I will send a carriage for you. I only wish I could bring 'Marjorie'—isn't it a perfectly sweet name! One sight of her soulful eyes would say more than all my protestations. Unhappily she is out of town, and I am afraid she wouldn't like to be exhibited, if she were here.
You'd best come.
Yours Fraternally,
D. CAMWELL.
The Lambs, Dec. 31, 1897.
It didn't seem too funny, when I read it over, as I thought it would, but I sent it to East Sixteenth Street by a messenger that I summoned, telling himto bring an answer, if there was any, and to return for his pay, if there was none. He came back in half an hour, saying that a boy at the house took the letter up stairs, presumably to Miss B., and returned in a few minutes stating that she would reply by mail. As this exhausted all the fun I could expect out of that matter for the day, I went over to the Club and lounged away the afternoon.
It was nine o'clock and I had only been at home for a few minutes when a note came from Statia Barton. It was written in a very cool strain, but its contents were unexpectedly agreeable, for all that. Statia said she was afraid she had been a little too severe, and that, as it distressed Tom very much to have a general falling out, she had made it up with him. She had nothing to take back in what she had said relating to a certain matter, (what woman ever took back anything?) but was willing to admit that it was, really, my personal affair and that she had no right to control my conduct. She believed it best, on the whole, that we should see each other as little as possible before I went away, but she did not wish, on reflection, to make trouble between her brother and his friend. If Tom wanted me to come to spend an evening with him, she hoped I would do it, and she promised to keep out of my way.
It was a queer mixture, take it altogether, but I was very glad to receive it. The calming effect on my general condition was such that when I went to bed, I slept for nearly seven hours without interruption, something I had not done for the previous fortnight.
Monday, on account of New Years, was as dull asSunday. When I awoke with the exultant knowledge that it was at last Tuesday morning, I sprang from bed joyfully. Filling my tub with water as it ran from the street pipe, I plunged into its icy depths. Rising again I repeated the operation half a dozen times, until the effect on my entire body was of a healthy glow, and then proceeded to dress with care. I was long in selecting a necktie, for one thing, and tried three pairs of cuff-links before I was content. My coffee was barely tasted, and the newspapers were scanned as if in a dream.
All the time, mind you, I was trying my best to obey the injunction of Dr. Chambers to avoid the least excitement. I persuaded myself that I was simply happy and that no injurious effect could be apprehended from a merely contented frame of mind. I did not stop to think that I was pursuing a short road to the nervous prostration from which I had emerged, and which had its origin in the same lack of control I was exhibiting.
Tom Barton called about eight o'clock and, as he entered the room, came straight to me with his right hand extended. I took it heartily in mine, glad that the chasm between us was bridged at last.
"Dear old fellow," he said, with strong feeling, "forgive me for anything disagreeable I said, the other day. I feel now that I misjudged you. Let us end that matter and when you come to my house this evening, tell me exactly what route you are going to take, so I can arrange where to write you."
I promised to come if I could, and if that was impossible, to send a message to account for my absence. I told him I had bought a set of small mapswhich would show my route perfectly and that I hoped for frequent communications with him. Neither of us said anything about Statia, for I think he felt as I did that we should get along better without bringing in her name. He was obliged to leave after a brief call. As soon as he was out of sight I donned my out-door garments and proceeded by round-about stages toward Miss May's residence.
The hands of my watch pointed to ten exactly, when I rang her bell. It is considered a virtue, I believe, to be prompt at an appointment. The woman who attended the door dampened my ardor somewhat, however, by informing me that Miss May had not yet returned. She suggested that I go at once to the lady's room and make myself comfortable till she came, which must be very soon.
I walked slowly up the stairs, which seemed longer than ever, oppressed with a new series of doubts. Perhaps she would not come at all. Perhaps she had taken my three hundred dollars and fled to parts unknown. Perhaps—oh! the ugly things that came into my head between the lower hall and the door of that empty room.
I turned the knob and entered. Somehow the sight of the things that belonged to her began to mollify me. There was the chair in which she had been seated when I saw her last—happy chair! There was the dressing table, the brush and comb she used, the glass into which she had looked with her beautiful blue-gray eyes. Yes, and masquerading as a cabinet, yet deceiving no one for a second, was the folding bed that had often received her lovely form, with her head pillowed in happy slumber.
It was something to be in the room she occupied, to see the furniture she used.
I seated myself in her chair—the one I had seen her in—but almost instantly rose and walked about. My nerves were too much on edge to permit me to remain long without motion of some kind. At the end of half an hour I began to grow incensed again. She had made the appointment for ten o'clock. She knew from previous experience that I would keep it to the moment. Trains from the suburbs ran frequently enough. Did she consider me merely a puppet, to be played with?
Between half-past ten and eleven I was a hundred times on the point of descending the stairs and leaving the house, ending the whole affair.
But I didn't.
She came about ten minutes past eleven, with many expressions of regret at having kept me waiting. The timepiece at the house of her friend had broken its mainspring, or something of the sort, and with the carelessness of a woman she had forgotten to wind her watch the evening before. The family were all deceived by the fact that the sky was cloudy. When she reached her station the train had just gone and she was obliged to wait three-quarters of an hour for another. As soon as she alighted in New York, she took a cab and bade the driver hasten. Had I been waiting very long?
I did not know, at that instant, whether I had been a minute or a week, and I did not care. It was enough that I was again in her presence—that she had actually arrived. I begged her to say nothing more about it.
"I have kept the cab," she said, looking me full in the face, "thinking you might be kind enough to go with me to the shops and help me pick out my things. If it isn't asking too much—"
I assured her it would give me the greatest pleasure to accept the invitation and that I had no engagement so important as helping her to get ready for our journey. With a smile, she took off her hat and arranged her hair at the mirror, with a few passes of the brush and comb. Then she put it on again and said she was quite ready.
"Drive to Altman's," she said to the cabman, as she stepped inside the vehicle.
We were together, side by side. Had we been on the way to the steamer nothing could have exceeded my delight. These preliminaries all tended in that direction, however, and I was fain to curb my haste and content myself with the present.
"I think you ought to see what it costs to dress a young woman who is going to masquerade as the cousin of a gentleman of means," said Miss May, as we turned the corner. "I want you to decide on each article, since the expense is to come out of your pocket. I must say another thing also, at this time. I shall not consider as my own anything I need to buy. I am merely in the position of an actress whose wardrobe is to be provided by her manager. Whenever our engagement terminates I will return every article to you in as good shape as possible."
I was staggered by the suggestion, as well as impressed by the sentiment that led her to make it.
"What could I do with a lot of gowns—and—lingerie?" I inquired, helplessly. "They would be a veritable drug on my hands."
"They could be altered," she said, thoughtfully. "I shall be very careful of them."
"Altered!" I cried. "For whom?"
"For the next typewriter you may happen to engage."
I laughed to conceal the disagreeable feeling which the thought gave me.
"As a joke that is stupendous," I said, "but, if you don't mind, I would rather you would be funny on some other subject."
She relapsed into silence, something after the manner of a child who has been chidden, which did not add to my ease. I had no idea of scolding her. Luckily we were soon at Altman's.
I had come provided with plenty of money that time. The cash she had brought was exhausted when we left this place and we did not seem to have got much for it, either. A milliner was next visited, where the price of the few articles purchased was forgotten in my admiration of the charming appearance Marjorie made in her new headgear. Then we drove to another establishment, where she was obliged to hide herself from view for three-quarters of an hour, with a bill of eighty-five dollars as the result. She explained that she had got nothing she could possibly avoid, when it was considered that we might be several weeks at a time without a laundress, and I said the only fear I had was that she would buy too little.
A boot shop came next in order, where I had a jealous pang as one of the salesmen fitted her withvarious articles in his stock, all suitable for a warm climate, at a total cost of forty dollars. And then we drove about, from glove shop to perfumer's, from umbrella maker to fan dealer, from this to that, and the hands on my watch showed that it was nearly five o'clock.
"I think that is about all for to-day," said Miss May, drawing a long breath. "You must be glad it's over."
"Not at all," I replied. "Isn't it about time, though, that we had something in the way of refreshment?" (She had declined several offers to lunch during the preceding five hours.) "Mayn't I tell the driver now to take us to a restaurant?"
She consented, after a little thought, and also said she would leave the place to me. When I suggested the Hotel Martin, she thought a little longer, and then surprised me with a request that I would get a private room.
"Impossible," I said, when I could catch my breath. "They will assign no party of two to a room alone."
She blushed, which was not surprising. I had put her in the position of wishing to break a puritanic rule of which she had never heard.
I mentioned several other places, and we finally agreed on one some distance up-town, at which I told her the regulation against a single couple dining alone did not apply. She was rather tired and leaned back in the carriage in a manner that showed it. I studied her face as much as I could without appearing to stare, but it was wholly expressionless.
"You are very good to me," she said, after a long pause.
"And you are very kind to me," I answered.
"What a lot of money we have spent to-day," she added. "Aren't you sorry yet?"
"No," I answered, smiling. "Not yet."
"I shall need almost nothing more," she said, "to appear in a garb that will not disgrace you. Nothing, but a little jewelry, I think."
I said we would go to-morrow and attend to that, or she could go alone if she preferred, and send the bills to me.
"It must be lovely to have all the money one wants," she remarked, dreamily. "To order whatever you please without stopping to see if you can afford it."
"Yes," I assented.
"You can do that?" said Miss May, putting one of her gloved hands on my arm.
"Within a reasonable limit. My wants are seldom extravagant."
"Why," she asked, slowly, "is the world arranged so unevenly? Why are some provided with all they want, and more, while others have to study each item of actual necessity?"
"That is a deep question, that I would not like to settle in my present state of hunger," I replied, at which she smiled and sat up in the carriage. "We are luckily near the end of our route. I think I had best dismiss the cab and get another one when we leave."
She agreed and then asked if I had any objection to her donning a veil. It was all right, of course—dining in a private room with her employer—but it might not seem so to a casual passer, who would possibly recognize her face at some future period. A woman had to be so particular.
I cut her explanations short by saying that I did not object to the idea, but quite approved of it; at which she put on the veil, which to my consternation was blue and quite opaque. I did not wish to let any difference of opinion come between us, but I reflected that if one of my friends saw me, with a woman veiled like that, his conclusions would be anything but pleasing. There is such a thing as going too far.
We were shown to a nice little room, where the waiter came near getting himself into trouble by informing me with needless severity that it was not permitted to lock the door.
Miss May did not seem to hear what he said. She was removing her blue veil at a little glass that hung on the wall.
When she took the chair opposite to me and accepted the menu at my hands, she looked so charming that I had to put a veritable Westinghouse brake on my arms.
ONCE THERE WAS A CHILD.
The meal that we ordered was well cooked and well served, and being provided with that best of all sauces, hunger, I did it full justice. Our conversation seemed, however, rather dull, and there was not that flow of spirits that I expected when we entered the place. Miss May seemed absorbed in thought, though she declared, when I rallied her on the point, that she was not down hearted, but very happy to be there. Occasionally when footsteps were heard in the corridor she started nervously, which led me to suppose that she feared intrusion. I thereupon remarked that while it was against the rules to bolt the door of the room, I believed a good-sized tip would secure the privilege; to which she replied, with a vehemence I could not understand, that she would not hear of such a thing.
One might imagine she suspected me of an intention to murder her, so earnest was her protest.
"Oh, I would much rather leave it unlocked," I said. "I was only trying to please you."
She made no answer, and I found my spirits, always mercurial, beginning to sink a little. Noticing my dejection, she came to my rescue and soon had me all right again. We talked of the journey, she asking many particulars of my former visit to the Caribbean Islands. She had never been at sea formore than a few hours and wondered if she was liable to that malady so much to be dreaded, seasickness. I assured her it was not nearly as bad as it was painted and told of my own slight experiences in that line, years before.
My companion ate and drank sparingly. She declined my proposal to order champagne, and mixed her claret and apollinaris like a veritable tyro in restaurant dining. This rather pleased me, on the lookout as I was for indications that she might be other than she seemed. She had every mark of the true lady, and I was well prepared to believe it, when I learned, some days later, of the station in which she had been born and in which her childhood was passed.
"I have been thinking," she remarked, after one of her long pauses; "would it not be best for me, to take your family name? I wish, above all things, to avoid suspicion."
"I fear we are a little too late for that," I replied. "I was obliged to give your name to the agent and he has already placed it on the passenger list."
"Will that list get into the newspapers?" she asked, nervously.
"I presume so."
"Then you must manage to have my name changed, at all hazards. My old employer would use every means to annoy me if he discovered where I am going."
"It is only recorded as 'Miss M. May,'" I said. "Surely there is more than one person of that name in the world."
She shook her head and bit her lips in distress.
"It must be changed," she repeated. "It will not do to give him the slightest clue. He imagines himself 'in love'—Heaven help me!—and I dare not risk it. Any name you like, but my own."
"What can he do?" I inquired. "You don't think I would let him annoy you, when you were under my protection."
"He can do many things. No, there is no way but to alter the name. Tell the agent the lady you expected is not going—that she has been taken ill—and that another is to fill her place. Do not argue, do not hesitate, or I shall be compelled, even now, to give up the journey. And that," she added, seeing my sober face, "you know well I would not like to do."
This was enough to settle the matter and I said I would give the agent in the morning any name she desired.
"I would like it the same as your own," she said, thoughtfully. "It might save infinite trouble. Just record me as Miss M. Camwell. Is there any reason against that?"
Yes, there was one and it occurred to me. The name, which I had decided to use, was so near my own that Uncle Dugald would be likely to see it, not to say anything about Hume, Tom Barton and Statia. They might lay the twisting of Donald Camran into "David Camwell" to the carelessness of copyist and printer, but their suspicions would certainly be aroused if they saw next to my name that of a "Miss" Camwell.
"I will change your name in some way," I answered, after a long pause, "but I see dangers inthe plan you propose, nearly as great as in the present one."
I then gave her an inkling of my fears, saying I did not wish any sharp friend to guess what I was doing, which was possible with two such uncommon names in just a position on an alphabetical list.
She did not seem satisfied, but raised no objection when I asked her if I might call her Miss M. Carney, which I thereupon decided to do.
It was rather dull, take it altogether, the dinner, but when we were again in a cab and rolling toward Forty-fifth Street, Miss May brightened, like the close of a cloudy day, just before the sun sinks into the obscurity of the western sky. She put one of her hands on mine, quite as if the act was a wholly thoughtless one, but it sufficed to cheer me up. She even volunteered a prophesy that we would be good friends and contented fellow voyagers.
Before we reached her door she asked me at what hour I would call on the morrow, quite as if anxious to see me. After a little debate I decided upon three in the afternoon. That would give her the entire morning with her dressmaker, for necessary alterations in the garments she had purchased.
She did not seem to notice particularly when I raised the gloved hand I held and pressed it to my lips at parting. It was an act that any lady might pardon, and she probably thought nothing of it.
"To-morrow, then, at three," she said, smiling at me from the curbstone.
"Yes. Don't keep me waiting," I answered, remembering the morning.
"I will try not to; these dressmakers are so unreliable, though. You—you wouldn't rather I would come to your rooms? Perhaps there is another of those rules we have been running across, against it. If there is none, and you prefer—"
I said I approved of the idea highly and that I was at liberty to invite to my apartment any person I pleased.
"You spoke of a machine that I have never used," said Miss May, tentatively. "If you have one there, as a sort of excuse—"
"I have one," said I. "Although it won't be needed for that purpose. You remember the number, — West Thirty-fourth."
She nodded and spoke to my driver, repeating it to him. Then with another of her bright smiles she waved me good-by and ascended the steps, while I was driven away.
"Henry," I was saying ten minutes after, to the hall boy, "I expect a young lady to-morrow, between three and four, who will ask for Mr. Camwell."
"There isn't any Mr. Camwell in the house, sir," said the boy.
"There will be at that hour. He will be in my rooms. You may not see him enter and you may not see him leave, but he will be here. All you have to do is to say 'Yes, ma'am,' to the lady and bring her to my door."
"I understand," said Henry, with a wholly superfluous grin, that showed how little common sense the average hall-boy possesses.
"No, you don't understand anything," I responded, snappishly. "Do as I order and you'll lose nothing. Make the least mistake and I will see that you get your notice."
He responded meekly that he would be careful and then handed me a letter, which I saw was from Miss Brazier. He also said that Mr. Barton had called and expressed surprise when he heard that I had left no word for him.
Poor Tom! It came to my recollection all at once that I had promised to spend the evening at his house, or send him a note if unable to do so. Well, I would write him an apology before I went to sleep.
This is what Miss Brazier said:
Dear Mr. Camwell:—I wish I could understand you, but the riddle grows harder and harder. Sometimes you seem a combination of Don Quixote, Mephistopheles and Hector Greyburn. At one moment I believe you the greatest wretch alive; at the next I ascribe your sentiments to the buoyancy of youth and convince myself that you are at heart an honorable man.As to dining with you, I must deny myself that pleasure. I do not believe you would "bite" me, nor am I afraid your levity would turn my head. I can merely say that dining with a stranger is not in accord with my habits and that I see no sufficient reason to make your case an exception. I would be glad to see your "Marjorie," though, were that feasible, but this also I must forego.Now, as a last word—for my correspondence may weary you—remember that true happiness in this life does not consist in the mere gratification of every passing whim, and that the path you have before you may contain thorns as well as roses. If you return to America with your conscience void of offence toward God and your companionyou will have accomplished something of which you may well be proud.Won't you write me just a line when you are again at home, to say that my petition has been answered.Your True Friend,A.B.Jan. 2, 1898.
Dear Mr. Camwell:—I wish I could understand you, but the riddle grows harder and harder. Sometimes you seem a combination of Don Quixote, Mephistopheles and Hector Greyburn. At one moment I believe you the greatest wretch alive; at the next I ascribe your sentiments to the buoyancy of youth and convince myself that you are at heart an honorable man.
As to dining with you, I must deny myself that pleasure. I do not believe you would "bite" me, nor am I afraid your levity would turn my head. I can merely say that dining with a stranger is not in accord with my habits and that I see no sufficient reason to make your case an exception. I would be glad to see your "Marjorie," though, were that feasible, but this also I must forego.
Now, as a last word—for my correspondence may weary you—remember that true happiness in this life does not consist in the mere gratification of every passing whim, and that the path you have before you may contain thorns as well as roses. If you return to America with your conscience void of offence toward God and your companionyou will have accomplished something of which you may well be proud.
Won't you write me just a line when you are again at home, to say that my petition has been answered.
Your True Friend,
A.B.
Jan. 2, 1898.
Sobered more than I could account for by reading this letter, I sat for a long time in silence. Then, after writing a brief note to Tom, excusing my neglect, I sought my pillow, or in plain English, went to bed.
My first act in the morning after coffee was to go to Cook's and alter the name of May to that of Carney, as well as change my own to "David Camwell," for which I gave a satisfactory reason to the clerk. He told me that he could omit both names from the list sent to the newspapers, if I desired, and I decided that this was, on the whole, the better way.
On leaving I had an idea that pleased me, no less than to visit Tiffany's and purchase a little jewelry for Marjorie. It would be pleasant to see her eyes light up as I put it into her hand.
Taking a Broadway car, I soon reached the shop I sought, and emerged a few minutes later with a pair of diamond eardrops, a ring of turquoise and small diamonds, and another of chased gold without a stone. Each was enclosed in a tasty case. I was much pleased that the selection had been made so easily.
Miss May arrived at my room nearly on time, with a fine color in her cheeks, due to the fact that she had walked some distance. She was undeniably good-looking and my heart warmed as I thought of thelong companionship we were to have together. She was a little tired, she said, from standing for the dressmaker's measurer, and dropped into my largest chair with a very fetching air of fatigue. As soon as I could without seeming in haste I produced the case containing the turquoise ring and presented it for her inspection.
"I took the liberty," I remarked, "of buying this, to fill the vacant place on one of your fingers. If it does not fit, you can take it back for alteration; or if it does not please you Tiffany will exchange it."
She took it out languidly and found that it fitted very well. She was not as delighted as I had supposed she would be, but her tired feeling probably accounted for that.
"It is very pretty," she said, "and you are very kind."
Then I opened the case containing the plain ring and she found a suitable position for that also. When I showed her the eardrops she grew more interested and on trying them on declared them "perfectly sweet."
"I used to have some very like them," she said, with a sigh, "but that was long ago. How very good you are. Are you not tired of the expense I cause you?"
I assured her that I was not, in the least.
"I do not own a piece of jewelry in the world," she added, "except a wedding ring, that belonged to my mother."
"And these," I corrected her by saying.
"No. These are not mine. They are merely part of the make-up for the rôle I am to play. You shallhave them all back again when the curtain is rung down."
She took out her purse, and drew forth the ring of which she had spoken. Placing it on her wedding finger she held it out to me.
"Don't I look quite like a married woman?" she asked, smilingly.
"Quite," I assented, "and a very sweet bride you make, too."
"Have you the typewriting machine here?" she asked, ignoring my compliment. "I wish to see what it is like."
I put the machine on a table, arranging it for her inspection. It was an original Hammond, which I prefer to the universal keyboard. She drew up a chair and listened intently while I explained its workings, showing how the capitals and figures are produced with the same set of keys as the lower case letters. I showed the working of the ribbon, the arrangement of the alarm bell and all the other points needed by one who had never operated that style. When I had finished and inserted a sheet of paper she began carefully to write a sentence, encouraged occasionally by my guidance when the unfamiliar location of the keys caused her to pause.
"I shall be able to use it as rapidly as the Remington, in a week," she said, when she finished the sheet. "It is not nearly as hard as I imagined."
She left the table and resumed her seat in the chair, where we fell into a conversation that lasted several hours. She counted with me the days that remained and was glad they were so few. She said she could think of nothing more that she needed before starting: yes, the jewelry was quite sufficient. She put back each piece in the case it had come in, asking me to keep them till we were ready to go.
"You are sure you will not be sorry for what you are doing?" she asked, after a time.
"How can I, if you enjoy the journey?" was my reply.
She shrugged her shoulders prettily and said it was time to leave. She declined with many thanks an invitation to dine with me again, making a light excuse, and with a friendly grasp of the hand took her departure. It had been agreed that she would call for a short time each afternoon that remained.
When I had become chilled at the vacancy her absence made in the room I went over to the table and looked at what she had written on the machine. It was a pleasure even to see the lines her fair hands had made, and I withdrew the sheet she had covered as if it were something sacred. Glancing over it I noted to my surprise, that the lines had not been written with accidental meaning—that it contained a message for my eyes and heart. There were naturally slight errors caused by the writer's unfamiliarity with the instrument, but no ambiguity of any kind. And this is what the message said to me:
Once there was a child, who had been reared in comfort, almost in luxury, in the fairest part of the fair State of Maryland. At the age of sixteen a cruel fate deprived her of both parents. The guardian towhom her small means were intrusted proved false and in another year she was left to face poverty alone.
Almost stunned by her misfortunes, this child found it necessary to provide herself with some means of subsistence, for even sorrow must have bread. She learned the art of stenography and typewriting; and after attaining sufficient speed in these branches went to a large city and sought a situation. Luckily she found one, though for a long time the pay was very small and she could no more than support life in the poorest manner.
Later a place was offered her with a largely increased stipend, and the cloud seemed about to lift a little. But her new employer soon unmasked his soul and disclosed himself a wretch. The girl could hardly breathe in his presence, but she resolved to endure his attentions as long as they were bearable, hoping for relief from some unknown source.
When the purpose of her employer became all too plain, and she was on the point of despair; when advertisement after advertisement had been answered and nothing secured; when she had advertised, herself, and found by the replies received that the majority of the situations promised nothing better than the one she was unable to endure—there came a ray of light.
A gentleman, or what seemed to be one, sought an interview in reference to a most novel proposition. He wanted her to accompany him, alone, on a long journey; announced his willingness to provide her with an outfit suitable for a member of his family, which she was to profess to be; and assured her thatbehind this offer there was lurking no sinister design such as she at first suspected.
Her situation had grown desperate. Slowly she came to the decision to trust this man. She grew to believe that there might be one who could give these things with an honest mind and a pure purpose.
She accepted the situation, if such it might be called; purchased the necessary clothing; donned the jewelry he provided; gave her trust into his hands, and sailed with him on the ship he selected.
He was only twenty-four years of age, she but twenty-two. She had not concealed from him that she was poor and nearly friendless. He was rich and what is called a man of the world.
What will happen to the girl on that journey?
There can be but two possibilities. Either the man will prove the kind friend he has represented and they will return able to look the world in the face without a blush—that is one of them. Or somewhere beneath the blue waters of the Caribbean Sea the fishes will gnaw the flesh of a woman who is drowned—that is the other. Let neither delude themselves, when the hour of temptation comes. There is no possibility outside these two.
I rose and paced the floor in remorse for my ill-spent life, in sympathy for the unhappy creature whose fears clouded the pleasure I meant to share with her.
If there had been, away down in the lowest depths of my wild nature, the slightest thought of wrong toMarjorie May, it was crushed out of sight by that pathetic appeal.
Crushed out of sight, yes! But there are seeds that put forth life with the dust of years piled above them.
A THEFT ON BOARD SHIP.
The time before the date set for the sailing of the Madiana passed slowly enough, but contained little that is worth recording at length. Miss May took another dinner with me, though not in the same restaurant as before, she expressing a preference for another in a different part of the city. She came to my room daily about half the time and I went to hers the rest, for our afternoon talks. Her gowns were fitted, her baggage made ready; and she sent the trunks out to have the initials "M.C." marked upon them, to consort with her new title.
As the date of sailing approached she grew visibly nervous, saying repeatedly that she would be glad when the ocean waves lay between us and Manhattan Island, in which sentiment I concurred heartily. On the day before our departure she expressed a wish to go to the wharf alone, rather than have me come for her, giving as a reason that she did not like the people at her lodgings to connect us in that move. This seemed sensible and I agreed without demur. I had long since ceased to have any suspicion of her and felt as certain that we would meet at the steamer as that the boat would sail.
The evening before the day I was to go, I passed with Tom Barton at his house. It was the secondtime I had been there within a week. In some way Tom fixed it so that Statia consented to dine with us. She did the best she could, I suppose, to act as usual, but made a poor show of it to eyes as watchful as mine.
I got a minute alone with her by accident and tried my best to cheer her up.
"I wish you would write me a line or two while I am gone," I said. "If you send to St. Thomas by the 18th, I ought to get it before I leave there. The mails are fearfully slow in that part of the world, but they do arrive eventually. I will let you know how I am getting on, if you wish it, besides what I send to Tom. I'm not going to let you quarrel with me any longer."
She said without much enthusiasm that she would be glad to have me write, and that perhaps she would do so herself. I did not care to press the matter, thinking it best to leave it that way.
On the morning of the 12th I went early to the steamer, inspected the cabins I had engaged and made arrangements with the head porter to reserve a good place for my steamer chairs on the after-deck. I was rather pleased with the accommodations, for I had not expected too much. Driving back up-town I secured my letter of credit and did a last bit of shopping. An hour before the time the vessel was to slip her moorings I was again on board, not wishing Miss May to arrive and find me absent.
As the passengers arrived, one after another, I looked into their faces to see if there was a familiar one, but there was none, until Mr. Wesson came. I exchanged a few words with him about the arrangement of things in the room we were to occupy jointly. When he left, my attention was attracted to a woman, just coming up the plank, whom I certainly had seen before. An elderly man walked just behind her, and as she turned to speak to him I judged they were together. It was some time before I remembered where I had seen that face, and when it flashed upon me I could not restrain a low whistle.
She was the woman who had advertised in the Herald "Personal" column that she desired the acquaintance of an "elderly gent," describing herself as "beautiful of face and form," with her "object matrimony."
Well, she seemed to have found what she sought and I hoped the "gent" was also not disappointed. I did not believe that the ceremony of marriage had been performed between them, but perhaps a temporary arrangement was equally pleasing to both. One of the stewards took their hand baggage and descended with it, showing them to their rooms.
Miss May, arrived finally. I did not recognize her at first, heavily veiled as she was, though happily without the blue article she had worn to the restaurant. I rose and escorted her to her cabin, where she seated herself on the sofa and tried to recover her breath, which I could not see she had any reason to lose. As soon as she could speak she asked which was my room; when I told her, she begged me to wait there a few minutes.
Rather distressed by her manner I could, nevertheless, do nothing but comply. After what seemed an endless time I heard her voice, speaking my name in low tones, and went to see what she wanted.
"Don't come in!" she said, opening the door slightly. She spoke hardly above a whisper and yet in a way that conveyed an imperative prohibition. "Has the boat started yet?"
"No," I answered. "I think it will go in a few moments."
"Will you inquire if my baggage has been brought on and have the smaller trunk sent down here as soon as possible?"
"You ought to come on deck and see the start," I said. "That is one of the interesting things of a voyage like this."
"Oh, no!" she said. "I am feeling faint—I don't know what is the matter—doubtless I shall be better in a few minutes. I am going to lie down and see if that makes me more comfortable. Go on deck and amuse yourself. I shall try to get a nap."
Seeing that I hesitated she looked pleadingly into my eyes.
"Please go!" she said.
I went, swallowing my disappointment. The boat had commenced to move and I witnessed the usual waving handkerchiefs, tearful eyes, loud good-bys, and that sort of thing. The elderly gentleman with his well-formed, matrimonially-inclined lady was apparently enjoying the scene, for both of them looked happy. Mr. Wesson smiled as I approached and uttered some commonplace remark, as he made room for me by his side. Each moment the distance between the Madiana and her late moorings widened; presently we were well out in the river and proceeding down the Bay.
Wesson suggested a walk on the deck and as wewere both well wrapped up I saw no objection. I remarked what a wonderful thing it was, how soon our heavy clothing would be discarded. Ice and snow to-day and summer garments day after to-morrow.
"That is due to the Gulf Stream, of course," he replied.
"Yes. In two days any passenger not actually an invalid can bathe with pleasure in water pumped from the ocean."
Wesson expressed his surprise at this statement. We fell to talking of the islands we were to visit, he appearing deeply interested in all I had to say. The time was thus occupied until the first dinner bell rang, when I excused myself to go and look after my "cousin."
Miss May answered the knock by saying that she had already asked the stewardess to bring her a cup of tea and would want nothing more. She would try to get upon the deck to-morrow, if the water was sufficiently smooth, but at present she was quite unable to move. I was to be at ease about her and not allow her condition to interfere with my enjoyment. As there seemed no help for it, I went back to the deck and soon descended with the others to the dining table.
I thought it an odd fate that the "elderly gent" with his matrimonially-inclined companion should be seated at the same table with myself and Mr. Wesson, but odd things happen continually on shipboard and this voyage was to prove the rule. There were just eight of us assigned to that table, a married couple and one man travelling singly, besides thosementioned. Before we separated I took a printed list of the passengers, such as had been generally distributed, bearing on the reverse side a map of the Windward Islands, and requested those present to mark their names, that I might know them better. Wesson and I marked ours first. The "elderly gent" put his cross against two names reading Matthew Howes and Miss Nellie Howes, the married couple endorsed the names of Mr. and Mrs. H.G. Stone and the single passenger claimed the title of Robert Edgerly. The seats had been assigned by the steward with written cards on each plate, and Mr. Edgerly, who sat at my left, took up that of Miss Carney.
"We have still another messmate, who has not made her appearance," he said, to the table in general. "Miss M. Carney."
"The lady is not feeling well and will not appear to-night," I said.
"I believe she occupies the stateroom with me," said Miss Howes, to my surprise. "She is evidently not used to the sea, for she was taken ill before the steamer left the dock."
"Miss Carney is my cousin," I explained, forced into it by the inquiring eyes of Mr. Howes, who evidently connected us in some way. "She was not very well before we started, is in fact taking the journey mainly for her health. I hope she will feel able to be out to-morrow."
With the freedom that sometimes prevails in parties thrown together at a steamer table the conversation then became general, and before we rose I knew that Mr. Edgerly claimed Albany as his home and Mr. and Mrs. Stone, Montpelier, Vt.; while Mr. andMiss Howes said they resided in Binghamton. It helps very much in remembering people to get a city or town tacked on to their names, and I wrote the locations on my passenger list.
It was a dull evening, in spite of the fact that I passed it in the smoking room, where considerable cheap wit was bandied about and my fellow-passengers got acquainted with each other and with me. The push-button was kept busy until the steward in charge of that department gave signs of exhaustion. I drank very little, though I paid for several rounds, after the fashion of most Americans, who think such proceedings necessary to preserve their self-respect.
At last, when there was nothing else to do, I went to my cabin and to bed.
Before breakfast I saw the stewardess and asked her to learn how Miss Carney was and whether she would be at the table. She soon returned with the information that the lady thought it best not to leave her room, and that she wished me to procure her a list of the passengers. This I did, marking the addresses of those who sat at our table, and scrawling a bit of advice on the margin, recommending her to make her appearance on deck during the forenoon as the sea was remarkably smooth.
After leaving the table I took a novel called "His Foster Sister," which somebody told me had a reference to the Islands, and seeking my steamer chair became absorbed in its contents.
In a short time Mr. Edgerly came along and dropped into my second chair in a friendly way. He also had a book and it was some time before we engaged in conversation beyond the customary greetings.
My first impression of Edgerly was decidedly favorable. He was apparently a jolly sort of chap, ready for a joke or story and not inclined to be a bore. We got along together famously until about eleven o'clock, when Miss May came slowly up the companion way, with the stewardess to assist her. Edgerly saw her before I did and sprang to offer her his arm. As she looked into his face and detected that it was that of a stranger, she drew back, but he reassured her in low tones.
"You must permit me to help you to your chair," he said, "which I have just vacated. It's evident you cannot reach it without aid."
By this time I had arrived at her side and Miss May took my arm, leaning very heavily upon it. I was surprised to find her so weak and as soon as she was seated I asked if there was anything I could order to give her strength.
"No," she replied, faintly. "I shall be better soon. Please wrap the rug around me."
The stewardess had the rug on her arm and at my request placed it over the lady's skirts, tucking in the ends about her feet. She wore her cloak and a steamer cap, and seemed provided against the coolness of the air, which was still marked.
When the stewardess had gone, and Edgerly also, for he disappeared at once, I waited for Miss May to speak again, but she lay with closed eyes so long that I grew uneasy.
"There is a doctor among the passengers," I said."I think when you go below, you had best let him see you. I am alarmed at your condition."
She raised herself and surveyed the decks in every direction. Then she took a less recumbent position.
"Who is the man that came to me at the top of the stairs?" she asked, in a whisper.
"His name is Edgerly and he is from Albany. I never saw him till yesterday."
"He has called at the office of my last employer, and I am afraid he recognized me. Did he say anything to intimate it?"
"No," I answered. "There is not one chance in a thousand that he remembers you. I never in my life have looked closely enough at a stenographer to know her if we met outside."
"I hope he doesn't," she said, uneasily. "I felt so sure there would be no one here who had ever seen me!"
"His chair is next yours at the table," I remarked. "If he intimates that your face is known to him you have only to convince him that he is mistaken."
"I want that seat changed," she said, earnestly. "Can't you sit between us? I—I can't explain why, but I don't like him. What business had he to offer me his arm?"
I laughed at the serious way she regarded the matter, saying he had only done as any gentleman might, but added that I would certainly put her between myself and Mr. Wesson, if she preferred.
"And who is Mr. Wesson?" she asked.
"My room-mate, that I told you about. He is a splendid fellow."
"Can you see him anywhere at this moment?" she asked, looking around.
"Yes—he is there, talking with the second officer—the man with the white cap. If he comes this way I will present you."
She said there was no need of haste, that she did not wish to meet the passengers any more than was absolutely necessary; when we went to the table would be quite time enough.
"Mr. Camwell," she added, after a pause, "you can't imagine how I feel. If I had dreamed I should experience such sensations I never would have come."
"What sensations?" I asked, rather shortly, for I thought she might consider my feelings a little.
"The sensation of being a deceiver of those about me; the shame of passing for what I am not; the dread of somehow being exposed for what I am."
I grew angrier as she proceeded.
"If you were not ill," I said, "I should be out of patience with you. What awful crime have you committed? You are travelling in a perfectly respectable way, with a respectable party of people; occupying a room with a lady; acting in a rational manner except for these vagaries, which I must ask you to suppress. To be sure the name assigned you on the passenger list is not your own, but plenty of people travel incognito, even princes and dukes, for that matter. You make a mountain out of a molehill. Your whole journey will be ruined—and mine, if you care anything about that—if you go on as you have begun."
She begged my pardon humbly, saying she woulddo her best to amend her conduct in the future. And, as usual, the moment she took this attitude, I repented of my hard words and assured her I had no intention of being too critical.
"The lady who occupies the room with me is very agreeable," was her next observation. "She offered to do anything she could to relieve my head last night, and this morning she bathed it with cologne for half an hour."
"She sits opposite us at the table," I said. "With her uncle."
"I am glad of that. I feel quite acquainted with her now."
Then she assayed a question of the sort that eminate from women.
"Don't you think her very handsome?"
"She's not bad looking," I admitted.
"I call her magnificent. Such a face and form do not often go together."
I wanted to reply, "So she said in her advertisement," but I merely nodded.
"There is another woman on this boat that I would not exchange for a thousand of her," I said, presently, in a low voice.
"Point her out to me," said Miss May. "I would like to know what your ideal is."
"Look in your mirror," I responded.
"Why do you think it necessary," she asked, frowning, "to pay me that kind of compliment?"
"I think it necessary to refrain from doing so, but sometimes I grow forgetful."
She saw that I was very sober again.
"If you meant what you say, it would not be so wicked," she replied, gently.
"You know very well that I mean it."
"Mr. Camwell," she said, leaning very close to me, "we are obliged to lie to outsiders, in the contract we have assumed. Let us always tell the truth to each other."
"If I told you the truth," I responded, gloomily, "you would not sit where you are. You would find strength to walk down those stairs and back to your room alone."
She grew slightly paler, though her cheeks were waxen enough before.
"Then do not tell it to me just now," she replied, with an attempt at a laugh. "I would rather remain on deck where the air is purer."
When the lunch bell rang I advised Miss May to take her repast where she was, promising to send a steward to her with a bill of fare. It pleased me to learn when I came back that she had made quite a meal and was feeling considerably better.
The succeeding two days contained nothing of high importance, but there were several little things that deserve to be chronicled.
The first time Marjorie came to the table and was introduced by me to the others as "Miss Carney," I fancied that a smile rested lightly on the features of Miss Howes, for which I could not account. Marjorie was seated between Mr. Wesson and me, and I saw with pleasure that they seemed likely to be good friends. It was desirable in the interest of our general plan that she and I should not act as if therewas no one else in the world. Stone and his wife were quiet people, who rarely spoke unless first addressed. Edgerly was good-natured but not obtrusive. The most of the talk, therefore, at table, came from Mr. and Miss Howes, Wesson and myself. We got to be at last a rather jolly party.
Carrying out my plan, now that Miss May had apparently recovered from her indisposition, I left her alone a good deal, or rather with one or more of the others as her companion on deck. They aroused in her an interest in the trip, for which I was glad. Edgerly probably talked with her the least of all, and she told me he never mentioned having seen her before. Miss Howes was her most constant companion, quite naturally, when it is considered that they roomed in one cabin.
But on the third day out, just before dinner time, Miss May came to me with a distressed face that showed unusual perturbation. She was actually trembling and her eyes looked as if she had been weeping.
"A terrible thing has happened!" she said, when I followed her to a place where no one could overhear us. "I would not tell you if I could help it, but you will have to know." Then, in response to my inquiring look, she added, "Some one has entered my stateroom and robbed me!"
As far as she could learn, nothing had been taken but her turquoise ring, but the feeling that her effects were unsafe agitated her greatly. In response to questions she said she had left the ring on a little rack above the washbowl, when she washed her hands for lunch, as she had done twice before. Shewas absolutely certain where she put it, but had made a thorough search of her handbag, the only other place it could have been.
I told her not to get excited, but to ask the stewardess, whom I would send to her when she went down again, if she had seen it. I remarked, also, that I believed a theft on that line under such conditions was of extremely rare occurrence, and that she had best quiet her nerves until an investigation could be made.
"But it was your ring—it really belonged to you—" she stammered, "and I feel ever so much worse than if it were my own."
"That is mere casuistry," I replied, "but, if it pleases you to call all your things mine, of course, you will continue doing so. Whosever it is, we must do our best to recover it."
At dinner Miss May whispered to me that the stewardess had made a diligent search, but without effect. The meal passed rather dully. Miss May was pale and distraught. I sympathized with her, though the value of the lost article was not great. I wished I had some of the intuition of a Monsieur Lecoq that I might place the offence on the right person and relieve the strain I could not help feeling.
It must be one of the stewards, who were continually in and out of the adjacent rooms, or a fellow passenger. In either case something of the ease and comfort of the voyage was lost. A mosquito who enters your room at night is not as large as a lion nor on the whole quite as dangerous; but he can, if he chooses, banish sleep from your eyes.
That confounded ring made a lot of trouble. Ibegan to suspect everybody on board. The stewardess promised to say nothing of the occurrence, and I at first followed the same course. The only one I did tell, and that the next day, was Mr. Wesson, and the contribution he made to the case was merely a depressed shake of the head and a long-drawn sigh.