"Why, all the souls that were were forfeit once,And He that might the vantage best have tookFound out the remedy!"
"Why, all the souls that were were forfeit once,And He that might the vantage best have tookFound out the remedy!"
We went to the other side of the veranda, where the moon was shining beautifully, and took chairs side by side. I gradually succeeded in turning my companion's thoughts from the disagreeable trend into which I had brought them, and for several hours we discussed other matters. We spoke in low tones, for after a short time we were the only persons awake on the premises.
We both grew to feel the spell of the Queen of Night, nowhere more lovely than over the Caribbean. Our hands wandered together and I felt strange thrills that made me wish I were even closer to the lovely being at my side. In spite of the promises Ihad made—to her and to myself—I could not help talking nonsense.
"What harm would it do," I said, at 11 o'clock, "when I leave you at your door at night, if you gave me just a little—a very little—kiss? It would sweeten my slumbers, I am sure, and it wouldn't hurt you."
"It would sweeten your slumbers—perhaps," she replied, soberly. "And it would drive mine away entirely. Do you think that a fair transaction?"
I chose to answer that I thought she was acting cruelly and added that if she was going to treat me in that way I would go to bed at once. She was evidently agitated by my manner, for when we reached her door she stopped.
"I am going to tell you something," she said, impressively. "Yes, at the risk of lowering myself in your estimation, unless you bid me pause."
"How can I, when I do not know what you are going to say?" I demanded.
"Then you wish to hear it?"
I nodded, curious to learn what was in her mind.
Looking with eyes that scintillated into mine she said, impressively, "Don, you cannot possibly want that kiss more than I want to give it!"
"Well," I answered, delighted at her communication. "What prevents you? I promise, on my honor, not to scream—nor even to tell."
"If I leave you to decide," said Miss May, with lips that whitened at the words, "what will you advise me?"
A chilly breeze swept along the veranda. The figure of Statia Barton came across my vision, withher finger uplifted in warning. Out on the ocean I saw a wave that was transparent and beneath it a beautiful figure, cold and dead.
I raised one of her hands to my lips and breathed a sigh upon it. I was quieted so easily!
"Good night," I said, with emotion.
"Good night," she replied. "You do not—no, you do not hate me?"
I had turned away, but I faced her again.
"I am—afraid—I love you," I said. "It was not in the compact, I did not mean to do it, but I'm afraid—I love you."
She entered her door and I passed to my room. Pulling off my clothes at haphazard I threw them on a chair and donned my pajamas. The bed was hard. I turned every way to no purpose. Sleep would not come. At last I sat up, then opened my door noiselessly and stepped barefooted upon the veranda.
Marjorie's light was still burning. The objects in her room showed with perfect distinctness through her screen door.
I paused as if petrified at the sight before me. In her white nightrobes she was kneeling by the bedside, her face buried in her hands.
It was beauty prostrate before its God, doubtless uttering a petition that he would protect her from evil.
I paced up and down the veranda noiselessly for half an hour. When I paused again before Miss May's door, the light was extinguished and I could see nothing.
"Marjorie," I whispered.
"Yes, Don."
"Forgive me. I will not offend you again."
"Yes, Don. Would—would you like to come in and bathe my head? It aches a little."
"I cannot, Marjorie. Shall I call Mrs. Eggert?"
"Her hands are not like yours."
It was a severe struggle, but I told her I must not come in-that if she would think a minute she would see I must not. She said "Very well," and we exchanged good-nights. I went to my couch very proud of the victory I had won over myself—prouder than it seems to me now I should have been.
We must both have slept some, for I was aroused by hearing Laps barking, and Marjorie had not made her appearance when the hands of my watch pointed to half past five. She told me through the partition that she did not feel like bathing that morning, and I decided to omit the bath myself.
The barking of Laps was caused by the arrival of Mr. Wesson, whom I blamed without much reason for the headache I had awakened with. The fellow irritated me exceedingly and I made up my mind to get away from the Island without waiting for the Pretoria, if there was any feasible way to do it.
IT IS FROM A GIRL.
The arrival of letters, both for myself and Miss May, the next day, made me forget everything else till mine were read and answered. I had not looked for them so soon and do not know yet what course they took to reach us. It is supposed to be a rule of the postal department to forward all mail by the most expeditious route, but previous experience in the Caribbean had taught me that the rule is reversed there in most cases.
Eggert brought the things to us, having had sense enough to inquire at the office when he knew a steamer was in. Miss May had taken the precaution to have hers addressed "Care Miss M. Carney," after I told her she would be weighted with this title, and her friends supposed, no doubt, that the unfamiliar name represented the proprietress of a hotel or boarding house. She gave a joyful cry as I held two letters out to her, made the usual feminine inquiry if that was all, and retired to a corner by herself to read them, like a dog with a bone.
The first letter I opened was from Tom Barton, the second from his sister. Tom's was merely a recital of the latest happenings that he thought might interest me, and expressions of hope that I would derive great benefit from my cruise. Statia's was ahomily on the beauty of holiness and a sermon on the alleged fact that wicked deeds are often punished nearer home than in that subterranean place of extreme heat of which most moderns have begun to doubt. She was evidently in about the same frame of mind as when I last saw her, but I was too glad to know that she cared enough about me to write at all to be severely critical. I liked Statia. She filled a place in my heart that had been vacant before—a sort of sisterly place, as near as I can tell—and I resolved while reading to curb my tendency to joke when I answered her and take a weight off her mind if I could.
The next letter was a formal one from Uncle Dugald, reading like an official document. And the only remaining one was—of all things—from Miss Alice Brazier, who had adopted my suggestion and renewed her injunctions at the expense of a five cent stamp. I expected something from Harvey Hume, and when I looked over the odd packages of printed matter I detected his handwriting on several of them. Like Mary of old, he had chosen the better part, and had contributed as much to my happiness as either of the others. Six daily papers and three magazines, besides a new novel, bore his fist on their wrappers, and he had broken the laws of the postoffice by scribbling on stray corners certain "God bless you's!" for which I hope he will be forgiven.
"Do you want to read a letter I have received, warning me against you?" I asked, laughingly, going to where Miss May sat. "Or perhaps, to stateit more accurately, warning you against me; at least, warning us against each other."
She looked rather startled at my first observation and held out her hand for the missive as I finished.
I sat down beside her, prefacing an actual exhibition of the note from Miss Brazier by a reminder that I had informed her early in our acquaintance of the lady's answer to my Herald advertisement. She read the note through, as I held it in my hands, and when she had finished wore a very sober face.
"This seems to amuse you," she said, regarding me with a strange look. "I do not see why it should. The person who wrote that is actuated by the sincerest regard for your welfare. It would have been much better for you had you taken her on this journey instead of me."
"But," I answered, lightly, "it would not have been half so well for you, which is why I did not do it. I want you to understand that I am not here for my own health, but yours. As for Alice Brazier, she wrote me, when she found I would not take her, anyway—that she was surprised at the 'nerve' of the successful applicant."
"I am surprised at it myself," said Miss May, refusing to laugh. "I grow more and more surprised at it every day."
"I suppose you wish me to believe you are sorry," I said, bridling just the least bit.
"No, my dear Don," she replied, gently, "I am very glad I came. It is not that which troubles me. It is the thought that some day it will end."
"That thought would spoil the pleasure of life itself," I said, much mollified nevertheless. "I wouldadvise you not to become a monomaniac. Take some of these papers and get into touch again with the planet on which we used to live."
She looked them all over, scanning the dates.
"Why, who sent you these ancient things?" she said. "The very latest is dated January 18th."
"Well, did you expect yesterday morning's?" I asked. "Have you forgotten that we are some little distance from Manhattan Island?"
She smiled at last, as the recollection of our situation with regard to news came over her, and thanking me, began to look over the papers, beginning with the day after we left. I took the next one and for some time this occupied us. When either encountered anything of general interest there was an interruption, followed by prolonged silence.
"Are you going to answer that letter of Miss Brazier's?" Miss May asked, all of a sudden.
"Why? Would you?"
"Yes; in a very formal way."
Was she attacked with incipient jealousy of this unknown one, even while she approved of her counsel?
"All right," I said. "I will let you dictate the words."
"What other letters did you get?" she inquired.
I showed them to her. She wanted to know what each contained; and when I spoke of Statia, though I did not mention her name, the same smouldering fire flashed up slightly as in Miss Brazier's case.
"Who is that lady?" she asked.
"The sister of my dearest masculine friend."
"Why does she write to you?"
"For the same reason as the other girl, to give me good advice."
She had to ask the next question.
"Is there no love affair between you?"
"Not the slightest. I did not think she would even condescend to write a line."
Miss May drew a long breath, and then, as if ashamed of the interest she had shown, buried her face in the newspaper.
"If you have finished with your cross-questionings," I remarked, "I will take a hand. Who are your letters from?"
She clung to the envelopes as if she feared I would try to wrest them from her.
"A friend," she answered, frigidly.
"Two friends, at least. One is directed in the handwriting of a man. Now, Marjorie, I am not going to permit that sort of thing. I draw the line at male correspondents while you are travelling with me."
Hesitating an instant she laid the envelope of which I spoke in my lap.
"Read it," she said, looking me full in the eyes.
"Not unless you wish me to," I answered.
"I do wish it."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"I must refuse to oblige you, for the first time, and I hope the last. I would not read that letter, under any circumstances," I replied.
"Then I will read it to you," said Miss May, and she read as follows:
Dear Marjorie:—I hope you are well and happy in that far-off land, with the gentleman who has engaged you as secretary, and that you have had no cause to regret accepting his offer. I have no great fears for you, believing that a wise girl will so conduct herself as to disarm the most persistent man, if temptation comes. If Mr. Camwell is all you believed him when last I saw you, your journey must be a continuous delight. If he proves the contrary I shall be sorry, for he can make your path a miserable one, but my confidence in you will be unshaken.The other girls all send love and best wishes. I shall look anxiously for the first letter from you.Mr. Barnard, the cashier, has promised to address my envelope and put on the right stamp.Your Friend,HELEN.
Dear Marjorie:—I hope you are well and happy in that far-off land, with the gentleman who has engaged you as secretary, and that you have had no cause to regret accepting his offer. I have no great fears for you, believing that a wise girl will so conduct herself as to disarm the most persistent man, if temptation comes. If Mr. Camwell is all you believed him when last I saw you, your journey must be a continuous delight. If he proves the contrary I shall be sorry, for he can make your path a miserable one, but my confidence in you will be unshaken.
The other girls all send love and best wishes. I shall look anxiously for the first letter from you.
Mr. Barnard, the cashier, has promised to address my envelope and put on the right stamp.
Your Friend,
HELEN.
I glanced at the writing, which was certainly that of a woman, and again at the envelope, quite as surely in the penmanship of a man.
"It is from a girl who used to write in the same office as I," said Miss May. "Now you must hear the other one."
But this I absolutely refused to do. She was putting me in a position I did not covet. I said I had some letters to write and would go to my room for awhile. Miss May did not press her point further, but said she would take the time to answer her own letters, if I did not need her.
For the next hour I pushed my pen over the stationery, replying to the missives I had received, and also sending brief notes to several of my other friends. When this was finished I went to Miss May's door to speak to her, and found her absent. Looking over the veranda railing I saw her at somedistance, frolicking with Laps, the dog, apparently having recovered her spirits, which were rather low when I left her.
Glancing back into her room I noticed that a letter she had just written lay open upon the table. To save my soul I could not resist going in, taking it up and reading it. My curiosity about her was intense. There might be something in this letter, either to confirm my belief in her or to dash it to the ground. At any rate, though the act was repulsive to my nature, I could not help taking advantage of the opportunity.
Dear Helen [was the way the letter read]:—Many thanks for your sweet note. I am glad to say I can set your mind at rest at once regarding my fate. Mr. C. is one of the kindest men I ever knew. I have lost the apprehension which I had in regard to him during the first few days of our voyage and am as happy as I hoped to be when I told you of the engagement. I only wish you could have seen him before we sailed. You would not wonder I was so pleased to go, though, of course, I had to hide my feelings when talking with him about it.I will try to describe him to you. He is rather above the medium height, four or five inches taller than I, I should think. His hair is brown. He wears a mustache, but no beard—a nearly blonde mustache that adds a charm to a sensitive and finely cut mouth. His eyes are hazel. He is slightly pale, owing to the illness of which I told you, but he has gained immensely since we started. When he smiles I never saw a more engaging countenance; when he is troubled the clouds are like those of a summer sky, and the first puff of wind blows them away.I do not mean to tell you he is perfect in everything. He has not led the best life always, I am afraid, and with a different woman for his constant companion there might be a another story to tell. But when he shows signs of getting unruly, I never fail to quiet him with the right word. He is a gentleman, after all, and I am sure he will never be else than that to me.Helen, dear, I must tell you a great secret. I have all I can do to prevent myself falling head over ears in love with the man. If I were an unscrupulous young woman I believe I could make him care a great deal for me. As I look at it, such a course would be wholly disreputable. He is impulsive and might say things he would regret later in his life. So I keep my heart as quiet as I can, in his presence. He will not guess what I have confided to you and what I never shall tell to another.If I were of his social grade—if I could have retained the position in which I was born, he would be my ideal as a husband. Such thoughts, alas! are not forYour Poor Friend,MARJORIE.St. Thomas, W.I., Jan. 29, 1898.
Dear Helen [was the way the letter read]:—Many thanks for your sweet note. I am glad to say I can set your mind at rest at once regarding my fate. Mr. C. is one of the kindest men I ever knew. I have lost the apprehension which I had in regard to him during the first few days of our voyage and am as happy as I hoped to be when I told you of the engagement. I only wish you could have seen him before we sailed. You would not wonder I was so pleased to go, though, of course, I had to hide my feelings when talking with him about it.
I will try to describe him to you. He is rather above the medium height, four or five inches taller than I, I should think. His hair is brown. He wears a mustache, but no beard—a nearly blonde mustache that adds a charm to a sensitive and finely cut mouth. His eyes are hazel. He is slightly pale, owing to the illness of which I told you, but he has gained immensely since we started. When he smiles I never saw a more engaging countenance; when he is troubled the clouds are like those of a summer sky, and the first puff of wind blows them away.
I do not mean to tell you he is perfect in everything. He has not led the best life always, I am afraid, and with a different woman for his constant companion there might be a another story to tell. But when he shows signs of getting unruly, I never fail to quiet him with the right word. He is a gentleman, after all, and I am sure he will never be else than that to me.
Helen, dear, I must tell you a great secret. I have all I can do to prevent myself falling head over ears in love with the man. If I were an unscrupulous young woman I believe I could make him care a great deal for me. As I look at it, such a course would be wholly disreputable. He is impulsive and might say things he would regret later in his life. So I keep my heart as quiet as I can, in his presence. He will not guess what I have confided to you and what I never shall tell to another.
If I were of his social grade—if I could have retained the position in which I was born, he would be my ideal as a husband. Such thoughts, alas! are not for
Your Poor Friend,
MARJORIE.
St. Thomas, W.I., Jan. 29, 1898.
My hand trembled so before I had half read this letter that I could not make out the lines. I had to put it down to finish it. Twice I crept to the door to see if Miss May was still on the lawn, playing with Laps. She was there, absorbed in her amusement and I finally finished it unchallenged. Then I left the room and went to my own, where I fell from sheer weakness upon my bed.
Marjorie loved me!
The reflection was overpowering. She was battling not only against me but against her own affections.I was absolutely dumfounded. What a train of thought swept through my heated brain!
At one instant I resolved to offer her my hand in marriage that very day and have the ceremony performed in the evening, by one of the clergymen of Charlotte Amelie, with Eggert and his wife as witnesses. At the next I planned a slow campaign to win her, which, with the evidence in my possession, could have but one result. The slower way would bring the most pleasure, if I could persuade myself to patience. Again, the vision of my Uncle Dugald rose before me, mutely protesting against an alliance with one of whom I knew practically nothing. Then Tom Barton and Statia joined the procession, shaking their heads dolefully.
Miss May's voice at my door aroused me to a sense of my condition and I bade her come in, if she was not afraid. She came quietly, removing as she did so her straw hat. A steamer had just entered the harbor, she said, that I might like to see. I always wanted to inspect each craft, and she supposed I would not like to miss this one.
I sat up and listened to her in a half daze. How little she knew that the burning secret under her calm exterior was already in my possession.
"Marjorie! Marjorie!"
I could only repeat the name in the joy of my discovery; repeat it to myself, lock it in the recesses of my inmost bosom.
I bathed my face, after which she took my brush and arranged my hair for me. How delicious herhands on my head! Some day they would be mine, and forever!
I suffered her to lead me out of doors and set me a chair before the telescope, which she arranged to command a view of the incoming steamer. Eggert came while we were there, with a little trouble on his mind. The book that had annoyed Marjorie so—that copy of "Our Rival, the Rascal," had disappeared from his bookcase, and he wanted to know if either of us had seen it. Miss May shook her head with disgust, while I responded that I had left it on the table the night he showed it to me, and had never picked it up again.
Eggert turned to the steamer I was watching through the glass and said he had known for an hour what it was—his seaman's eye had told him that when only the tops of her smokestacks were visible.
It was going down the islands, he said, and would make its next stop at St. Croix.
An idea sprang into my head. Here was an opportunity to escape the daily visits of Mr. Wesson!
I asked how soon she would leave. Eggert said probably in an hour.
"We must pack our things at once, then," I exclaimed. "I have reasons for wanting to get to St. Croix to-day, and this is a chance not to be missed."
Eggert pleaded with me to wait for the Pretoria, as I had first intended, but I would not listen. I wanted action; the excitement of departure was just the thing in my state of mind. Miss May dutifully went to her chamber and put her things in their receptacles, coming afterward to mine and helping me appreciably. The covers were down, the keys turned in thelocks, the typewriting machine in its bag, and everything ready in thirty minutes.
As I left my room my attention was attracted to Miss May, who was talking earnestly with some one from the adjoining veranda. I soon saw that little Thorwald was below, with a handsome mongoose in a trap, which he was exhibiting to her with much pride.
"What are you going to do with that poor creature?" she asked the lad.
"Going to kill him," he answered, in his sharp, clear way.
"Why do you want to kill that helpless thing?"
"Why I want to kill the mongoose?" he repeated. "You better ask why the mongoose want to kill my chickens. No, that little mongoose will never trouble my chickens any more."
"Will you sell him to me?" she asked, earnestly.
"You want to buy a mongoose?" asked the boy, incredulously. "No, you can never tame him. He will only bite you. See:" (he put down the trap and pushed a stick into the wire cage, which the animal bit ferociously.) "I don't think you want to buy that mongoose."
"But I do want to buy him," she insisted. "I will give you a dollar for him."
(It is a strange fact that the terms of trade are generally spoken of in United States money in these islands, even where the only coins are European.)
"You will give me a dollar for the mongoose?" said Thorwald's bright voice.
"Yes, I will gladly give you a dollar for him."
"You may have him," said the child, hanging upthe cage and receiving the money, evidently hardly able to credit his eyes. "But the mongoose is not worth one cent."
Taking the trap to the ground on the other side of the house, Miss May lost no time in releasing the little prisoner from his bondage, whereupon he vanished with all speed in the shrubbery. She gave Thorwald his dollar, and as she came to where I stood, there were tears in her bright eyes.
I kissed the children hastily, handing them at the same time some small pieces of silver, settled my bill, directed the negroes who were summoned about the baggage, said good-by to everybody, from the Master to the scullery maid, and started down the long path to the boat. In ten minutes more we were being rowed toward the steamer, and a quarter of an hour later were safe on board.
As soon as our chairs were arranged on deck and we had dropped into them I felt the old weakness coming on. I could not endure such a strain without showing evidence that I had not yet wholly recovered my form. I asked a steward who happened to pass, to get me a brandy-and-soda.
"Close your eyes and try to sleep," said my companion, soothingly, as to a sick child. "You have been overdoing for the last hour."
I took her hand and tried to obey her. That dear little hand on which I would one day put the symbol of a love to last through eternity!
A STRUGGLE ON THE BALCONY.
It was something to be free at last from Wesson. While I had nothing definite that I could bring against the man, he was in my way. I wanted to be alone with Marjorie. Not literally alone, for wherever we went there were people near by, of course; but alone as far as any one who had ever known us was concerned. As we approached St. Croix, my mercurial spirits began to rise again. When we were once more on shore, and domiciled in the second class hostelry to which we were shown, I could have danced with glee. I could hardly refrain from giving vent to my feelings in a yell that would no doubt have astonished the quiet town as if a cannon had been discharged.
All through this part of the world the native population speak in tones so low that a foreigner has to listen intently to know what is being said. It is charming after you get used to it; one wonders how Northerners got into a habit of screaming when discussing the common events of the day. A negro or colored person (colored is only used here for people of mixed race) will address another a hundred feet away in as low a tone as the ordinary American would use at as many inches. I got partially into the same habit before I left the Islands. I only wish I hadretained it and could persuade my friends to do likewise.
"What is there to do here?" asked Marjorie, as we sat in the evening on the balcony that projected from the house.
"Nothing whatever," I replied. "Unless it be to make love, and that, you will remember, is forbidden by our agreement."
She bit her lips, acted as if she were going to say something, and suppressed it, whatever it was.
"If you wish the stipulation removed," I continued, gaily, "there is no better opportunity than this. I believe I could make love, after my long abstinence, in a way that would do me credit."
She turned and surveyed my face for some seconds.
"In the same way you have often made love before, I presume," she said, finally; "and with the same degree of sincerity."
"No," I said, growing sober. "I have never loved a woman till recently. The others were idle fancies. They lasted, on the average, a week, while this—"
"Might last a month?" she interrupted.
"Or an eternity."
"I think we had best talk of something else," she said, uneasily. "In the morning we must begin our work, bright and early. I suppose there will be no beach bathing here, and we can commence before coffee if you wish. I want to be of all possible use while we are together."
"You will never leave me, Marjorie," I answered, "if I am allowed to set the time of your departure. Don't think, I beg, that I would say these things ifI did not mean them. I want you for my true and loving wife—understand, that is what I mean—wife; and something tells me that, when you think it over, you will grant my wish."
She flushed until her neck was as rosy as her cheek. Several very long breaths came and went to stir her matchless bosom. She seemed as if strangling for an instant and recovered her equanimity with difficulty.
"Mr. Camwell—" she began.
"'Don,'" I corrected.
"No, not at this moment," she answered. "Do you recollect to whom you are speaking? I am a nearly friendless girl—who has trusted herself to your manhood and honor. I am far from my home, if indeed I can truly claim to have one; you know nothing about me. It is madness if you mean what you say. It is villainy of the deepest dye if you do not mean it."
"We shall have to call it madness, then," I replied, smiling at the thought that I knew her heart in spite of all her efforts to conceal its true pulsations. "I might fall at your feet, declaim my story after the manner of a stage hero, all that sort of thing. I believe it best to tell you what I have to say in the plain, sincere tone that a matter of great moment should be spoken. I love you, Marjorie! I have loved you since the minute my eyes rested on your face. I shall love no other woman while life remains to me. I offer you my hand in sincere and honest affection, and may God—"
She half rose from her chair and lifted a hand deprecatingly.
"Don't say that!" she interpolated, with distress inher tone. "I will believe you without the oath. But, I cannot listen. It is impossible. You must not—you must not—"
"My darling," I said, leaning toward her, and speaking lower than any native of St. Croix, "I know I have surprised you, by coming to the point in such an unconventional and sudden fashion. We will say no more about it—to-night."
"Neither to-night, nor ever," she replied, earnestly. "Oh, why have you done this? We were such good friends; and now, it never can be the same again!"
There were tears in her eyes, and at sight of them my resolution to remain cool took wings. Rising, I clasped the shrinking form in my arms, and poured into her ears the love that was consuming me. I said the only answer I would ever listen to from her was "Yes." I would wait, if need be, but I must have it. Never, never, should she separate from me. The love I had to offer was that of a lifetime.
"I am not a poor man, either," I added, trying to weight my proposition with all the things that would count. "I can give you a home of comfort, even luxury. The days for you to toil in disagreeable offices are ended. The time when you will count your money to see if you can afford the necessaries of life is past. We will go on long journeys, to interesting lands. Your existence shall be, as far as I can make it so, a dream of happiness. Marjorie, believe me! I want to hear your sweet lips say the word that will make this world a heaven—now!"
Instead of being influenced by my passionate flow of language, she seemed only to shrink further andfurther away. I saw at last that, in some manner I could not understand, I was actually frightening her. Alarmed at her appearance I quickly released my hold and stood there, a very confused figure, panting with the excess of my emotions.
Marjorie seemed fainting and in my alarm I begged her to let me go and summon assistance.
"No," she whispered. "But you will stop—you will say no more? You may, if you will be so kind, get me—a—glass—of water. I shall be better—presently."
It took a long time to get the simple thing she wanted. There are no bells in the house, to begin with. The principal ambition of West India servants is to keep out of sight and hearing, lest they might be asked to do something. When one was at last found he could produce nothing colder than water that had stood in a jug since dinner. This would not do and, by the time he had found the ice, at least ten minutes must have passed.
Bringing the glass of water with all speed to the balcony, great was my disgust to find that a man had reached there before me and was even then engaged in conversation with my late companion. He had come upon the balcony from the public sitting room and was trying to persuade the lady to let him fetch something from his own chamber that he promised would speedily restore her. When he turned to meet me I was filled with positive rage. For the man was none other than my old fellow passenger, Edgerly!
"Where the devil did you come from?" I demanded, hotly.
"I hope I have done no harm," he answered, in an apologetic voice that made me feel as if I ought to punch my own head instead of his, which was my original intention. "I happened to step out on this balcony and seeing that the lady was ill offered to assist her. That is all."
He was always offering to assist her, it seemed to me, as I recalled the time when he flew to the companionway of the steamer with the same end in view.
"I think I will go in now, if you don't mind," said Marjorie, wearily, after she had sipped the water I brought. "I was overcome by—by the heat—I think, but I am much better."
Thinking that Edgerly might wish to "assist her" again I made haste to offer her my arm; but she declined it with a faint smile, saying she had no need of help. Her window was open and she left the balcony as she had entered it, closing the glass doors after her.
"You were not very polite to me, a moment ago," said Edgerly, in clear, cutting tones. "I thought it the part of a gentleman not to notice it while the lady was present, but now I am obliged to express my opinion of you; which is," he paused a moment, looking me squarely in the eye, "that you are a cur!"
I grappled with him almost before the words were out of his mouth. We went down together in a heap, his hand at my throat, mine at his. I would have thrown him over the railing, or he would have thrown me, in an instant more.
A voice interrupted us—the voice of Miss May, through her window.
"Mr. Camwell, will you kindly call a chambermaid," she said.
It was like the sudden appearance of a flag of truce in the midst of a battle. Edgerly muttered something about seeing me at another time, and released his hold. I did the same, remarking that I was at his service whenever he pleased. We both rose. Edgerly entered the sitting room, lifting his hat ironically as he vanished. I entered my own chamber, reaching the hall in that way. Finding the woman, I sent her to Miss May, telling her to knock at my door when she had executed the lady's requests. Then I threw myself into a chair, and realized for the first time how inadequate my weakened physical strength was to cope with a well man like Edgerly.
Had not that voice separated us, I would now have been lying, either dead or mangled, on the stone pavement, twelve feet below!
When I thought the matter over, I could see I had been in the wrong. The fellow had done nothing that deserved my abuse, in the first place, and the epithet he had hurled at me was in a measure justified by my conduct. It was now too late, however, to consider the origin of the quarrel. Blows had been exchanged, threats had been passed, we had agreed to settle the matter later. It was not in my disposition to crave the pardon of a man under those circumstances. If he carried out his evident purpose of trying to trash me, I would have to meet him. The fact that I was still in effect an invalid—that I was not in condition for such a game—was no excuse, nor did I intend to avail myself of it. I felt pretty certain that, within a given number of hours, I would be very lucky if I knew myself in the glass.
The chambermaid came to say that "Miss Carney"would like to see me after a short time had passed. I therefore made myself as presentable as possible, bathing my heated face, brushing my hair and arranging a necktie that had got sadly out of place. When twenty minutes had elapsed, I went to Marjorie's door and knocked softly. She came and opened it just enough to see who was there, but instead of asking me to enter said she had found, on reflection, that she did not need anything and believed the best course for her was to retire. She evidently either knew or suspected what had occurred and wanted to see if I bore evidence of having been injured.
"Very well; good-night," I said, in answer to her suggestion.
"Good-night," she answered. And, "God bless you!" she added, fervently.
"My love!" I murmured, hoping she would relent and give me a longer interview, but she shook her head with a sad smile and closed the door. I heard the key turn in the lock and, realizing that it was useless to remain longer, re-entered my own chamber and prepared for sleep.
In the midst of a sound slumber, for the events of the evening did not much disturb my rest, I suddenly came to consciousness. A figure, distinct enough, stood between me and the window. The bright night of the tropics made the principal objects in the room look almost as clear as day. Half doubting whether I were really awake I sprang up, when a low voice made me pause.
"Hush! Not a sound," said the voice. "It is only I."
The window was wide open, showing where she had entered, for it was Marjorie that spoke.
"I was nervous, and could not sleep, and on going upon the balcony I found your window unfastened."
The wonder that she had entered overpowered every other sentiment. How could it be true that this girl, who had nearly fainted with fear when I merely put an arm around her, had come in the night within my bedroom, clad, as I plainly saw, in the garments of slumber.
I stretched my arms toward her, but she moved away. What an incomprehensible creature she was!
"Do not stir," she continued, earnestly, and with a trembling tongue. "I tried to make you hear me, without entering, but you slept too soundly. It is not well—it is not safe—to sleep with your window unfastened. I thought you ought to know. That is all. Good-night."
She was moving toward the exit and I called after her softly.
"Marjorie!" I said. "Come here a little while before you leave."
She turned her white face—whiter in the pale moonlight than I had ever seen it—toward me, still moving slowly away.
"And you," she whispered, "are the man who told me, only a few hours ago, that you wanted me for your wife!"
"I do, my darling!" I replied, with all the fervor I could put into the words. "I mean no more than I say when I ask to touch your cheek with my lips, your hand even, the hem of your gown."
She was gone; and as I sat there I reflected for thesecond time that evening what an ass I had been. Marjorie had taken what I thought a harmless request and turned it into an insult. I cursed anew the damnable training I had had in the field of love-making. It had me as unfit to win the heart of a pure and virtuous maiden as a brigand.
The worst was, she had gone to her chamber with the thought still on her mind that I was a liar of the meanest stripe. After professing a pure love I had, at the first opportunity, she imagined, showed the emptiness of my pretence, the falseness of my heart.
Sleep fled this time from my eyes, and no wonder. I propped my head high with pillows and resigned myself to wakefulness and moody thoughts till daybreak.
As soon as it was light I took stationery from my trunk and wrote an impassioned letter to my beloved, that she might see, before we met again, how terribly she had misjudged me. I told her the story as it really was—my sudden awakening, the longing that possessed me for some recognition from the being to whom all my life's love had been pledged. I detailed the sickness of heart with which I realized how woefully my object was misapprehended. I touched on the absence of sleep that followed my error, and in closing begged her to write me just a word to say that I was forgiven, before I underwent the agony of meeting her unjustly accusing eyes. This I signed, "Your husband that is to be—that must be—with all respect and love."
It was almost as great a shock as if she had refused to read my note when the maid whom I summonedto deliver it, brought me a tiny sheet of paper bearing these words:
"Of course you are forgiven, my dear boy. I understood it all a minute after I left you. Sorry you took it to heart. If you wish to please me do not allude to it when we meet."
"Of course you are forgiven, my dear boy. I understood it all a minute after I left you. Sorry you took it to heart. If you wish to please me do not allude to it when we meet."
From some remarks that I heard below stairs I gathered that Edgerly had left the house, taking his baggage with him, before the early breakfast was served. A little later I learned that he had gone to a town on the opposite side of the island where the capital is located. I therefore came to the conclusion that he had decided not to push his intention of mauling me at present. Probably, I reflected, he did not realize how easy a victim I was likely to be in the present condition of my health.
We passed the rest of the time while at St. Croix in morning work, midday siestas, evening drives and after dinner talks. Marjorie succeeded in keeping the conversation away from the delicate ground of the former occasion, but she did not succeed in eliminating the subject from my mind. Knowing from the letter I had read at Eggert's, that she cared much for me, I was not to be dissuaded from my intention of taking her home, either as my actual or my promised bride. The security I felt gave me willingness to wait. What I needed now was to strengthen the affection she had admitted until it was too strong for her to resist longer.
No shadow came between us during the week that remained before the coming of the Pretoria, on which we were to embark for another voyage. We heardthe boat had arrived on the morning of the 8th of February, and would leave late in the evening. I engaged a carriage to drive us to a distant point, so that we might go on board too late to meet any of the Americans with whom the steamer was sure to be filled. That day was one of unalloyed happiness.
Alas! that so soon my troubles were to break out afresh!
I had arranged with the local agent to secure me the requisite berths and he brought the tickets to the hotel at night when we returned. There was only one unpleasant feature about them—he had not been able to secure a place for the lady very near me—but we had no right to expect anything else, and Marjorie seemed disposed to make the best of it.
At eleven o'clock we were rowed out with our baggage and shown to our rooms.
Reaching mine, I turned up the electric light and started as I saw the face of Mr. Wesson in that lower berth.
"The devil!" I could not help exclaiming, aloud.
It seemed to partially waken him, for he turned over and muttered something indistinguishable, immediately relapsing again into sound sleep.
I said to myself that this was decidedly too much. I would be d—d if I would sleep there. When I had donned my pajamas, therefore, I went up to the deck above and passed the night on the cushions of the music room, of which I was the only tenant.
OUR NIGHT AT MARTINIQUE.
Of course I had to meet Wesson in the morning; and as I could assign no reason for the distrust which I felt, I had to choose between giving him the cut direct and putting on an air of coolness without a real affront. I encountered him on deck, before I had been down to dress, as I went out to take a view of the island of St. Kitts. He murmured something about being glad to see me again, but did not attempt a prolonged conversation. He evidently had not yet ascertained that I was his roommate.
Slightly uneasy to have Miss May so far from me I went as soon as I was dressed to her door and knocked. She was awake and in response to an inquiry said she would be up to breakfast. Luckily she had been given a room alone, due perhaps to a small inducement I had sent in a note left with the agent the day before. As I stood outside I chafed at the restrictions she continually put upon me; and yet I knew very well I had no right to complain. What earthly business had I in the room of a young, unmarried woman, before she was out of bed? The fact that I had been in more than one under similar circumstances did not count in a case like this.
The scornful words of my darling came back to me—the expression she had used at St. Croix. Imust put better control on my wild thoughts or I would yet do something she might regard as unpardonable.
The table to which we were assigned in the salon had no especial interest. The other people had become acquainted from their nine days' voyage together and clearly looked upon us as interlopers. For this I was not sorry. Beyond necessary requests to "pass" the butter or the ice, I had nothing to say to them nor they to me; while Miss May's mouth was sealed entirely to conversation.
The succeeding days would have been insufferably dull but for the presence of my idol, as I had been to all the islands on my voyage of three years previous. To show them to her with the confidence of an old traveller was in itself a charm not to be despised. We went ashore together at St. Kitts, and drove extensively; took our turtle dinner at Antigua, where I was much grieved to hear that Mr. Fox, the American consul, with whom I had formerly been acquainted, had died shortly after my previous visit. He was one of the pleasantest men I ever met and an honor to the civil service. A new consul, bound to Guadaloupe, was on board, with his wife—a Chicago man with a French name and the unusual ability to speak the language of the place to which he was accredited. He struck me as much better educated than the average consul and withal a good fellow. In his party, much of the time, were two charming young ladies from Alleghany City, whose father, a German, was taking a well earned vacation from his duties as cashier of a bank there. Had there been any place in my mind that was not filled withMarjorie, I should certainly have tried to become better acquainted with these girls.
I also made a smoking room acquaintance with three delightful fellows, a Mr. T——, from Indianapolis, a Mr. S——, from Greensburg, and a Mr. H——, from Brockton, Mass. The first was an attorney; the second engaged in the theatrical business, and the third a license commissioner. I should be sorry to think I had seen either for the last time.
At Dominica I went ashore very early and engaged two horses for a ride into the mountains, making arrangements with an individual who seemed (actually) to rejoice in the cognomen of "Mr. Cockroach." He announced himself to me as the owner of that title with evident pride and when we came off after breakfast had ready two of as mean animals, judging by appearance, as could be imagined. They endured the long climb, however, remarkably well, and were as easy to sit as a rocking chair. Marjorie unbent herself more than usual when we were in the heart of the hills, with no one near, for the black boy who was supposed to follow us on foot had a way of cutting across the fields and keeping out of sight nearly all the time.
The island of Dominica is very beautiful and I remembered enjoying this ride greatly on my previous visit. The vegetation is thoroughly tropical. The excessive moisture caused by rains which occur daily through most of the year gives to everything a luxuriance not exceeded north of the equator, I believe. The mountain path by which we went is too narrow in most places to ride abreast, but wherever we could get side by side I managed to do so. At such timesthe sense of companionship was thrillingly delicious, and while I dared not risk offending by becoming too familiar, I managed to play the discreet lover and was very happy.
I thought I was certainly improving. There had been a time, not so very long before, when I would Have planted myself in the lady's way, and exacted tribute before letting her by, trusting to her forgiveness after the deed was done. I would have given much to have dared the same thing now, but the thought did not seriously enter my head. I was certainly growing better under my excellent teacher.
There was one point at which I had a jealous pang, so ridiculous that I think it only right to detail the occurrence. We went out of our way to view a sulphur pit, where the Evil One or some of his satellites have apparently secured an opening to the air from the very Bottomless Pit itself. The atmosphere is charged with fumes, while the deposit bubbles and froths in a way to strike terror into the heart of an infidel. To get a near view, one must be carried across a small stream by a couple of negroes, or—take off his shoes and stockings and wade. Miss May looked somewhat aghast at both propositions, and I allowed the boys to carry me over first, to show her how safe the process was. But, though it might be safe, it was clearly not graceful, for they handled a human being quite as if he were a sack, thinking their duty done if they got him across without dropping him in the brook.
She said, at first, that she believed she would rather wade and sat down to take off her boots. Then, when it came to the hosiery and her fingers had begun towander toward the fastenings, she had another period of doubt, calling to me to know if there was really anything worth seeing. Finally putting on her boots again, she directed the negroes how to make a sort of "cat's-cradle" chair and arrived safely in that manner.
It was then that I had my pang. For she put both her fair arms around the neck of the bearers to steady herself in transit.
"I shall insist on being one of your porteurs, on your return," I said, as she was placed on her feet. "If you are going to put your arms around the neck of any man in this island it must be myself."
She tried to laugh off the idea, a little nervously, saying she had more confidence in those experienced fellows on the slippery stones than she had in me. I persisted a little longer, till it became evident my expressions were not agreeable. In returning she managed to steady herself by merely touching the shoulders of her bearers, and brought back the smile to my face by calling my attention to the fact, with a comic elevation of her eyebrows. I helped her mount her horse and all the way from there she was kindness itself. On the whole the day was the most delightful I had passed since leaving America.
She was to be my wife! This thought was uppermost in my mind. She must be my wife! I would think of nothing but that blissful culmination.
It was not the time now to press for an affirmative answer. I must make myself more and more agreeable, more indispensable to her. When the hour came that she was about to leave me—when the alternative presented itself to her mind of going backto her unpleasant struggle for bread or becoming the consort of a man she had admitted was not distasteful to her—I had no fear of the result.
The next stop after Dominica is Martinique and here I intended to make a stay of a month at least. My tickets were only purchased as far as this point. Our baggage was taken ashore and, as far as appeared, we had bidden a permanent farewell to the good ship Pretoria.
Again, however, my plans were to be altered.
The Hotel des Bains at St. Pierre, is not by any means a first-class house, but there is something quaint about it that to me has a certain charm. The meals are served in the French style and not at all bad. The beds are immense affairs, and I never yet saw a bed that was too big. In the centre of what might be called the patio, so Spanish is the architecture of the building, is a fish-pond, giving an air of coolness to the entire place.
The patois of the servants is pleasing to my ear. I entered the house in high spirits, remembering a delightful visit there in the former time. The mulatto proprietor recognized me, as did his slightly lighter colored wife, presiding over her duties as only a woman of French extraction can.
"A large room with two beds, I presume?" asked the proprietor, in French, bowing affably to Miss May.
"He asks if we wish a large room with two beds," I said translating his words into English, smilingly, but she evidently did not consider the joke worth laughing at. So I said that we wished two rooms, as near together as possible.
Madame looked up. She was searching, evidently, for the wedding ring that was absent from Marjorie's finger, to explain my decision. A servant was called to attend to us and presently we were established in very comfortable quarters.
As I wanted Miss May to see the island as soon as possible, a carriage was summoned immediately, in which we took the road to Fort de France, where we viewed the statue of the Empress Josephine, erected to commemorate the fact that she was born in that vicinity. We had a nice lunch at a hotel there and took rooms to secure the siesta to which we had both grown accustomed. Then we drove back to St. Pierre, and arrived at the Hotel des Bains in season for dinner.
The Carnival, which lasts here for four or five weeks, had already begun. The streets were crowded with masquers and sounds of strange music filled the air. There was something very odd in this imitation by the negro race of the frivolities of the Latin countries of Europe as a precedent of the forty days of Lent. Miss May viewed it with me from the balcony of a restaurant until nearly ten o'clock. A number of the steamer people were also there and I fancied we were the object of more than ordinary attention from their eyes.
After reaching the hotel again I asked Miss May if she would mind being left alone for an hour or so, while I went to see a peculiar dance. I assured her that the house was absolutely safe. She made no objection and I went with a party of Pretoria people—no women—to witness the spectacle of which I hadheard so much. It was not half as entertaining as I had expected, but there were several girls of the Métisse variety that well repaid me for going. The Métisse is a mixture of races, the original Carib prevailing, one of the most fetching types extant. They were dressed becomingly, in thin gowns, of which silk was at least one of the textures used. On their heads were party-colored handkerchiefs, draped as only a Martinique beauty can drape them.
At the risk of being thought extravagant in my statement I must say they appeared to me strikingly handsome, both in their faces and their lithe figures. I was told that each of those I saw was the mistress of some well-to-do merchant of the place and strictly true to her lover. The dance was not of a kind one would wish to take his sisters to see, but it was evident the negroes put a less libidinous interpretation upon it than the Caucasian visitors. It was one, however, where "a little goes a long way," and before twelve I was in my room at the hotel.
I had just lit the lamp when I was surprised to hear a knock at the door and opened it to find Miss May standing there, with an anxious expression on her face.
"Don't undress," she said, in a slightly shaking voice. "I have been full of all sorts of fears since you went away. I want you to sit up awhile and talk to me."
I accepted the amendment, as they say in deliberative bodies, with the greatest pleasure, for I would rather sit up with her than to sleep on the softest down ever made into a couch. She went to thewindow, which was innocent of glass, and threw open the wooden shutters.
"What did you hear to disturb you, a mouse?" I asked, jocularly.
"I don't know. The place is full of creepy sounds. The noise in the street continues and every step in the corridors makes the boards creak. Did you enjoy your dance?"
"Not specially," I said. And then I told her of the Métisse women I had seen, praising their appearance.
She did not seem to notice what I was saying. She acted as if in constant fear of something unpleasant.
"You do not care to talk as much as you thought you did," I remarked.
"No. I was tired and sleepy, but I did not like to be alone. Why can't I—there wouldn't be any harm, would there?—lie on this smaller bed just as I am, and you can get your sleep over yonder?"
Conflicting sentiments filled my brain as I listened. What a strange woman she was! Alarmed at the least approach on my part, when we were on a steamer deck, a veranda or in a carriage; and now proposing to drop to slumber in my very bedroom, as if it were nothing at all!
A dim suspicion that she meant more than she said forced itself upon me at first. Was I deceiving myself by paying too much attention to her protestations? Had she run away merely for the sake of being pursued?
The best method to prove the truth or falsity of this was to take her strictly at her word, which I decided to do. I told her that the room and everythingin it was at her disposal, as she very well knew. She might lie on one bed, or the other, or the floor, or sit in a chair. It was unfortunate that in this house, as I had already learned, there were no rooms with communicating doors, or I would get our quarters changed. She thanked me, as if I was doing her a particular favor, and, curling herself up as she had suggested, was soon, to all appearances, sound asleep.
Then the thoughts she had communicated to me, about the strange noises in the house, entered my own head. I tossed on my pillow, from side to side, sat up and lay down again a hundred times. There were mice enough in the building to satisfy a cat for a year, if noises went for anything. Late lodgers perambulated the halls, met each other and whispered in tones much more disturbing than loud voices would have been. Somebody, doubtless a servant, entered the next room, the one Marjorie had occupied, and moved about there, as if in stocking-feet. She had left her lamp lighted and this individual blew it out, as I could tell from certain signs. When this was done he went away, but returned again presently, repeating the operation several times.
All the nerves in my body quivered with the strain.
I looked at my watch every half hour, by the light of the moon that shone clearly through the open window. I thought I must awaken my companion; the loneliness was becoming unbearable. Nothing but shame prevented me—shame and a disinclination to disturb her calm and regular breathing.
At last I grew a little calmer. And the next I knew Marjorie was standing by my side, with one of her hands on my forehead and saying inwhispers that if I was going to take breakfast I would have to think of getting up.
It was after ten o'clock and I had slept the sleep of a tired man for seven hours!
IT IS A STRANGE IDEA.
The immediate result of the strange proceedings of the night was that Miss May asked me, before we had finished breakfast, whether I cared much about remaining in St. Pierre. She approached the subject with some timidity, saying she did not like to have me make any change in my programme on her account, but added that she would be very glad if I could, without too much sacrifice, go back to the Pretoria and make the break in my journey at some other point.
"Why, my dear girl," I answered, immediately, "if you don't wish to stay here I shall never dream of asking you to do so. Pack up whatever things you have taken from your trunks and we will return to the steamer."
She was gratified and showed it so in every line of her expressive face that I was more than repaid for my decision.
"You are quite willing?" she said, interrogatively.
"Entirely. Where would you suggest that we stop, Barbados? That is the next port where there is a fairly good hotel."
After a little discussion we settled upon Barbados and began the labor of packing. I sent a boy off to the steamer with a request to the purser to give mea berth in some other stateroom than the one I previously had, and to reserve Miss May's room for her. I did not mean to get in with Wesson again if I could help it. That afternoon we spent at the market, which is the most interesting I have ever seen, until the time came to go on board.
"As we may have to tell a falsehood to some inquisitive person," I said, when we were in the rowboat, "let us tell the same one. Fear of yellow fever quarantine is what led us to change our mind about remaining in Martinique; you understand?"
"Yes," said Marjorie, dreamily. "We were to lie to outsiders, if necessary, and always tell the truth to each other."
"Are you doing that as faithfully as you promised?" I asked.
"What do you mean?" she asked, with a violent start.
"Nothing that should induce you to tip the boat over, as you just came near doing," I replied. "I merely asked a question."
"You must believe I am deceiving you in some way, or you would not use that expression," she said, eyeing me narrowly.
"I have a great deal more confidence in you than you have in me," was my answer.
"You can say this—knowing where I passed last night!" she said, reproachfully.
"Oh, I don't mean that sort of confidence," I remarked. "I mean the confidence that would make you promise to spend every night as long as you live under the same guardianship."
A little sigh came from the lips of my companion,which had whitened suddenly; the kind of sigh that might mean almost anything. The boatmen were too busy to listen to us, even had they understood a word of English, which they did not.
"Marjorie," I whispered, for I could not resist the desire to hear her say it, "don't you care for me, just a little bit?"
"Please!" was the only word she vouchsafed, and I heeded the request.
We came to the steamer's side, meeting many astonished gazes. I gave the requisite directions to the porters who came down the ladder for the baggage. The purser had assigned me another room, as requested, which was something. Wesson lifted his hat and said "Good-afternoon," when we met, but that was all. If he guessed that I had managed to avoid rooming with him by a set plan he made no remark.
The purser of the Pretoria is young, handsome and obliging. His father, a custom-house officer from Canada, was making a tour on the boat and struck me as a fine type. I learned that another of his sons was a member of the Dominion Parliament.
Capt. McKenzie came up to say he was glad I was going to be on his ship a little longer, which was agreeable, to say the least. I had noticed the Captain before, though I did not get well acquainted with him. He was the sort of man one likes to meet, straightforward, intelligent, understanding his business thoroughly. He knows how to treat the ladies among his passengers equally well, too, instead of devoting all his time to a favored group, like so many sea captains. This in itself is enough to make him a marked man in my memory.
The only place we had to call before reaching the island of Barbados was at St. Lucia, where there was little to interest us on shore, but where I was glad to see a troop-ship just arrived from Africa, with a cargo of wives (more or less) of black troops that were serving near Sierra Leone, each one accompanied by a parrot and monkey, beside several small children. The British government had taken them from the West Indies to Africa with their lords (I mean the women) and was now returning them a little in advance of their dusky partners. I asked half a dozen at random if they had ever been legally married and the reply in every case was "No, suh," delivered with a certain pride. The West Indian negro has not yet added matrimony to his list of virtues.
Early on the morning of the day our vessel anchored off Greytown, which is the capital of Barbados, I found on deck Mr. "Eddie" Armstrong, manager of the Marine Hotel, ready to answer questions in relation to that hostelry. "Eddie" told me that he had just the sort of rooms I required for myself and "Miss Carney," and put me under obligations by refraining from cheap insinuations, which nine men out of ten in his position would have made. Later he saw us through the custom-house with expedition and sent us in a carriage to the Marine, which is two miles from the centre, in a breezy and roomy location, just enough removed from the noise of the sea waves.
Miss Byno, at the hotel counter, greeted me with a precise copy of the smile she had worn three years before, while Mr. Pomeroy, the proprietor, said he was glad to see me, exactly as if he meant it. Ourapartment consisted of a sitting room and two connecting chambers on the second floor, which were clean, airy and cosy. It was the nearest to "house-keeping," as I remarked to Miss May, of any place we had found.
"We must resume our genealogy to-morrow," she said, as she opened the table and set up the typewriting machine. "We have neglected it dreadfully."
"No," I answered, for I had been developing a new plan. "I am going to lay that ponderous history on the shelf for the present and ask you to aid me in another and more interesting task. The family tree is in such shape that it can afford to rest awhile and I am sick to death of it."
Then, as the anxious look came into her face—the look that came so easily when I said anything that lacked explicitness—I continued:
"Don't laugh at me, but I am going to begin, to-morrow, a—novel!"
"A—novel!" she repeated, wonderingly. "Do you write novels?"
"I am going to write one, with your help," I said, decidedly. "It won't be exactly a novel, either, because it will be based on fact, pretty nearly all fact—in fact. What would you say to a novel based on the very trip we are making?"
She was lost in thought for some minutes.
"Are you serious?" she asked, finally.
"Entirely."
"But, do you think it would be interesting—to—any one else?"
"I am sure of it. Of course I shall suppress our real names, but the rest I mean to put in print precisely as it has occurred. If I am not mistaken it will make the hit of the summer season."
She was silent again.
"Doesn't an author have to know—before he begins his story—how it will end?" she asked, after awhile.
"I suppose he does. I certainly know how this one will."
"How?"
"The hero will marry the heroine, make her the happiest woman on earth, and they will live contentedly ever after."
"Hardly exciting enough, I fear, to suit the popular taste," she commented. "A story, like a play, should have a 'villain.'"
I laughed and said I would use Wesson for that character. I could, if necessary, invent some disreputable things and attach them to his pseudonym.
"And how shall you describe me?" she asked, demurely.
"You will have to wait and see. I shall make one important stipulation. Your part of this writing will be merely mechanical unless I call for aid. It is to be my story, not yours."
"It is a strange idea," she said, watching my face. "Really, I think you had best keep on with your family tree. I am getting quite interested in the Alexanders and Colins who preceded the Dugalds and the Donalds."