WITHHELDBy Ella B. ArgoEvery time he had tried to propose to her they had been interrupted.There was the moonlight night on the beach when a sudden storm sent them scurrying to shelter. Once it was in her mother’s drawing-room and callers were announced. He had almost reached the interrogation point while dancing when a colliding couple made them slip, and for weeks a broken ankle made her inaccessible. He might have put the momentous question in writing, but that did not appeal to his sense of fitness.Lately she felt like Evangeline, since business always took him out of New York the day before she arrived, and twice illness called her home when he was to have met her at some resort. The Evangeline feeling was strong to-night, because he had inexplicably failed to keep his Miami appointment to accompany her mother and herself home, and at the last moment they had decided to come by sea.Then suddenly off Norfolk she came face to face with him on the deck. She was excitedly responsive to his white-faced, trembling-voiced rapture at seeing her, and they both forgot to make explanations.It was late, but they paced the deck for an hour, and every moment of that hour she expected him to speak, although one passenger walked disconcertingly near them.His love had taken on a new humility, for where once he had been masterful, impetuous, he now seemed afraid and looked at her adoringly but despairingly, as though at some inaccessible heaven. She fought between modesty and a desire to encourage him. The hours flew, and he had not even sought a secluded corner. She sent away the maid who came with her mother’s summons and lingered another moment for the words she felt were trembling on the lips beneath the love-agonized eyes. He accepted her proud good-night without remonstrance, although he clung to her hand as though he would never let it go.“This must be good-bye,” he said. “The ship will dock before you are up, and I have to make a dash for the train.”No word of future meeting.Almost all the passengers had landed and her mother and the maid were far ahead in the crowd when she remembered a silver cup she had left in the stateroom. Her way back was barred first by a laughing and weeping reunited Cuban family, and then by a group of men excitedly discussing the quick capture of a murderer who had claimed self-defense in a political quarrel but had run. It seemed the man was prominent, and it sounded interesting, but her mother would worry if she stopped.The emotional Cuban family was again in her way. The cup was knocked from her hand, and it rolled down the deck. She picked it up and turned to see him framed in a door opened by the restless passenger of the night before.Then her sun went down in eternal blackness. He was handcuffed.
By Ella B. Argo
Every time he had tried to propose to her they had been interrupted.
There was the moonlight night on the beach when a sudden storm sent them scurrying to shelter. Once it was in her mother’s drawing-room and callers were announced. He had almost reached the interrogation point while dancing when a colliding couple made them slip, and for weeks a broken ankle made her inaccessible. He might have put the momentous question in writing, but that did not appeal to his sense of fitness.
Lately she felt like Evangeline, since business always took him out of New York the day before she arrived, and twice illness called her home when he was to have met her at some resort. The Evangeline feeling was strong to-night, because he had inexplicably failed to keep his Miami appointment to accompany her mother and herself home, and at the last moment they had decided to come by sea.
Then suddenly off Norfolk she came face to face with him on the deck. She was excitedly responsive to his white-faced, trembling-voiced rapture at seeing her, and they both forgot to make explanations.
It was late, but they paced the deck for an hour, and every moment of that hour she expected him to speak, although one passenger walked disconcertingly near them.
His love had taken on a new humility, for where once he had been masterful, impetuous, he now seemed afraid and looked at her adoringly but despairingly, as though at some inaccessible heaven. She fought between modesty and a desire to encourage him. The hours flew, and he had not even sought a secluded corner. She sent away the maid who came with her mother’s summons and lingered another moment for the words she felt were trembling on the lips beneath the love-agonized eyes. He accepted her proud good-night without remonstrance, although he clung to her hand as though he would never let it go.
“This must be good-bye,” he said. “The ship will dock before you are up, and I have to make a dash for the train.”
No word of future meeting.
Almost all the passengers had landed and her mother and the maid were far ahead in the crowd when she remembered a silver cup she had left in the stateroom. Her way back was barred first by a laughing and weeping reunited Cuban family, and then by a group of men excitedly discussing the quick capture of a murderer who had claimed self-defense in a political quarrel but had run. It seemed the man was prominent, and it sounded interesting, but her mother would worry if she stopped.
The emotional Cuban family was again in her way. The cup was knocked from her hand, and it rolled down the deck. She picked it up and turned to see him framed in a door opened by the restless passenger of the night before.
Then her sun went down in eternal blackness. He was handcuffed.