The fog had closed round them. The engines stopped, and the ship wallowed helplessly in a heavy sea. The great whistle blew warningly, threateningly, but nothing answered. The engines started up again, and the ship moved forward slowly. The captain was maneuvering very cautiously against this worst of all sea enemies.
The passengers, thought Mr. Powers, were as unconcerned as so many babies in a huge perambulator. There they sat, wrapped up in their steamer chairs, reading, or talking, or flirting, or disapproving of flirting, trusting absolutely to that unseen captain. Mr. Powers had traveled so much that he knew that things could happen. He was not apprehensive or nervous, for that was not his nature; but he was alert and interested. He lay back in his own deck chair, his soft hat pulled well down, and under it his dark eyes stared thoughtfully before him at the impenetrable fog. People tramped past him, but he took only a mild interest in them until—
“Again!” he said to himself. “What on earth is that girl doing?”
By “that girl” he meant Miss Smith, who had just hurried by like a leaf in the wind, her face pale and anxious. It was the third time she had hurried by like that, and he felt quite sure that she was not walking for amusement or health. Evidently she was troubled—very much troubled; and Mr. Powers, instead of telling himself that it was none of his business, wanted to help her.[Pg 238]
That little figure hastening through the rainy dusk, so pale and troubled, made a strong appeal to his imagination. He did not make light of other people’s difficulties, and was not afraid to meddle in other people’s affairs, either, if he thought he could be of any use. He was not a very cautious or prudent young man, anyhow. He felt thoroughly at home in this world, and on excellent terms with his fellow creatures, and was not at all shy or awkward with them. He was waiting for a chance to speak to this young woman, and it came.
Miss Smith did not appear for some time. Before she passed Mr. Powers again, she had climbed to the upper deck, and had got thoroughly wet and chilled. She was thoroughly disheartened, too, so that there were tears in her eyes, and she couldn’t see very well. In consequence, she stumbled against an empty deck chair.
“Oh! Excuse me!” she said, to nobody at all, and crossed hastily to the rail, ostensibly to look out over it, but really to dry her eyes.
Mr. Powers stood beside her.
“You’re very wet,” he said.
“Oh! No, thank you!” replied Miss Smith politely.
“Don’t mention it,” said he, equally polite; “but you really are. If I were you—”
“But I—I can’t find the people I’m with!” cried Miss Smith, with something like a sob.
She was too miserable to realize that she was actually talking to a strange man. She didn’t even glance at him. She didn’t care what he looked like. He had an agreeable and steady sort of voice, however. Anyhow, the moment had come when she had to tell some one.
“I’ve looked and looked—and I can’t find them!” she went on.
Now some people pretend, out of pompousness and self-importance, never to be surprised by anything, and Mr. Patterson was one of these. If you told him of anything amazing, he would say:
“Ah! Is that so? Well, I’m not at all surprised.”
Some people really are not surprised by anything, because they know what an astounding world this is; and Mr. Powers was one of these. So he said, in a quiet and friendly way:
“Perhaps I can help you. I’ll try.”
Poor little Miss Smith had no objection to his trying. She went below to her cabin, changed into dry clothes from her suit case, and rested. She did everything that Mr. Powers had suggested, and one thing that he had not suggested—which was to shed a few tears, for it was a very distressing situation.
A little after four o’clock she descended to the dining saloon for a cup of tea, and to see Mr. Powers, who was to meet her there and give her his news of the lost Pattersons. She had felt sure that Mr. Powers would be there waiting for her, and he was; yet Miss Smith gave a start at the sight of him.
This benevolent stranger who had so kindly offered to help her was not the bespectacled, middle-aged stranger he ought to have been, but a remarkably good-looking young man. Though he was neatly and quietly dressed, and in no way conspicuous, either in appearance or manner, yet there was something in the nonchalant grace of his tall body, in the expression of his dark, keen face, that was unmistakably—romantic. She felt it, she knew it. As she came toward him, her own expression changed, and she became every inch a governess.
It seemed to be part of Mr. Powers’s mental equipment, however, to judge pretty shrewdly what other people were feeling. He spoke to Miss Smith in quite an impersonal tone.
“I’m afraid,” he said, “that the people you’re with aren’t withyou. It appears that neither they nor their luggage ever came aboard.”
“Oh!” cried Miss Smith. “But they must have come! They had their tickets, and I left them on the pier, with all their trunks and bags. Oh, can I possibly have got on the wrong ship?”
“No,” said he. “Your name’s on the passenger list, and so are their names; but they’re not aboard.”
“But where are they? They couldn’t have—have fallen overboard?”
“Well,” said Mr. Powers thoughtfully, “three of them together would make quite a splash. I imagine some one would have noticed it.”
“I’ve read about people falling down into holds,” said Miss Smith. “Do you think—”
“I shouldn’t count on that,” said Mr. Powers. “No—it seems pretty clear to me that they changed their minds at the last moment, for some reason, and remained ashore.[Pg 239]”
Mr. Patterson change his mind at the last moment? That was the most impossible solution of all.
“It can’t be that,” said Miss Smith, shaking her head. “No! Something has happened!”
Mr. Powers looked down at her in silence for a moment.
“Is it—serious?” he asked. “I mean, does it make very much difference to you, your friends not being here?”
“Difference!” cried Miss Smith. “Why, it—” She stopped short. “You see,” she went on, in an altered tone, “I’m their governess.”
She looked steadily at the stranger as she said this, because she knew that to some persons a governess would be quite a different creature from an independent traveler. If it made a difference to this young man, she thought she would like to know it. As far as she could judge, it did not. He returned her glance in the same friendly, quiet fashion.
“I see!” he said.
Miss Smith was quite sure, however, that he did not see, or even imagine. If he had, he wouldn’t have suggested her sending a radio message to the Pattersons’ house.
“I—no, thanks,” said Miss Smith. “It really wouldn’t do any good. I’m here, and I’ve got to go on. I’ll come back on the same ship.”
For she had her return ticket and nothing else—absolutely nothing else except two quarters, which she found in her coat pocket. When she made her mad dash for the forgotten ticket, she had had a bill clutched in her hand, and the two coins were the change that the driver had given her. She knew that she had had her purse with her on the pier, just before that, but what had become of it she could not tell. Had she dropped it on the pier? Had she intrusted it to the Pattersons? Had she left it in the taxi, or in the house? Anyhow, it was gone. The Pattersons were gone. Her trunk was gone. Here she was, sailing over the Atlantic, with two quarters and a suit case.
She wasn’t going to allow this strange young man to pay for a radio message for her. Besides, what could she say? “Where are you?” “What shall I do?” Impossible! Something had happened—something mysterious, inexplicable. All that she could do now was to go on to Bermuda, come back as fast as possible, and present herself before the Pattersons. Then she would be informed; and she felt pretty sure that she had lost not only her purse but her nice, safe position as well.
The Pattersons had been disgusted with her for forgetting her ticket, and, in their anger, they had set her adrift. Perhaps she would never find them again. She would never get another position, if she couldn’t get a reference from the Pattersons. Her trunk was lost, with almost all her clothes. Things were as bad as they could be.
As she considered this appalling situation, a strange thing happened to Miss Smith. Instead of feeling utterly crushed, a curious sort of elation came over her. She suddenly felt very happy, very light, as if her worldly possessions and prospects had been so many heavy burdens, which had now fallen from her shoulders and left her free.
“We might as well have our tea,” she remarked cheerfully.
There were little fancy cakes on the table, and she liked little fancy cakes. The tea was good, too. It was the most refreshing, invigorating tea she had ever tasted. She had two cups of it. Then she went up on the promenade deck with Mr. Powers, and they walked. It was dark now, and chilly and windy, but she liked that strong, salt wind.
“Where’s your deck chair?” asked Mr. Powers.
“Oh, I don’t know!” said she. “I never asked.”
“I’ll find it for you,” said he, and settled her comfortably in his, with his rug wrapped about her, while he went off.
She watched him going. Then she watched every one else who passed by; and it could not be denied that of all the men whom Miss Smith saw not one was so handsome, so distinguished, so interesting as Mr. Powers.
She leaned back and closed her eyes. The wind had blown away the fog, the ship was forging steadily ahead through the rainy night, and she was on it! Penniless and alone, she was sailing the sea to a coral isle! She, the brisk, sensible Miss Smith who, twenty-four hours ago, had been a governess on the West Side of New York!
“I don’t care!” she said to herself, with a sort of triumph. “I’m young and healthy. I can—”
She didn’t complete the thought, but at that moment she actually felt that she could[Pg 240]do pretty nearly anything, and could face the wide world undaunted. It was a very nice sort of feeling.
The weather was rough, and many people who had appeared for lunch were not to be seen at dinner; but Miss Smith came down, quite fresh and rosy. Her suit case could provide nothing better than a blue linen blouse, which she had intended for breakfasts, not dinners. As she dressed, she thought, with a sigh, that she looked very sedate and unattractive; but Mr. Powers did not seem to think so. At least, he looked pleased to see her.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he said, “but I’ve taken a place for you at Herbert’s table. I’ve had Herbert for table steward before, and he’s good.”
Miss Smith did not mind, and she, too, found Herbert a good table steward.
“But I shan’t be able to give him any tip,” she thought. “And when I come back, all alone—”
Resolutely she banished that thought. She remembered how her father and mother used to talk about the folly of “borrowing trouble.” She had often thought that a shiftless sort of maxim, but now she found it wise. Perhaps they themselves had been wiser than she realized, for they had lived joyously in the day that was actually present, not troubling about days that had gone, or about future days which no one can really foresee.
Perhaps, she thought, the people who so anxiously provide for the future are the true romantics; for don’t they invent a future all full of troubles, and then believe firmly in what they have invented? Perhaps the so-called romantic people are the most practical, after all.
It was a good thing that notions like this came into her head, for they helped her to endure the disturbing events of that evening with more calmness than she could have felt if she had been entirely the old Miss Smith. Even as it was, she was not a little upset. She sat in the wicker armchair in her brightly lighted little stateroom. The ship pitched up and down. Her coat, hanging on a hook, flapped like a great bird, and her patent leather suit case slid over to the wall and out again. The thoughts in her mind were quite as uneasy.
“Darcy!” she said to herself. “Darcy! Heavens!”
For Mr. Powers had casually mentioned that his first name was Darcy. He was an Irishman—a mining engineer—and he had lived in South America for several years.
“Oh, Heavens!” said poor Miss Smith again.
For here were all the qualifications for a true hero of romance. And the way he had told her all this! It was on the almost deserted promenade deck, where the storm curtains filled and flapped in the wind, and the rain beat against them, and the scuppers rippled and gurgled like little brooks. Sensible people stayed within, but there these two had sat, side by side. The electric lights overhead had shone fiercely upon Mr. Powers’s dark, eager face, and upon his hair, black as a raven’s wing. He had told her all these things because he wanted her to know about him, because he hoped she would understand and like him. He had almost said so in words, and he had certainly said so with that half smiling, half anxious glance of his.
“I don’t care!” said Miss Smith to herself, with a sob.
She might be silly, but she wasn’t so silly as that. This thing might be an adventure. Indeed, she was willing to admit that it was one, and to see it through gallantly; but an adventure with a “heart interest” in it she wouldnothave!
In desperation she looked about for something to distract her mind. There was nothing to read except the little booklet hanging on the wall and an old copy of Lamb’s “Essays,” which she had brought along partly because she loved it, and partly because it seemed a fitting book for a governess. She took the booklet down. Once more she read the hours for meals, and then:
DECK CHAIRS AND RUGS—Deck chairs and rugs can be hired for the voyage at fixed charges. Payment should be made to the deck steward, who will issue a ticket.
DECK CHAIRS AND RUGS—Deck chairs and rugs can be hired for the voyage at fixed charges. Payment should be made to the deck steward, who will issue a ticket.
Then paymenthadbeen made to the deck steward for her chair and rug, and by Mr. Darcy Powers, and she could not reimburse him!
“I’ll have to be civil to him, at least, after that!” thought Miss Smith.
Sunday was the fairest day that ever dawned. Mr. Powers was on deck early. He saw the sun come up, and he was sorry Miss Smith was not there to see it, too.[Pg 241]He thought she would have enjoyed the spectacle, and he himself would have enjoyed it more if she had been there.
At half past eight he went down into the dining saloon and looked about. Ten minutes later he descended again. Three times during the half hour he went into the dining saloon and looked about; and at last, at nine o’clock, he sat down and ordered his breakfast.
“Perhaps she’s seasick,” he thought.
Powers, as a rule, like all those who are never seasick, was unsympathetic toward those who were. He was inclined to consider seasickness a rather humorous thing; but in this case he did not think so. He thought of Miss Smith with unreasonable compassion. Sitting there over his very hearty breakfast, he began to worry about her. He thought it was a monstrous thing, an outrage, that she should be seasick. He began to grow angry with the Pattersons for getting themselves lost. They had no right to be so careless about themselves, and to leave Miss Smith all alone.
“She shouldn’t have to be a governess, anyhow—a pretty little thing like that,” he reflected.
Why Miss Smith’s small size or personal appearance should have debarred her from that useful employment he could not have explained, or why he found her so very touching. He had no idea how truly terrible her situation was. He had fancied, indeed, that it might be a good thing for her to have a little holiday from her Pattersons; but he was sorry for her, just the same. He remembered how her curly dark hair blew about her face in the wind, how the ruffled collar of her blouse stood up, how busy her small hands had been in quelling this enchanting disorder.
Mr. Powers sent a steward to inquire after her, and ten minutes later she appeared in person.
“I overslept myself!” she explained cheerfully.
He did not realize what that meant. For years and years Miss Smith had got up at seven o’clock. She had needed no alarm clock, for her sense of duty had never failed to arouse her; and now the sense of duty had slumbered. She was a little shocked at herself, and just a little proud. Coming down to breakfast at half past nine!
“You’ve finished, haven’t you?” she said.
But she knew very well that he would wait with her, and so he did.
“I think you’ll like Bermuda,” he said. “It’s a pretty place. I have an aunt living there, you know. I hope you’ll let me bring her to call on you.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, but, you see, I shan’t be there,” said Miss Smith. “I’m going right back on this ship.”
“But the ship doesn’t sail again till Saturday, you know.”
“Saturday!” cried Miss Smith. “Doesn’t sail till Saturday!”
“No. At this time of the year there’s only one sailing a week.”
The breakfast had come. Herbert stood by, benevolently watching, but Miss Smith could not eat. She swallowed a cup of coffee and rose.
“I—I think I’ll go up on deck now,” she faltered.
Mr. Powers naturally went with her. He settled her in her deck chair and sat down beside her, and for a long time there was silence.
“Look here!” he said at last. “I’m sorry to see you so upset, Miss Smith; but these people—these Pattersons—can’tbe so unreasonable as—”
“Oh, it’s not that!” said she, in a sort of despair. “Only—”
He waited, looking at her face, which had suddenly grown so pale.
“I wish you’d tell me,” he said at length. “I know I’m a stranger to you, but—” He paused. “My aunt’s down there, you know,” he went on. “She might be able to—to advise you.”
Advice! What good would that do? Miss Smith was obliged to live on a strange island from Monday until Saturday on two quarters. She shook her head mutely. She couldn’t talk. She wished Mr. Powers would go away and leave her alone, to think.
After a while, he did. He saw he wasn’t wanted, and he went; but then it was worse than ever.
At half past twelve he came back.
“Won’t you come down to lunch?” he asked.
“I—I don’t feel like eating,” said Miss Smith.
Now, however, she was not so anxious for Mr. Powers to go away and let her think, and he did not go.
“Look here!” he said firmly. “Miss Smith, are you a good judge of character?”
“We-ell, yes,” replied Miss Smith. “Yes, Ithinkso.[Pg 242]”
There is no one in the world who does not think the same thing. Just ask anybody!
“Then please look at me,” said Mr. Powers.
She raised her eyes to his face, only for an instant, and then glanced away.
“Do you think I have an honest face?” he asked. “Trustworthy?”
“Ye-es,” said Miss Smith.
“Then won’t you trust me? Tell me what’s wrong. I’m older than you, and I’ve knocked about a lot. I’ve been up against all sorts of difficulties, and I know pretty well how to get out of them. You’re here, all alone. You’re very young and very—” Again he paused. “Very much worried,” he continued; “and if you would tell me—”
Miss Smith stole another glance at his face, and it seemed to her not only trustworthy but intelligent and friendly; so she told him. The sedate and sensible Miss Smith confessed to a strange man that she only had two quarters.
He was silent for a moment, staring before him.
“If I’m any good at all,” he thought, “I’ll handle this thing properly, so that she won’t be hurt or offended or troubled in any way.”
So he said aloud, in just the right tone, calm and good humored:
“I see! Of course you were worried; but it’s all right now. I’ll take you to my aunt, Mrs. Mount. She’ll understand.”
Fortunately Miss Smith was not a sufficiently good judge of character to read Mr. Powers’s mind just then; for he was thinking:
“You poor, sweet little thing! You poor little darling! I’d like to buy the whole island and give it to you! You ought to have everything. You deserve everything, you dear little thing!”
Miss Smith didn’t believe that people ever really thought things like that.
Nor was Darcy Powers so good a judge of character as he fondly imagined; for his aunt did not accept the situation in the right spirit at all. She pretended to do so, and he thought she did, but in her heart she was bitterly angry and hurt. Her nephew was all she had in the world, and she loved him. She had been looking forward to this vacation of his for two years; and then he came driving up with this Miss Smith!
She listened to his explanation with a pleasant smile. Still with a pleasant smile, she conducted Miss Smith to the spare bedroom and was very civil to her. Then her nephew had to go off to see certain old ladies who had known him since childhood and wanted to see him immediately, and Mrs. Mount ceased to smile.
Miss Smith was not worrying any more. Indeed, she had almost stopped thinking altogether. She had got off the boat that morning into a new world. She had got into a carriage with Mr. Powers and driven along a dream road. The colors. The white road, the white walls, the white houses, glistening like sugar in the sun! The pure blue of the sky, the glimpses of the sapphire sea, the glossy green of the palm leaves, the dark green of the cedars, the pink roses, the purple bougainvillea, the scarlet hibiscus!
Mrs. Mount’s cottage was an enchanted cottage, like the one thatHänselandGretelfound in the wood, standing in a garden glorious with flowers. And Mrs. Mount herself was so handsome and dignified and polite, and this little bedroom was so bright, so sweet, so sunny!
“I’m really here!” thought Miss Smith. “I did come! It’s true!”
She had not even taken off her hat or opened her suit case. She just sat there by the window, lost in an innocent and utterly happy dream. This new world was so beautiful, and every one was so kind to her!
“Darcy is a dear boy,” said a voice from the garden, which she recognized as Mrs. Mount’s; “but this istoomuch!”
“I heard,” said another voice, unknown to Miss Smith, but belonging to Mrs. Mount’s cousin, Miss Pineville, “that Darcy got off the boat this morning with some stranger—”
“And brought her here!” said Mrs. Mount. “She scraped up an acquaintance with him on shipboard—you know how easy that is—and told him some preposterous tale about being a governess, and having lost her purse and the family she was with. Of course there’s not a word of truth in it. A governess! An adventuress—that’s what she is!”
“Does Darcy—” began the other.
“Oh, Darcy!” interrupted Mrs. Mount impatiently. “He’s completely taken in[Pg 243]by her; but I’m going to talk to him later. For instance, there’s her name. She distinctly told me her name was Nina Smith; but she left the book she’d been reading on the sitting room table, and written in it was ‘Little M., from father.’ Nina doesn’t begin with an ‘M,’ does it? And Smith! That’s just the name any one would take as an alias, to avoid suspicion. But you wait! I’ll find out the truth! I won’t have my nephew imposed upon!”
“I’d like to see her,” said the other eagerly. “Perhaps I—”
“I’ll call her out for a cup of tea,” said Mrs. Mount. “But be polite to her, Eliza, until I’ve found out.”
So Mrs. Mount went in and knocked on Miss Smith’s door. There was no answer. She knocked again, and then she opened the door. Miss Smith and her suit case were gone.
At first Mrs. Mount was glad.
“She must have heard what I said to Eliza in the garden,” she told her nephew. “She was frightened and ran away.”
“Frightened?” said he. “Is that how you imagine a sensitive young girl feels when she hears herself slandered and insulted? I brought her here—to you—because I thought you’d understand, and you’ve driven her away. An adventuress? Why, one look at her face might have told you—”
He turned away abruptly, but one look athisface had certainly told Mrs. Mount something. She was no longer glad, but very sorry. She would have told him so, but it was too late. He had gone out of the house, slamming the door behind him.
Miss Smith had done the obvious thing. She could not set off with her suit case and walk home, so she had taken the next best course. She had gone quietly out of the back door, through the garden, and down the road in the direction of the ship, which was, after all, a sort of bridge to home.
It was a long walk, and she had to ask her way, but in the course of time she got there. A young officer was standing under the shed, superintending the unloading of the cargo, and she went up to him.
“You’re one of the officers, aren’t you?” she asked.
He took off his cap and smiled at her. It was such a nice smile that she was able to go on, in a brisk, sensible way:
“I was one of the passengers, you know.”
“Yes,” said he. “I saw you on board.”
“And I want to go back,” said Miss Smith. “I want to go on the ship now, and stay there until it sails.”
He couldn’t help looking astonished.
“But I’m afraid—” he began.
“Well, I’ve got to!” cried Miss Smith, and he saw, with dismay, that there were tears in her eyes. “I’ve g-got to! I have some money in the savings bank in New York, and I can pay whatever it costs as soon as we get back.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” he said politely; “but I’m afraid—”
He was silent for a moment, thinking of some tactful way of offering his assistance to this young person with tears in her eyes. No one could have felt more sympathetic than he; but Miss Smith, weary and sick at heart, firmly believed that he, too, thought her an adventuress.
“I’m a governess,” she said, in an unexpectedly loud and severe tone. “The family I was coming with somehow missed the ship, and—”
“What?” he cried. “A governess! But wait—look here!”
“Yes, I am!” said she. “I am!”
“Yes, but look here! I was at the gangway, you know, and just before we sailed a young chap came dashing up and gave me a purse—a long brown purse—”
“My purse!”
“‘It’s for Miss—can’t remember the name,’ he said. ‘It’s for Miss What’s-Her-Name, the governess,’ and then he dashed off again.”
“That’s me!” cried Miss Smith, pardonably ungrammatical in her emotion.
“Look here! I’m most awfully sorry!” said the young officer earnestly. “It’s all my fault. I turned it over to the purser and told him that Miss What’s-Her-Name would probably come and ask for it. You see, I never thoughtyoucould be a governess, you know. Iamsorry!”
“But is it there? Can I get it?”
“Rather!” said he. “Purser’s on board now, getting ready to go ashore. I’ll fetch him.”
Off he went, and was back in no time with the purser and Miss Smith’s pocketbook. There was a note inside it.
My dear Miss Smith:At the moment of embarkation I have received a message that my father in Chicago is danger[Pg 244]ously ill, and wishes his family with him. I find we have just time to catch the next train. As it is too late to cancel our tickets, it seems advisable that you at least should continue with the trip, so that the entire outlay will not be wasted. You will, I am sure, have an instructive and entertaining account of your experience for Gladys when you rejoin us in New York. You will find your trunk and suit case in your stateroom.As I do not know what money you may have in hand, I inclose an express money order, to cover whatever expenses may arise.Wishing you a pleasant and profitable trip, I remain,Very truly yours,Henry Patterson.
My dear Miss Smith:
At the moment of embarkation I have received a message that my father in Chicago is danger[Pg 244]ously ill, and wishes his family with him. I find we have just time to catch the next train. As it is too late to cancel our tickets, it seems advisable that you at least should continue with the trip, so that the entire outlay will not be wasted. You will, I am sure, have an instructive and entertaining account of your experience for Gladys when you rejoin us in New York. You will find your trunk and suit case in your stateroom.
As I do not know what money you may have in hand, I inclose an express money order, to cover whatever expenses may arise.
Wishing you a pleasant and profitable trip, I remain,
Very truly yours,Henry Patterson.
“You see!” cried Miss Smith. “You see, Iam—”
But she could not go on. The purser and the second officer—the latter had come up just then—decided that she ought to have a cup of tea, to quiet her nerves, so they all went over to a little tea room in the town.
It was there that Powers found her sitting at the table with two young men, all of them very jolly and cheerful. For a moment she was glad that he should see her like that—no longer forlorn and dejected, but a real human girl. Hat in hand, he stood beside her. He, too, tried to look jolly and cheerful, but he failed; and, looking up at him, Miss Smith felt a sudden sharp stab of regret. The adventure was over.
She introduced him to the two young men, and explained to him about the recovery of her purse.
“Good!” said he. “Then everything’s all right now?”
Of course everything was all right now, and yet—and yet somehow it wasn’t. Something seemed to be wrong. The two young men from the ship seemed to know this. They said they had better be getting along, and, after cordial farewells, they did go along.
Mr. Powers still stood where he was, still trying to look pleased, and still failing to do so; and in a flash Miss Smith understood just how he felt. He had wanted to be the one to make everything come out right, and it was cruel that he had not been. It was their adventure—his and hers. Nobody else had any business to get into it. It was coming out wrong!
Now Miss Smith knew very well that heroines in adventures rarely take a very active part, and that things just happen to them; but she was not quite accustomed to adventures yet, and she was in the habit of doing things for herself. Moreover, Darcy Powers was playing his part very poorly, simply standing there and not suggesting their talking it over.
“I’d like to go back and see Mrs. Mount,” she said firmly.
His face brightened remarkably.
“I didn’t think you’d ever—” he began.
“I’d like to show her that letter and explain—”
“See here!” he interrupted. “It’s not foryouto make explanations!”
She liked the way he said that!
“Still,” she said, “I’d rather.”
So they got into a carriage and drove off along that same road; but it was all very different now. The sun had gone down, leaving a soft, dark violet sky. The bright colors were dimmed. It was, she thought, a subdued and rather melancholy world. The adventure was over.
Mr. Powers remarked again how glad he was that everything had come out all right; but, as Miss Smith said nothing in response to this, he was discouraged and fell silent for a time.
“I never thought you’d come back there,” he said at last. “I thought—perhaps you had overheard what my aunt said, and—”
“Yes, I did overhear it,” said Miss Smith, in a calm and reasonable tone; “but, after all, she knew nothing about me. Why should she?”
“Anybody would know that you were—” he began, and stopped.
Miss Smith waited in vain to hear what she was. Turning a corner, they entered a road where the trees arched overhead and the low white walls gleamed ghostlike. A faint breeze rustled the leaves, and the little whistling frogs had set up their music. The lights of Mrs. Mount’s cottage were visible at the end of the road.
A strange pain seized Miss Smith. The lights of that little house, shining out steadily into the tranquil dusk, put her in mind of another cottage—her home, so long ago—and of the mother and father who had lived in it. She thought of the careless laughter, the hope, the courage, the great love, that had made their whole life a delightful adventure. Foolish? Romantic? Unpractical?
“They were the wisest, most wonderful people who ever lived,” she said to herself, with a stifled sob; “and the bravest. They weren’t afraid of life, like me![Pg 245]”
“I wonder what happened to your trunk!” said Mr. Powers.
So that was all he could think of to say!
“I don’t know,” she answered; “and I don’t care, either. I suppose it must have been taken away by mistake with the Pattersons’ luggage.”
“I hope you’ll recover it,” said he.
Another silence, very long.
“I did tell Mrs. Mount one thing that wasn’t quite true,” said Miss Smith.
“What was that?” asked Darcy Powers, and she knew by his voice that he thought whatever she had said was right.
“I told her my first name was Nina—and it isn’t.”
“What is it, then?” he asked.
The carriage had stopped before the gate. He got out and helped her down, and they both stood there until the sound of the horse’s hoofs had died away.
“What is your name?” he asked again.
“It’s a very silly name,” she said. “I never tell it to any one.”
Her hand was on the gate, to open it. His hand closed over hers.
“Please!” he said. “I know you’re going away. I think you’ve begun to go already. Can’t you just let me know that, so that I can think of you by your own dear name?”
“No!” said Miss Smith.
She was really frightened. She knew that if she told him her name, here in this enchanted garden, in the twilight, it would be fatal. The adventure was becoming too much for her. Her own heart was getting too much for her, filled with emotions she could not bear. She was Miss Smith, the governess—the brisk, sensible, unromantic Miss Smith—she tried valiantly to remember that.
“No!” she said again, and pulled away her hand.
Just then the door of the cottage opened, and Mrs. Mount appeared in the lighted doorway.
“Darcy!” she called. “And—oh, Miss Smith! Oh, come in, my dear!”
Her voice had warmth in it, and kindliness. It reminded Miss Smith of her mother, who used to stand in a lighted doorway like that, and call her in from her play. She thought of herself going back to New York to be a governess again. She thought of Mr. Powers—Darcy—left alone in that garden, thinking of her. Was he, after all his kindness, to be left thinking of her as “Miss Smith”?
She turned toward him.
“My name’s really Mavourneen,” she said. “You see, I was the only child, and father and mother—”
“Mavourneen!” said he, and somehow, as he said it, the name was not a silly one at all. “That means—”
“Yes, I know,” she interrupted hastily, and walked quickly up the path toward Mrs. Mount.
Somewhat to the young man’s surprise, Mrs. Mount held out her arms, and Miss Smith went into them; and after all, it was not the end of the adventure, but only the beginning.[Pg 246]
MUNSEY’SMAGAZINE
SEPTEMBER, 1925Vol. LXXXVNUMBER 4
[Pg 247]
By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding
THE clock struck midnight, but Mrs. Fremby did not even glance up from her work. She had an old skirt, stretched over the transom, so that the landlady could not see that the light was still on. The door was locked. She was safe, and very snug.
Outside, a preposterous storm raged. It was almost the beginning of April, yet it snowed, and the wind howled. Let it! Mrs. Fremby had a forbidden electric heater glowing richly before her. It could not warm the vast and dingy front parlor that she inhabited, but it could and did keep her feet warm. The flame of righteous indignation in her heart helped, too, as she wrote:
At last the American woman has definitely rebelled. She refuses any longer to accept unquestioned the dictates of Paris as to what she shall or shall not wear. This season it is plain to any impartial observer that the influence of the French capital is distinctly on the wane.
At last the American woman has definitely rebelled. She refuses any longer to accept unquestioned the dictates of Paris as to what she shall or shall not wear. This season it is plain to any impartial observer that the influence of the French capital is distinctly on the wane.
Heavens, how she hated Paris! For years and years she had been fighting its insidious influence upon American modes. Even when, in order to earn her daily bread, she was obliged to describe what milady had worn at the Longchamp races, she always managed to get in some clever bit of propaganda—something like this, for instance:
A certain American woman of unimpeachable social standing attracted considerable attention by her costume of this and that, made in New York, and showing in every line a skillful adaptation to the American type.
A certain American woman of unimpeachable social standing attracted considerable attention by her costume of this and that, made in New York, and showing in every line a skillful adaptation to the American type.
What if this independent American woman of unimpeachable standing was an invention of Mrs. Fremby’s? Never having been within thousands of miles of Longchamp, she was obliged to invent a little, and this mythical creature was very real to her, and dear. She could absolutely see that “American type,” tall, proud, and beautiful, completely dominating all theParisiennes.
Mrs. Fremby herself was small. That was her misfortune; but she made the most of herself. Even now, in an old and faded dressing gown, she was a mighty smart, trim little woman, and, if she was not pretty, she had the wit to know it, and to behave accordingly. Her good points were her miniature figure, which was excellent, and her crown of glittering, wiry red hair, which she arranged with much skill. The very foundation of style, she often said, was individuality, and she had it.
“The modes of this season will be marked by—” she was writing, when there was a knock at the door.
Mrs. Fremby got up. Swiftly and noiselessly she detached the heater and thrust it, still red-hot, into a cupboard under the washstand. Then, with a lofty expression of annoyance, she went to open the door; but it was not the landlady—it was Judith Cane.
“My dear!” cried Mrs. Fremby. “Come in!”
Judith came in. Snowflakes were melting upon her furs, her eyelashes were damp, and there was a fine color in her cheeks. She was indeed a superb creature, tall, dark, and beautiful, the physical embodiment of that “American type” who should have attracted considerable attention at[Pg 248]Longchamp. Unfortunately, however, she lacked a certain vital quality—animation, Mrs. Fremby would have said, but in the office of theDaily Citizenthey called it “bean.” They said in that office that Judith was beautiful but dumb.
Mrs. Fremby, however, was not one to pick flaws in her friends. She was loyal, even to the point of prejudice. She was devoted to Judith, and she acknowledged no faults in her.
“Sit down, my dear child,” she said.
As Judith did so, she locked the door again, and hastened about, making hospitable preparations. She connected the heater again, and also a small electric grill. The light grew perilously dim.
“They ought to put in a larger meter,” observed Mrs. Fremby, with the air of an electrical expert. “I can’t make coffee, my dear. It smells; but we’ll have tea and rolls, and some perfectly delicious Bologna. Isn’t it wretched weather?”
“Yes,” said Judith. “And there I sat, rewriting and rewriting that article about smoking accessories for Mr. Tolley, and in the end he killed it!”
“Beast!” said Mrs. Fremby.
She remembered how Mr. Tolley had once described Judith.
“She is,” he had said, “a space writer—which means that she fills blank space in a blank manner.”
“Never mind!” she went on. “I’ve got a thing here that ought to run to a column, if you pad it a little. We’ll fix it up, and you can turn it in to-morrow. Now, my dear, do tell me!”
“I’ve lost,” said Judith.
“I knew it!” cried Mrs. Fremby. “I felt it all along! What an outrage!”
It was a question here of an orphan child. The child’s mother had been Judith’s sister, and upon the sister’s decease Judith had put in a claim for the custody of the infant. According to all the laws of justice and humanity—as interpreted by Mrs. Fremby—Judith should have got the infant, but another woman, a sister of the mere father, had likewise put in a claim; and as this woman had a very wealthy husband, and a home, and other things which surrogates deem advantageous for infants, and Judith had none of these, the other claimant had triumphed.
“It’s an outrage!” Mrs. Fremby repeated. “You’ll fight it, of course?”
Judith shed a few melancholy tears.
“I don’t know, Evelyn,” she said.
“Don’t know! You must!”
“It’s so expensive, Evelyn. Even if I got the poor little thing, I don’t know what I could do with her. I only made twelve dollars last week.”
Mrs. Fremby recognized in her friend a mood which exasperated her—a large, vague despair and resignation.
“You ought to know that I’ll always help you till you get on your feet,” she said sternly.
“I do know,” said Judith, shedding more tears; “but it seems to take me so long to get on my feet! All I do is—to get on your feet.”
“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Fremby.
She had, in her heart, no very great illusions about Judith’s ability to earn money, but what did that matter? Judith wanted her niece, and what Judith wanted she ought to have. That was nothing more than justice.
“Judith, I’m going to handle this,” she announced.
“Don’t do anything—awful,” said Judith. “You know, Evelyn, you’re so—”
Mrs. Fremby smiled as if she had received a compliment.
“Leave it to me,” she said. “Just drink your tea, my dear child, and don’t worry.”
So Judith, with a sigh, let slip the burden from her magnificent shoulders.
It was a riotous sort of day. The wind went rampaging about Central Park, and the sun laughed down upon the gay confusion of tossing branches, just beginning to grow green. In sheltered spots traces of snow still lingered, but it was melting very fast. The ground was soft, the iron thrall of winter was loosed.
It was not quite the sort of Sunday that Miss Mackellar could approve of. The wind disarranged her hair, and the promise of spring troubled her spirit. Her feet hurt, too. She sat down upon a bench and buttoned her voluminous plaid coat tightly about her, and, as the young child whose governess she was ran around and around the bench, she said “Woo!” each time the child appeared before her.
She did this with all the fervor she could command, for she was fond of the little girl, and she was a conscientious woman; but she knew that she failed. The child[Pg 249]was generously giving her every chance to be entertaining while sitting still, and she was not being entertaining. Before long she would be obliged to rise and limp off in quest of ducks and squirrels, who could do better.
“Woo!” she said once more.
“What is it ’at says ‘Woo’?” asked the child. “Bears?”
“Yes, pet—bears. Big, brown, woolly bears.”
“Do bears run after you?”
“No, pet. They sit in their dark, dark caves and say ‘Woo.’”
“I don’t like bears,” said the child flatly.
Miss Mackellar could think of no other retort than a fresh “Woo,” but it was not accepted.
“I like tigers,” said the child; “tigers ’at pounce.”
“Look out, then!” cried a gay voice. “I’m a tiger! And I pounce! Gr-r-r!”
It was a trim, brisk little red-haired woman who had just come around the turn in the path. In fact, like a real tiger, she had been lurking there in ambush for some time, watching and waiting unsuspected.
“Gr-r-r!” she said again, moving forward with gleaming eyes and outstretched claws.
The little girl was delighted. With shrieks of joy she ran behind the bench, pursued by this wholly satisfactory tiger. Around and around they went, the brisk little woman as indefatigable as the child.
But the dejected Miss Mackellar had a conscience which hurt her even more than her shoes. She believed that life was very hard and painful, and that if it wasn’t, then you were certainly doing wrong. She felt that she had no right to sit there and be comfortable.
“It’s very kind of you, I’m sure,” she said to Mrs. Fremby—for the tiger was that lady; “but really I shouldn’t let you. I ought—”
“It’s a pleasure,” Mrs. Fremby assured her. “I am very much in harmony with children. Gr-r-r!” She disappeared around the bench again. “In fact,” she continued, when she reappeared, “I wrote a series of articles once upon ‘Scientific Play.’ Play is really work, you know.”
“Indeed it is!” Miss Mackellar agreed, with a sigh.
“I mean for the child. It is in play that a child develops those qualities of—aha! Gr-r-r!” And again she was gone. “Now then!” she said, addressing the child. “The tiger’s going to hide around the corner, by those bushes, and you’d just better not look for it!”
Miss Mackellar could not help feeling glad that the lively game was now a little removed from her bench. She did not, however, believe in luck, unless it was bad, and she wondered earnestly why this little interlude of peace was granted to her. Perhaps it was to give her a chance to think about serious things. She did so.
But wasn’t it almost too quiet? Hunter and tiger had vanished around the corner. That had happened half a dozen times before, but this time it seemed so long—
Miss Mackellar rose to her feet with a worried frown.
“I shouldn’t let that child out of my sight,” she thought. “I am failing in my duty! They’ll have to come back and stay where I can see them, or”—she sighed—“or I suppose I’ll have to follow where they go.”
She walked around the turn of the path. No one in sight!
She walked on a little. She stopped to listen. Not a sound!
Then she went back to the bench and called:
“Natalie! Natalie!”
It is strange what a sinister effect may be caused by calling a person who does not answer. As soon as she had called, Miss Mackellar grew really frightened. She actually ran up the path, and, meeting a nursemaid with a perambulator, she cried:
“Oh, did you see a little girl with a tiger? No—I mean a little girl in a pink hat and a red-haired woman?”
“Er-huh,” said the nursemaid, staring hard at her. “Just a minute ago—goin’ up that way, to the entrance, walking terrible fast.”
“Oh, Heavens!” cried Miss Mackellar, ashen white. “Oh, stop them, somebody! The child has been kidnaped!”
The nursemaid also turned pale.
“Oh, my!” she exclaimed. “I never! Then I’d better getthisbaby home, quick as ever I can!”
And she set off with her perambulator at a dangerous rate of speed.
The luckless Miss Mackellar stood in the middle of the path, clasping her trembling hands, and trying in vain to make her panic-stricken brain function lucidly.[Pg 250]What she really wanted to do was to scream.
“No, no!” she said to herself. “I must keep calm. Oh, there’s a policeman! But I don’t know—perhaps that’s the wrong thing to do. It might get into the newspapers, if I tell a policeman, and Mr. Donalds is always so angry at newspapers. Oh! Oh! If they had only come to me and told me they were going to steal the child, I’d have been glad to draw all my money out of the savings bank and hide it under a tree for them! That’s what they always seem to want some one to do. Of course I know I wouldn’t have enough, but—oh, my precious Natalie! Oh, Mr. Donalds! Oh, my poor darling Natalie!”
She began to cry.
“I’ll go to Mr. Donalds this instant,” she thought. “I don’t care what happens to me. Let them put me in jail—that’s where I ought to be! It’s all my fault!”
Off she went, as fast as her shaking knees and her fluttering heart permitted; and this is her last personal appearance in this story, for any account of her interview with her employer would be too painful to set before a humane reader.
Only let it be said that she survived—that when Mr. Donalds rushed out of his house on East Seventy-Fourth Street, Miss Mackellar was still breathing. He had at first intended to take her with him, to identify persons and places, but even he could see the uselessness of doing so. She was in no condition to identify anything. She was beginning to rave about the child’s having been carried off by a tiger; so he left her behind.
Like a stone from a catapult he shot out of his house and down the street toward the park. He had no intention of allowing the police to interfere with his private affairs. He believed he knew very well who had stolen the child, and why.
“Very well, madam!” he said to himself. “We shall see!”
Mr. Donalds knew that the child would suffer no bodily harm, and he was confident of his ability to snatch her away from contaminating moral influences before serious injury to her character could result. Mr. Donalds never failed. If he did not always accomplish exactly what he set out to do, at least he did something else which seemed to him just as good.
He knew that in this case he would succeed, as usual, and therefore he was able to devote his mind to being angry. His fury rose within him like steam, actually seeming to inflate him, so that he bounced rather than walked. A short, stoutish man he was, with a pale Napoleonic face and a piercing glance—a man of tremendous energy and determination.
Sometimes, however, he was a man of too little patience and deliberation. This morning, for instance, although he had thought to take his hat and his walking stick, he had forgotten to change his slippers. He was wearing red morocco slippers that came up over the ankle, and not only were they conspicuous, but they were too thin for outdoor walking.
However, it was not his way to turn back, and forward he went. He entered the park and proceeded direct to the spot where Miss Mackellar said she had last seen the child. He looked for clews. There were none.
He followed the course which the nursemaid had pointed out to Miss Mackellar, and in due time he arrived at another entrance. There was a cab stand here, in which stood one taxi, with the chauffeur standing beside it, leisurely surveying the world in which we live. Mr. Donalds approached him.
“See here!” he said. “Did you happen to see a red-haired woman and a child in a pink hat come out of the park near here?”
“Yep,” replied the man, without interest.
Mr. Donalds had not lived some fifty years for nothing. He knew how to inspire enthusiasm. He put his hand into his pocket.
“Yes, sir!” answered the driver promptly, in a brisk and earnest tone. “They came out here. I noticed ’em because she was in such a hurry. I thought there was something queer about it. Anyways, she took Wickey’s cab.”
“Where did they go?”
“Couldn’t tell you that, sir. They started up the avenoo; but they might ’a’ bin goin’ anywheres.”
“Where can I find this Wickey?” inquired Mr. Donalds.
“Well, I don’t know, sir. He’ll prob’ly come back here before long. Him and me are buddies, an’ we gen’rally eat lunch together, if we can. O’ course, lots o’ times[Pg 251]we can’t. F’r instance, I might have to go out any minute now.”
“What’s the number of his cab?”
“Don’t know, sir—didn’t notice. You see, we don’t always take out the same one. Some days the one you’re used to is laid up.”
Mr. Donalds reflected hastily.
“I suppose I could find out by telephoning to the garage,” he suggested.
“Yes, sir; but they wouldn’t know where he went. Wouldn’t do much good, unless you want to set the cops after him.”
“No,” said Mr. Donalds. “I’ll handle this myself. You’re fairly certain, then, that this Wickey will return here before going to his garage?”
“Expect to see him any minute now, sir.”
“Very well, then—I’ll wait here. I’ll engage your cab. I’ll pay you for your time until this Wickey comes,” said Mr. Donalds.
He climbed into the cab, but he was very restless in there.
“Be sure Wickey doesn’t pass by!” he called out of the window.
“Oh, he’d gimme a hail,” the driver assured him. “Don’t you worry, sir.”
But time was flying. At least, time was undoubtedly flying for the nefarious red-haired woman, but for Mr. Donalds it passed with leaden foot. The chauffeur was smoking what Mr. Donalds was wont to call a “filthy cigarette,” and though he had often declared that such things were not tobacco at all, still the aroma of this one put him painfully in mind of cigars. He had none with him. He grew more and more restless.
At last another cab came up, and its driver descended.
“Is that Wickey?” cried Mr. Donalds.
“No, sir,” answered his especial driver. “‘Nother fellow.”
“Ask him to go somewhere and buy me half a dozen cigars,” said Mr. Donalds. “Tell him to get Havana perfectos.”
This was soon done, and as he began to smoke, Mr. Donalds felt calmer; but a new and more serious craving now assailed him. He was in the habit of lunching promptly at one o’clock, and it was now half past one. The cab was hot with the sun blazing down upon it, and this, combined with the bad effects of boiling rage, sizzling impatience, and fast growing hunger, were impairing Mr. Donalds’s health. He felt positively ill. He threw away his third cigar half finished.
The driver approached the window.
“I’m going to get a bite to eat, sir,” he said. “This here fellow knows Wickey. He’ll stay till I get back.”
“Just a minute!” said Mr. Donalds. “I—er—”
This was intensely distasteful to him, but he knew that without food he could not be at his best.
“Bring me back something to eat,” he said; “something—er—small and not conspicuous, if possible.”
Thus it was that Mr. Donalds, eminent business man and mirror of respectability, might have been seen eating a “hot dog” in a taxicab on Fifth Avenue on a Sunday afternoon. He had pulled down the blinds, had taken the first bite, and was discovering that he had never tasted anything so exquisite, so zestful—when the door was opened and a policeman looked in.
“Now, what’s all this?” asked the policeman reproachfully. “This won’t do, you know!”
Mr. Donalds managed to convince the officer that his presence was perfectly legitimate; but the incident disturbed him. He felt himself an outcast from society. He no longer relished the “hot dog,” but he finished it.
Then he was assailed by a fearful thirst, and there is no knowing what might have happened next, if the elusive Wickey had not appeared.
“There he is!” cried Mr. Donalds’s driver. “Hey, Wickey! Come here!”
Wickey approached.
“Yes,” he said, in answer to Mr. Donalds’s questions. “I took ’em out to a place on the Boston Post Road—long run. I jest got back—empty to City Island; then I picked up a fare.”
“Take me to the place where you left the woman,” said Mr. Donalds.
“Sorry, sir,” said Wickey, “but I can’t afford to take the chance of comin’ back empty.”
“Oh, I’ll pay!” shouted Mr. Donalds. “Don’t waste any more time!”
In dust, in gasoline fumes, in an endless procession of cars, Mr. Donalds proceeded on his way. They stopped for gasoline, they stopped while Wickey investigated a knock in the engine, they stopped again[Pg 252]and again because the procession stopped. Signs told them to “go slow,” and they went slow, until Mr. Donalds was on the verge of frenzy.
He tried to be calm. He reminded himself that he was a relentless human bloodhound, never to be eluded, and that no matter where the criminals went, were it to the very ends of the earth, they could not escape him. Even these thoughts could not appease him. He was hungry, he was extremely thirsty, and he was displeased with his red morocco slippers.
It is fortunate that he did not know how streaked with dust and perspiration his face was, how rumpled his stubby hair. As it was, when he caught any one staring at him, he believed it was because of the ruthless determination of his expression.
At last Wickey turned off the Post Road and stopped halfway down a lane, before a little old-fashioned cottage which bore this sign: