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A Woman Intervenes

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The message was given to the officer, who put it into his inside pocket,
and then Kenyon thought all was safe. But Edith Longworth was not so sure
of that. Jennie Brewster sat in her deck-chair calmly reading her usual
paper-covered novel. She apparently knew nothing of what was going on,
and Edith Longworth, nervous with suppressed excitement, sat near her,
watching her narrowly, while preparations for launching the boat were
being completed. Suddenly, to Edith's horror, the deck-steward appeared,
and in a loud voice cried:

'Ladies and gentlemen, anyone wishing to send telegrams to friends has a
few minutes now to write them. The mate will take them ashore with him,
and will send them from the first office that he reaches. No letters can
be taken, only telegrams.'

Miss Brewster looked up languidly from her book during the first part of
this recital. Then she sprang suddenly to her feet, and threw the book
on the deck.

'Who is it will take the telegrams?' she asked the steward.

'The mate, miss. There he is standing yonder, miss.'

She made her way quickly to that official.

'Will you take a cable despatch to be sent to New York?'

'Yes, miss. Is it a very long one?' he asked.

'Yes, it is a very long one.'

'Well, miss,' was the answer, 'you haven't much time to write it. We
leave now in a very few minutes.'

'It is all written out; I have only to add a few words to it.'

Miss Brewster at once flew to her state-room. The telegram about the mine
was soon before her with the words counted, and the silver and gold that
were to pay for it piled on the table. She resolved to run no risk of
delay by having the message sent 'to collect.' Then she dashed off, as
quickly as she could, a brief and very graphic account of the disaster
which had overtaken the _Caloric_. If this account was slightly
exaggerated, Miss Brewster had no time to tone it down. Picturesque and
dramatic description was what she aimed at. Her pen flew over the paper
with great rapidity, and she looked up every now and then, through her
state-room window, to see dangling from the ropes the boat that was to
make the attempt to reach the Irish coast. As she could thus see how the
preparations for the departure were going forward, she lingered longer
than she might otherwise have done, and added line after line to the
despatch which told of the disaster. At last she saw the men take their
places in the longboat. She hurriedly counted the words in the new
despatch she had written, and quickly from her purse piled the gold that
was necessary to pay for their transmission. Then she sealed the two
despatches in an envelope, put the two piles of gold into one after
rapidly counting them again, cast a quick look up at the still motionless
boat, grasped the gold in one hand, the envelope in the other, and sprang
to her feet; but, as she did so, she gave a shriek and took a step
backwards.

Standing with her back to the door was Edith Longworth. When she had
entered the state-room, Miss Brewster did not know, but her heart beat
wildly as she saw the girl standing silently there, as if she had risen
up through the floor.

'What are you doing here?' she demanded.

'I am here,' said Miss Longworth, 'because I wish to talk with you.'

'Stand aside; I have no time to talk to you just now. I told you I didn't
want to see you again. Stand aside, I tell you.'

'I shall not stand aside.'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean that I shall not stand aside.'

'Then I will ring the bell and have you thrust out of here for your
impudence.'

'You shall not ring the bell,' said Edith calmly, putting her hand over
the white china plaque that held in its centre the black electric button.

'Do you mean to tell me that you intend to keep me from leaving my own
state-room?'

'I mean to tell you exactly that.'

'Do you know that you can be imprisoned for attempting such a thing?'

'I don't care.'

'Stand aside, you vixen, or I will strike you!'

'Do it.'

For a moment the two girls stood there, the one flushed and excited, the
other apparently calm, with her back against the door and her hand over
the electric button. A glance through the window showed Miss Brewster
that the mate had got into the boat, and that they were steadily
lowering away.

'Let me pass, you--you wretch!'

'All in good time,' replied Edith Longworth, whose gaze was also upon the
boat swinging in mid-air.

Jennie Brewster saw at once that, if it came to a hand-to-hand encounter,
she would have no chance whatever against the English girl, who was in
every way her physical superior. She had her envelope in one hand and the
gold in the other. She thrust both of them into her pocket, which, after
some fumbling, she found. Then she raised her voice in one of the
shrillest screams which Edith Longworth had ever heard. As if in answer
to that ear-piercing sound, there rose from the steamer a loud and
ringing cheer. Both glanced up to see where the boat was, but it was not
in sight. Several ropes were dangling down past the porthole. Miss
Brewster sprang up on the sofa, and with her small hands turned round
the screw which held the window closed.

Edith Longworth looked at her without making any attempt to prevent the
unfastening of the window.

Jennie Brewster flung open the heavy brass circle which held the thick
green glass, and again she screamed at the top of her voice, crying
'Help!' and 'Murder!'

The other did not move from her position. In the silence that followed,
the steady splash of oars could be heard, and again a rousing cheer rang
out from those who were left upon the motionless steamer. Edith Longworth
raised herself on tiptoe and looked out of the open window. On the crest
of a wave, five hundred yards away from the vessel, she saw the boat for
a moment appear, showing the white glitter of her six dripping oars; then
it vanished down the other side of the wave into the trough of the sea.

'Now, Miss Brewster', she said, 'you are at liberty to go.'




CHAPTER XIII.


After Edith Longworth left her, Jennie Brewster indulged in a brief spasm
of hysterics. Her common-sense, however, speedily came to her rescue;
and, as she became more calm, she began to wonder why she had not
assaulted the girl who had dared to imprison her. She dimly remembered
that she thought of a fierce onslaught at the time, and she also
recollected that her fear of the boat leaving during the struggle had
stayed her hand. But now that the boat had left she bitterly regretted
her inaction, and grieved unavailingly over the fact that she had
stopped to write the account of the disaster which befell the _Caloric_.
Had she not done so, all might have been well, but her great ambition to
be counted the best-newspaper woman in New York, and to show the editor
that she was equal to any emergency that might arise, had undone her.
While it would have been possible for her to send away one telegram, her
desire to write the second had resulted in her sending none at all.
Although she impugned her own conduct in language that one would not have
expected to have heard from the lips of a millionaire's daughter, her
anger against Edith Longworth became more intense, and a fierce desire
for revenge took possession of the fair correspondent. She resolved that
she would go up on deck and shame this woman before everybody. She would
attract public attention to the affair by tearing Edith Longworth from
her deck-chair, and in her present state of mind she had no doubt of her
strength to do it. With the yearning for vengeance fierce and strong upon
her, the newspaper woman put on her hat and departed for the deck. She
passed up one side and down the other, but her intended victim was not
visible. The rage of Miss Brewster increased when she did not find her
prey where she expected. She had a fear that, when she calmed down, a
different disposition would assert itself, and her revenge would be lost.
In going to and fro along the deck she met Kenyon and Fleming walking
together. Fleming had just that moment come up to Kenyon, who was quietly
pacing the deck alone, and, slapping him on the shoulder, asked him to
have a drink.

'It seems to me,' he said, 'that I never have had the pleasure of
offering you a drink since we came on board this ship. I want to drink
with everybody here, and especially now, when something has happened to
make it worth while.'

'I am very much obliged to you,' said John Kenyon coldly, 'but I never
drink with anybody.'

'What, never touch it at all? Not even beer?'

'Not even beer.'

'Well, I am astonished to hear that. I thought every Englishman drank
beer.'

'There is at least one Englishman who does not.'

'All right, then; no harm done, and no offence given, I hope. I may say,
however, that you miss a lot of fun in this world.'

'I suppose I miss a few headaches also.'

'Oh, not necessarily. I have one great recipe for not having a headache.
You see, this is the philosophy of headaches.' And then, much to John's
chagrin, he linked arms with him and changed his step to suit Kenyon's,
talking all the time as if they were the most intimate friends in the
world. 'I have a sure plan for avoiding a headache. You see, when you
look into the matter, it is this way: The headache only comes when you
are sober. Very well, then. It is as simple as A B C. Never get sober;
that's my plan. I simply keep on, and never get sober, so I have no
headaches. If people who drink would avoid the disagreeable necessity of
ever getting sober, they would be all right. Don't you see what I mean?'

'And how about their brains in the meantime?'

'Oh, their brains are all right. Good liquor sharpens a man's brains
wonderfully. Now, you try it some time. Let me have them mix a cocktail
for you? I tell you, John, a cocktail is one of the finest drinks that
ever was made, and this man at the bar--when I came on board, he thought
he could make a cocktail, but he didn't know even the rudiments--I have
taught him how to do it; and I tell you that secret will be worth a
fortune to him, because if there is anything Americans like, it is to
have their cocktails mixed correctly. There's no one man in all England
can do it, and very few men on the Atlantic service. But I'm gradually
educating them. Been across six times. They pretend to give you American
drinks over in England, but you must know how disappointing they are.'

'I'm sure I don't see how I should know, for I never taste any of them.'

'Ah, true; I had forgotten that. Well, I took this bar-keeper here in
hand, and he knows now how to make a reasonably good cocktail; and, as I
say, that secret will be worth money to him from American passengers.'

John Kenyon was revolving in his mind the problem of how to get rid of
this loquacious and generous individual, when he saw, bearing down upon
them, the natty figure of Miss Jennie Brewster; and he wondered why such
a look of bitter indignation was flashing from her eyes. He thought that
she intended to address the American politician, but he was mistaken. She
came directly at him, and said in an excited tone, with a ring of anger
in it:

'Well, John Kenyon, what do you think of your work?'

'What work?' asked the bewildered man.

'You know very well what work I mean. A fine specimen of a man you are!
Without the courage yourself to prevent my sending that telegram, you
induced your dupe to come down to my state-room and brazenly keep me from
sending it.'

The blank look of utter astonishment upon the face of honest John Kenyon
would have convinced any woman in her senses that he knew nothing at all
of what she was speaking. A dim impression of this, indeed, flashed
across the young woman's heated brain. But before she could speak,
Fleming said:

'Tut, tut, my dear girl! you are talking too loud altogether. Do you want
to attract the attention of everybody on the deck? You mustn't make a
scandal in this way on board ship.'

'Scandal!' she cried. 'We will soon see whether there will be a scandal
or not. Attract the attention of those on deck! That is exactly what I am
going to do, until I show up the villainy of this man you are talking to.
He was the concocter of it, and he knows it. She never had brains enough
to think of it. He was too much of a coward to carry it through himself,
and so he set her to do his dastardly piece of work.'

'Well, well,' said Fleming, 'even if he has done all that, whatever it
is, it will do no good to attract attention to it here on deck. See how
everybody is listening to what you are saying. My dear girl, you are too
angry to talk just now; the best thing you can do is to go down to your
state-room.'

'Who asked you to interfere?' she cried, turning furiously upon him.
'I'll thank you to mind your own business, and let me attend to mine. I
should have thought that you would have found out before this that I am
capable of attending to my own affairs.'

'Certainly, certainly, my dear child,' answered the politician
soothingly; 'I'm sorry I can't get you all to come and have a drink with
me, and talk this matter over quietly. That's the correct way to do
things, not to stand here scolding on the deck, with everybody listening.
Now, if you will quietly discuss the matter with John here, I'm sure
everything will be all right.'

'You don't know what you are talking about,' replied the young lady. 'Do
you know that I had an important despatch to send to the _Argus_, and
that this man's friend, doubtless at his instigation, came into my room
and practically held me prisoner there until the boat had left, so that I
could not send the despatch? Think of the cheek and villainy of that, and
then speak to me of talking wildly!'

An expression of amazement upon Kenyon's face convinced the newspaper
woman, more than all his protestations would have done, that he knew
nothing whatever of the escapade.

'And who kept you from coming out?' asked Fleming.

'It is none of your business,' she replied tartly.

'If you will believe me,' said Kenyon at last, 'I had absolutely no
knowledge of all this; so, you see, there is no use speaking to me about
it. I won't pretend I am sorry, because I am not.'

This added fuel to the flames, and she was about to blaze out again, when
Kenyon, turning on his heel, left her and Fleming standing facing each
other. Then the young woman herself turned and quickly departed, leaving
the bewildered politician entirely alone, so that there was nothing for
him to do but to go into the smoking-room and ask somebody else to drink
with him, which he promptly did.

Miss Brewster made her way to the captain's room and rapped at the door.
On being told to enter, she found that officer seated at his table with
some charts before him, and a haggard look upon his face, which might
have warned her that this was not the proper time to air any personal
grievances.

'Well?' he said briefly as she entered.

'I came to see you, captain,' she began, 'because an outrageous thing has
been done on board this ship, and I desire reparation. What is more, I
will have it!

'What is the "outrageous thing"?' asked the captain.

'I had some despatches to send to New York, to the _New York Argus_, on
whose staff I am.'

'Yes,' said the captain with interest; 'despatches relating to what has
happened to the ship?'

'One of them did, the other did not.'

'Well, I hope,' said the captain, 'you have not given an exaggerated
account of the condition we are in.'

'I have given no account at all, simply because I was prevented from
sending the cablegrams.'

'Ah, indeed,' said the captain, a look of relief coming over his face, in
spite of his efforts to conceal it; 'and pray what prevented you from
sending your cablegrams? The mate would have taken any messages that were
given to him.'

'I know that,' cried the young woman; 'but when I was in my room writing
the last of the despatches, a person who is on board as a passenger
here--Miss Longworth--came into my room and held me prisoner there until
the boat had left the ship.'

The captain arched his eyebrows in surprise.

'My dear madam,' he said, 'you make a very serious charge. Miss Longworth
has crossed several times with me, and I am bound to say that a
better-behaved young lady I never had on board my ship.'

'Extremely well behaved she is!' cried the correspondent angrily, 'she
stood against my door and prevented me from going out. I screamed for
help, but my screams were drowned in the cheers of the passengers when
the boat left.'

'Why did you not ring your bell?'

'I couldn't ring my bell because she prevented me. Besides, if I had
reached the bell, it is not likely anybody would have answered it;
everybody seemed to be bawling after the boat that was leaving.'

'You can hardly blame them for that. A great deal depends on the safety
of that boat. In fact, if you come to think about it, you will see that
whatever grievance you may have, it is, after all, a very trivial one
compared with the burden that weighs on me just now, and I should much
prefer not to have anything to do with disputes between the passengers
until we are out of our present predicament.'

'The predicament has nothing whatever to do with it. I tell you a fact.
I tell you that one of your passengers came and imprisoned me in my
state-room. I come to you for redress. Now, there must be some law on
shipboard that takes the place of ordinary law on land. I make this
demand officially to you. If you decline to hear me, and refuse to
redress my wrong, then I have public opinion, to which I can appeal
through my paper, and perhaps there will also be a chance of obtaining
justice through the law of the land to which I am going.'

'My dear madam,' said the captain calmly, 'you must not use threats to
me. I am not accustomed to be addressed in the tone you have taken upon
yourself to use. Now tell me what it is you wish me to do?'

'It is for you to say what you will do. I am a passenger on board this
ship, and am supposed to be under the protection of its captain. I
therefore tell you I have been forcibly detained in my state-room, and I
demand that the person who did this shall be punished.'

'You say that Miss Longworth is the person who did this?'

'Yes, I do.'

'Now, do you know you make a serious charge against that young lady--a
charge that I find it remarkably difficult to believe? May I ask you what
reason she had for doing what you say she has done?'

'That is a long story. I am quite prepared to show that she tried to
bribe me not to send a despatch, and, finding herself unsuccessful, she
forcibly detained me in my room until too late to send the telegram.'

The captain pondered over what had been said to him.

'Have you any proof of this charge?'

'Proof! What do you mean? Do you doubt my word?'

'I mean exactly what I say. Have you anybody to prove the exceedingly
serious charge you bring?'

'Certainly not. I have no proof. If there had been a witness there, the
thing would not have happened. If I could have summoned help, it would
not have happened. How could I have any proof of such an outrage?'

'Well, do you not see that it is impossible for me to take action on your
unsupported word? Do you not see that, if you take further steps in this
extraordinary affair, Miss Longworth will ask you for proof of what you
state? If she denies acting as you say she did, and you fail to prove
your allegation, it seems to me that you will be in rather a difficult
position. You would be liable to a suit for slander. Just think the
matter over calmly for the rest of the day before you take any further
action upon it, and I would strongly advise you not to mention this to
anyone on board. Then to-morrow, if you are still in the same frame of
mind, come to me.'

Thus dismissed, the young woman left the captain's room, and met Fleming
just outside, who said:

'Look here, Miss Brewster, I want to have a word with you. You were very
curt with me just now.'

'Mr. Fleming, I do not wish to speak to you.'

'Oh, that's all right--that's all right; but let me tell you this: you're
a pretty smart young woman, and you have done me one or two very evil
turns in your life. I have found out all about this affair, and it's one
of the funniest things I ever heard of.'

'Very funny, isn't it?' snapped the young woman.

'Of course it's very funny; but when it appears in full in the opposition
papers to the _Argus_, perhaps you won't see the humour of it--though
everybody else in New York will, that's one consolation.'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean to say, Jennie Brewster, that unless you are a fool, you will
drop this thing. Don't, for Heaven's sake, let anybody know you were
treated by an English girl in the way you were. Take my advice: say no
more about it.'

'And what business is it of yours?'

'It isn't mine at all; that is why I am meddling with it. Aren't you well
enough acquainted with me to know that nothing in the world pleases me so
much as to interfere in other people's business? I have found out all
about the girl who kept you in, and a mighty plucky action it was too. I
have seen that girl on the deck, and I like the cut of her jib. I like
the way she walks. Her independence suits me. She is a girl who wouldn't
give a man any trouble, now, I tell you, if he were lucky enough to win
her. And I am not going to see that girl put to any trouble by you,
understand that!'

'And how are you going to prevent it, may I ask?'

'May you ask? Why, of course you may. I will tell you how I am going
to prevent it. Simply by restraining you from doing another thing in
the matter.'

'If you think you can do that, you are very much mistaken. I am going to
have that girl put in prison, if there is a law in the land.'

'Well, in the first place, we are not on land; and, in the second place,
you are going to do nothing of the kind, because, if you do, I shall go
to the London correspondents of the other New York papers and give the
whole blessed snap away. I'll tell them how the smart and cute Miss Dolly
Dimple, who has bamboozled so many persons in her life, was once caught
in her own trap; and I shall inform them how it took place. And they'll
be glad to get it, you bet! It will make quite interesting reading in the
New York opposition papers some fine Sunday morning--about a column and a
half, say. Won't there be some swearing in the _Argus_ when that appears!
It won't be your losing the despatch you were going to send, but it will
be your utter idiocy in making the thing public, and letting the other
papers on to it. Why, the best thing in the world for you to do, and the
_only_ thing, is to keep as quiet as possible about it. I am astonished
at a girl of your sense, Dolly, making a public fuss like this, when you
should be the very one trying to keep it secret.'

The newspaper correspondent pondered on these words.

'And if I keep quiet about it, will you do the same?'

'Certainly; but you must remember that if ever you attempt any of your
tricks of interviewing on me again, out comes this whole thing. Don't
forget that.'

'I won't,' said Miss Jennie Brewster.

And next morning, when the captain was anxiously awaiting her arrival in
his room, she did not appear.




CHAPTER XIV.


After all, it must be admitted that George Wentworth was a man of
somewhat changeable character. For the last two or three days he had been
moping like one who meditated suicide; now when everyone else was
anxiously wondering what was going to happen to the ship, he suddenly
became the brightest individual on board. For a man to be moody and
distraught while danger was impending was not at all surprising; but for
a man, right in the midst of gloom, to blossom suddenly out into a
general hilarity of manner, was something extraordinary. People thought
it must be a case of brain trouble. They watched the young man with
interest as he walked with a springy step up and down the deck. Every now
and again a bright smile illuminated his face, and then he seemed to be
ashamed that people should notice he was feeling so happy. When he was
alone he had a habit of smiting his thigh and bursting out into a laugh
that was long and low, rather than loud and boisterous. No one was more
astonished at this change than Fleming, the politician. George met him on
deck, and, to the great surprise of that worthy gentleman, smote him on
the back and said:

'My dear sir, I am afraid the other day, when you spoke to me, I answered
a little gruffly. I beg to apologize. Come and have a drink with me.'

'Oh, don't mention it,' said Fleming joyously; 'we all of us have our
little down-turns now and then. Why, I have them myself, when liquor is
bad or scarce! You mightn't believe it, but some days I feel away down in
the mouth. It is true I have a recipe for getting up again, which I
always use. And that reminds me: do you remember what the Governor of
North Carolina said to the Governor of South Carolina?'

'I'm sure I don't know,' said Wentworth; 'you see, I'm not very well
versed in United States politics.'

'Well, there wasn't much politics about his remark. He merely said,
"It's a long time between drinks;" come in and have something with me.
It seems to me you haven't tasted anything in my company since the
voyage began.'

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