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In a Steamer Chair And Other Stories

R >> Robert Barr >> In a Steamer Chair And Other Stories




Finally Morris seemed to muster up courage enough to begin, and he said
one word--

"Katherine." As he said this he placed his hand on hers as it lay white
before him in the darkness upon the trembling bulwark. It seemed to him
that she made a motion to withdraw her hand, and then allowed it to
remain where it was.

"Katherine," he continued, in a voice that he hardly recognised as his
own, "we have known each other only a very short time comparatively;
but, as I think I said to you once before, a day on shipboard may be as
long as a month on shore. Katherine, I want to ask you a question, and
yet I do not know--I cannot find--I--I don't know what words to use."

The young lady turned her face towards him, and he saw her clear-cut
profile sharply outlined against the glowing water as he looked down
at her. Although the young man struggled against the emotion, which is
usually experienced by any man in his position, yet he felt reasonably
sure of the answer to his question. She had come with him out into the
night. She had allowed her hand to remain in his. He was, therefore,
stricken dumb with amazement when she replied, in a soft and musical
voice--

"You do not know what to say? What do you _usually_ say on such an
occasion?"

"Usually say?" he gasped in dismay. "I do not understand you. What do
you mean?"

"Isn't my meaning plain enough? Am I the first young lady to whom you
have not known exactly what to say?"

Mr. Morris straightened up, and folded his arms across his breast;
then, ridiculously enough, this struck him as a heroic attitude, and
altogether unsuitable for an American, so he thrust his hands deep in
his coat pockets.

"Miss Earle," he said, "I knew that you could be cruel, but I did not
think it possible that you could be so cruel as this."

"Is the cruelty all on my side, Mr. Morris?" she answered. "Have you
been perfectly honest and frank with me? You know you have not. Now,
I shall be perfectly honest and frank with you. I like you very much
indeed. I have not the slightest hesitation in saying this, because it
is true, and I don't care whether you know it, or whether anybody else
knows it or not."

As she said this the hope which Morris had felt at first, and which had
been dashed so rudely to the ground, now returned, and he attempted to
put his arm about her and draw her to him; but the young lady quickly
eluded his grasp, stepping to the other side of the flag-pole, and
putting her hand upon it.

"Mr. Morris," she said, "there is no use of your saying anything
further. There is a barrier between us; you know it as well as I. I
would like us to be friends as usual; but, if we are to be, you will
have to remember the barrier, and keep to your own side of it."

"I know of no barrier," cried Morris, vehemently, attempting to come
over to her side.

"There is the barrier," she said, placing her hand on the flag-pole. "My
place is on this side of that barrier; your place is on the other. If
you come on this side of that flag-pole, I shall leave you. If you
remain on your own side, I shall be very glad to talk with you."

Morris sullenly took his place on the other side of the flag-pole. "Has
there been anything in my actions," said the young lady, "during the
time we have been acquainted that would lead you to expect a different
answer?"

"Yes. You have treated me outrageously at times, and that gave me some
hope."

Miss Earle laughed her low, musical laugh at this remark.

"Oh, you may laugh," said Morris, savagely; "but it is no laughing
matter to me, I assure you."

"Oh, it will be, Mr. Morris, when you come to think of this episode
after you get on shore. It will seem to you very, very funny indeed; and
when you speak to the next young lady on the same subject, perhaps you
will think of how outrageously I have treated your remarks to-night, and
be glad that there are so few young women in the world who would act as
I have done."

"Where did you get the notion," inquired George Morris, "that I am in
the habit of proposing to young ladies? It is a most ridiculous idea. I
have been engaged once, I confess it. I made a mistake, and I am sorry
for it. There is surely nothing criminal in that."

"It depends."

"Depends on what?"

"It depends on how the other party feels about it. It takes two to make
an engagement, and it should take two to break it."

"Well, it didn't in my case," said the young man.

"So I understand," replied Miss Earle. "Mr. Morris, I wish you a very
good evening." And before he could say a word she had disappeared in the
darkness, leaving him to ponder bitterly over the events of the evening.


SIXTH DAY.

In the vague hope of meeting Miss Earle, Morris rose early, and for a
while paced the deck alone; but she did not appear. Neither did he have
the pleasure of her company at breakfast. The more the young man thought
of their interview of the previous evening, the more puzzled he was.

Miss Earle had frankly confessed that she thought a great deal of him,
and yet she had treated him with an unfeelingness which left him sore
and bitter. She might have refused him; that was her right, of course.
But she need not have done it so sarcastically. He walked the deck after
breakfast, but saw nothing of Miss Earle. As he paced up and down, he
met the very person of all others whom he did not wish to meet. "Good
morning, Mr. Morris," she said lightly, holding out her hand.

"Good morning," he answered, taking it without much warmth.

"You are walking the deck all alone, I see. May I accompany you?"

"Certainly," said the young man, and with that she put her hand on
his arm and they walked together the first two rounds without saying
anything to each other. Then she looked up at him, with a bright smile,
and said, "So she refused you?"

"How do you know?" answered the young man, reddening and turning a quick
look at her.

"How do I know?" laughed the other. "How should I know?"

For a moment it flashed across his mind that Miss Katherine Earle had
spoken of their interview of last night; but a moment later he dismissed
the suspicion as unworthy.

"How do you know?" he repeated.

"Because I was told so on very good authority."

"I don't believe it."

"Ha, ha! now you are very rude. It is very rude to say to a lady that
she doesn't speak the truth."

"Well, rude or not, you are not speaking the truth. Nobody told you such
a thing."

"My dear George, how impolite you are. What a perfect bear you have
grown to be. Do you want to know who told me?"

"I don't care to know anything about it."

"Well, nevertheless, I shall tell you. _You_ told me."

"I did? Nonsense, I never said anything about it."

"Yes, you did. Your walk showed it. The dejected look showed it, and
when I spoke to you, your actions, your tone, and your words told it to
me plainer than if you had said, 'I proposed to Miss Earle last night
and I was rejected.' You poor, dear innocent, if you don't brighten up
you will tell it to the whole ship."

"I am sure, Blanche, that I am very much obliged to you for the interest
you take in me. Very much obliged, indeed."

"Oh no, you are not; and now, don't try to be sarcastic, it really
doesn't suit your manner at all. I was very anxious to know how your
little flirtation had turned out. I really was. You know I have an
interest in you, George, and always will have, and I wouldn't like that
spiteful little black-haired minx to have got you, and I am very glad
she refused you, although why she did so I cannot for the life of me
imagine."

"It must be hard for you to comprehend why she refused me, now that I am
a partner in the firm." Blanche looked down upon the deck, and did not
answer.

"I am glad," she said finally, looking up brightly at him with her
innocent blue eyes, "that you did not put off your proposal until
to-night. We expect to be at Queenstown to-night some time, and we
leave there and go on through by the Lakes of Killarney. So, you see, if
you hadn't proposed last night I should have known nothing at all about
how the matter turned out, and I should have died of curiosity and
anxiety to know."

"Oh, I would have written to you," said Morris. "Leave me your address
now, and I'll write and let you know how it turns out."

"Oh," she cried quickly, "then it isn't ended yet? I didn't think you
were a man who would need to be refused twice or thrice."

"I should be glad to be refused by Miss Earle five hundred times."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, five hundred times, if on the five hundredth and first time she
accepted."

"Is it really so serious as that?"

"It is just exactly that serious."

"Then your talk to me after all was only pretence?"

"No, only a mistake."

"What an escape I have had!"

"You have, indeed."

"Ah, here comes Miss Earle. Really, for a lady who has rejected a
gentleman, she does not look as supremely happy as she might. I must go
and have a talk with her."

"Look here, Blanche," cried the young man, angrily, "if you say a word
to her about what we have been speaking of, I'll--"

"What will you do?" said the young lady, sweetly.

Morris stood looking at her. He didn't himself know what he would do;
and Blanche, bowing to him, walked along the deck, and sat down in the
steamer chair beside Miss Earle, who gave her a very scant recognition.

"Now, you needn't be so cool and dignified," said the lady. "George and
I have been talking over the matter, and I told him he wasn't to feel
discouraged at a first refusal, if he is resolved to have a shop-girl
for his wife."

"What! Mr. Morris and you have been discussing me, have you?"

"Is there anything forbidden in that, Miss Earle? You must remember that
George and I are very, very old friends, old and dear friends. Did you
refuse him on my account? I know you like him."

"Like him?" said Miss Earle, with a fierce light in her eyes, as she
looked at her tormentor. "Yes, I like him, and I'll tell you more than
that;" she bent over and added in an intense whisper, "I love him, and
if you say another word to me about him, or if you dare to discuss me
with him, I shall go up to him where he stands now and accept him. I
shall say to him, 'George Morris, I love you.' Now if you doubt I shall
do that, just continue in your present style of conversation."

Blanche leaned back in the steamer chair and turned a trifle pale. Then
she laughed, that irritating little laugh of hers, and said, "Really I
did not think it had gone so far as that. I'll bid you good morning."

The moment the chair was vacated, George Morris strolled up and sat down
on it.

"What has that vixen been saying to you?" he asked.

"That vixen," said Miss Earle, quietly, "has been telling me that you
and she were discussing me this morning, and discussing the conversation
that took place last night."

"It is a lie," said Morris.

"What is? What I say, or what she said, or what she says you said?"

"That we were discussing you, or discussing our conversation, is not
true. Forgive me for using the coarser word. This was how it was; she
came up to me--"

"My dear Mr. Morris, don't say a word. I know well enough that you would
not discuss the matter with anybody. I, perhaps, may go so far as to
say, least of all with her. Still, Mr. Morris, you must remember this,
that even if you do not like her now--"

"Like her?" cried Morris; "I hate her."

"As I was going to say, and it is very hard for me to say it, Mr.
Morris, you have a duty towards her as you--we all have our duties to
perform," said Miss Earle, with a broken voice. "You must do yours, and
I must do mine. It may be hard, but it is settled. I cannot talk this
morning. Excuse me." And she rose and left him sitting there.

"What in the world does the girl mean? I am glad that witch gets off at
Queenstown. I believe it is she who has mixed everything up. I wish I
knew what she has been saying."

Miss Earle kept very closely to her room that day, and in the evening,
as they approached the Fastnet Light, George Morris was not able to find
her to tell her of the fact that they had sighted land. He took the
liberty, however, of scribbling a little note to her, which the
stewardess promised to deliver. He waited around the foot of the
companion-way for an answer. The answer came in the person of Miss
Katherine herself.

If refusing a man was any satisfaction, it seemed as if Miss Katherine
Earle had obtained very little gratification from it. She looked weary
and sad as she took the young man's arm, and her smile as she looked up
at him had something very pathetic in it, as if a word might bring
the tears. They sat in the chairs and watched the Irish coast. Morris
pointed out objects here and there, and told her what they were. At
last, when they went down to supper together, he said--

"We will be at Queenstown some time to-night. It will be quite a curious
sight in the moonlight. Wouldn't you like to stay up and see it?"

"I think I would," she answered. "I take so few ocean voyages that I
wish to get all the nautical experiences possible."

The young man looked at her sharply, then he said--

"Well, the stop at Queenstown is one of the experiences. May I send the
steward to rap at your door when the engine stops?"

"Oh, I shall stay up in the saloon until that time?"

"It may be a little late. It may be as late as one or two o'clock in
the morning. We can't tell. I should think the best thing for you to do
would be to take a rest until the time comes. I think, Miss Earle, you
need it."

It was a little after twelve o'clock when the engine stopped. The saloon
was dimly lighted, and porters were hurrying to and fro, getting up the
baggage which belonged to those who were going to get off at Queenstown.
The night was very still, and rather cold. The lights of Queenstown
could be seen here and there along the semi-circular range of hills on
which the town stood. Passengers who were to land stood around the deck
well muffled up, and others who had come to bid them good-bye were
talking sleepily with them. Morris was about to send the steward to Miss
Earle's room, when that young lady herself appeared. There was something
spirit-like about her, wrapped in her long cloak, as she walked through
the half-darkness to meet George Morris.

"I was just going to send for you," he said.

"I did not sleep any," was the answer, "and the moment the engine
stopped I knew we were there. Shall we go on deck?"

"Yes," he said, "but come away from the crowd," and with that he led her
towards the stern of the boat. For a moment Miss Earle seemed to hold
back, but finally she walked along by his side firmly to where they had
stood the night before. With seeming intention Morris tried to take his
place beside her, but Miss Earle, quietly folding her cloak around her,
stood on the opposite side of the flagpole, and, as if there should
be no forgetfulness on his part, she reached up her hand and laid it
against the staff.

"She evidently meant what she said," thought Morris to himself, with a
sigh, as he watched the low, dim outlines of the hills around Queenstown
Harbour, and the twinkling lights here and there.

"That is the tender coming now," he said, pointing to the red and green
lights of the approaching boat. "How small it looks beside our monster
steamship."

Miss Earle shivered.

"I pity the poor folks who have to get up at this hour of the night and
go ashore. I should a great deal rather go back to my state-room."

"Well, there is one passenger I am not sorry for," said Morris, "and
that is the young woman who has, I am afraid, been saying something to
you which has made you deal more harshly with me than perhaps you might
otherwise have done. I wish you would tell me what she said?"

"She has said nothing," murmured Miss Earle, with a sigh, "but what you
yourself have confirmed. I do not pay much attention to what she says."

"Well, you don't pay much attention to what I say either," he replied.
"However, as I say, there is one person I am not sorry for; I even wish
it were raining. I am very revengeful, you see."

"I do not know that I am very sorry for her myself," replied Miss Earle,
frankly; "but I am sorry for her poor old father, who hasn't appeared in
the saloon a single day except the first. He has been sick the entire
voyage."

"Her father?" cried Morris, with a rising inflection in his voice.

"Certainly."

"Why, bless my soul! Her father has been dead for ages and ages."

"Then who is the old man she is with?"

"Old man! It would do me good to have her hear you call him the old man.
Why, that is her husband."

"Her husband!" echoed Miss Earle, with wide open eyes, "I thought he was
her father."

"Oh, not at all. It is true, as you know, that I was engaged to the
young lady, and I presume if I had become a partner in our firm sooner
we would have been married. But that was a longer time coming than
suited my young lady's convenience, and so she threw me over with as
little ceremony as you would toss a penny to a beggar, and she married
this old man for his wealth, I presume. I don't see exactly why she
should take a fancy to him otherwise. I felt very cut up about it, of
course, and I thought if I took this voyage I would at least be rid for
a while of the thought of her. They are now on their wedding trip. That
is the reason your steamer chair was broken, Miss Earle. Here I came on
board an ocean steamer to get rid of the sight or thought of a certain
woman, and to find that I was penned up with that woman, even if her
aged husband was with her, for eight or nine days, was too much for me.
So I raced up the deck and tried to get ashore. I didn't succeed in
that, but I _did_ succeed in breaking your chair."

Miss Earle was evidently very much astonished at this revelation, but
she said nothing. After waiting in vain for her to speak, Morris gazed
off at the dim shore. When he looked around he noticed that Miss Earle
was standing on his side of the flagstaff. There was no longer a barrier
between them.


SEVENTH DAY.

If George Morris were asked to say which day of all his life had been
the most thoroughly enjoyable, he would probably have answered that the
seventh of his voyage from New York to Liverpool was the red-letter day
of his life. The sea was as calm as it was possible for a sea to be. The
sun shone bright and warm. Towards the latter part of the day they saw
the mountains of Wales, which, from the steamer's deck, seemed but a low
range of hills. It did not detract from Morris's enjoyment to know that
Mrs. Blanche was now on the troubleless island of Ireland, and that he
was sailing over this summer sea with the lady who, the night before,
had promised to be his wife.

During the day Morris and Katherine sat together on the sunny side of
the ship looking at the Welsh coast. Their books lay unread on the rug,
and there were long periods of silences between them.

"I don't believe," said Morris, "that anything could be more perfectly
delightful than this. I wish the shaft would break."

"I hope it won't," answered the young lady; "the chances are you would
be as cross as a bear before two days had gone past, and would want to
go off in a small boat."

"Oh, I should be quite willing to go off in a small boat if you would
come with me. I would do that now."

"I am very comfortable where I am," answered Miss Katherine. "I know
when to let well enough alone."

"And I don't, I suppose you mean?"

"Well, if you wanted to change this perfectly delightful day for any
other day, or this perfectly luxurious and comfortable mode of travel
for any other method, I should suspect you of not letting well enough
alone."

"I have to admit," said George, "that I am completely and serenely
happy. The only thing that bothers me is that to-night we shall be in
Liverpool. I wish this hazy and dreamy weather could last for ever, and
I am sure I could stand two extra days of it going just as we are now. I
think with regret of how much of this voyage we have wasted."

"Oh, you think it was wasted, do you?"

"Well, wasted as compared with this sort of life. This seems to me like
a rest after a long chase."

"Up the deck?" asked the young lady, smiling at him.

"Now, see here," said Morris, "we may as well understand this first
as last, that unfortunate up-the-deck chase has to be left out of our
future life. I am not going to be twitted about that race every time a
certain young lady takes a notion to have a sort of joke upon me."

"That was no joke, George. It was the most serious race you ever ran in
your life. You were running away from one woman, and, poor blind young
man, you ran right in the arms of another. The danger you have run into
is ever so much greater than the one you were running away from."

"Oh, I realise that," said the young man, lightly; "that's what makes me
so solemn to-day, you know." His hand stole under the steamer rugs and
imprisoned her own.

"I am afraid people will notice that," she said quietly.

"Well, let them; I don't care. I don't know anybody on board this ship,
anyhow, except you, and if you realised how very little I care for their
opinions you would not try to withdraw your hand."

"I am not trying very hard," answered the young woman; and then there
was another long silence. Finally she continued--

"I am going to take the steamer chair and do it up in ribbons when I get
ashore."

"I am afraid it will not be a very substantial chair, no matter what you
do with it. It will be a trap for those who sit in it."

"Are you speaking of your own experience?"

"No, of yours."

"George," she said, after a long pause, "did you like her very much?"

"Her?" exclaimed the young man, surprised. "Who?"

"Why, the young lady you ran away from. You know very well whom I mean."

"Like her? Why, I hate her."

"Yes, perhaps you do now. But I am asking of former years. How long were
you engaged to her?"

"Engaged? Let me see, I have been engaged just about--well, not
twenty-four hours yet. I was never engaged before. I thought I was, but
I wasn't really."

Miss Earle shook her head. "You must have liked her very much," she
said, "or you never would have proposed marriage to her. You would never
have been engaged to her. You never would have felt so badly when she--"

"Oh, say it out," said George, "jilted me, that is the word."

"No, that is not the phrase I wanted to use. She didn't really jilt you,
you know. It was because you didn't have, or thought you didn't have,
money enough. She would like to be married to you to-day."

George shuddered.

"I wish," he said, "that you wouldn't mar a perfect day by a horrible
suggestion."

"The suggestion would not have been so horrible a month ago."

"My dear girl," said Morris, rousing himself up, "it's a subject that I
do not care much to talk about, but all young men, or reasonably young
men, make mistakes in their lives. That was my mistake. My great luck
was that it was discovered in time. As a general thing, affairs in this
world are admirably planned, but it does seem to me a great mistake that
young people have to choose companions for life at an age when they
really haven't the judgment to choose a house and lot. Now, confess
yourself, I am not your first lover, am I?"

Miss Earle looked at him for a moment before replying.

"You remember," she said, "that once you spoke of not having to
incriminate yourself. You refused to answer a question I asked you on
that ground. Now, I think this is a case in which I would be quite
justified in refusing to answer. If I told you that you were my first
lover, you would perhaps be manlike enough to think that after all you
had only taken what nobody else had expressed a desire for. A man does
not seem to value anything unless some one else is struggling for it."

"Why, what sage and valuable ideas you have about men, haven't you, my
dear?"

"Well, you can't deny but what there is truth in them."

"I not only can, but I do. On behalf of my fellow men, and on behalf
of myself, I deny it."

"Then, on the other hand," she continued, "if I confessed to you that I
did have half a score or half a dozen of lovers, you would perhaps think
I had been jilting somebody or had been jilted. So you see, taking it
all in, and thinking the matter over, I shall refuse to answer your
question."

"Then you will not confess?"

"Yes, I shall confess. I have been wanting to confess to you for some
little time, and have felt guilty because I did not do so."

"I am prepared to receive the confession," replied the young man,
lazily, "and to grant absolution."

"Well, you talk a great deal about America and about Americans, and
talk as if you were proud of the country, and of its ways, and of its
people."

"Why, I am," answered the young man.

"Very well, then; according to your creed one person is just as good as
another."

"Oh, I don't say that, I don't hold that for a moment. I don't think I
am as good as you, for instance."

"But what I mean is this, that one's occupation does not necessarily
give one a lower station than another. If that is not your belief then
you are not a true American, that is all."

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