He went home that night in a queer mood. He was hurt and he was angry,
but depressed he was not. He went up to the room he had occupied for
years and years--a room which, like his face, showed no trace of the
spirit that possessed it. He sat down to unlace his boots and put on his
slippers. When that was done, he filled another pipe.
“Perhaps it’s just as well,” he reflected, with a philosophy Gina would
not have appreciated. “A wife’s a very unsettling thing. Now I’ll go on
just the same!”
And, if you will believe it, the next Saturday afternoon he bought a box
of blocks, and a doll’s cradle, and the familiar package of Scotch
kisses, and with perfect composure set off for Staten Island.
“There’s no reason at all for a quarrel,” he thought. “To be sure, I’ve
nothing against the poor woman. I’m not one to change.”
There was a heavy fog, and the boat was late. He stood downstairs, close
to the gates. He was in no sort of hurry. Indeed, he rather enjoyed the
little stir of excitement caused by the fog.
He heard people about him saying it was the worst they had seen in
years, that a small boat had been run down a few hours before, that
steamers were held up. He liked the din from the bay, the whistles low
or shrill, the clamor of the bells, the blasting wail of a great
foghorn.
There was, unfortunately, no way in which he could verbally express his
scorn for this excitement, and his own miraculous coolness and
detachment. He could look it, however, and more than ever he assumed the
aspect of a wooden image. For some reason this inspired the confidence
of a fellow traveler.
“Do you think there’s any danger?” asked an anxious voice.
He turned, intending to answer somewhat loftily, but he was utterly
disarmed at sight of the questioner. Indeed, he at once felt that there
might well be danger. He removed his hat with ceremony.
“Nothing to worry about,” he assured her gravely.
She was a tall and rather thin girl, very dark, with a wonderful rich
color in her cheeks and great, serious eyes. That seriousness was the
thing which first attracted him--that, with her sober dress. It took a
second glance to reveal that her dress was shabby and her seriousness
tinged with something forlorn; to say nothing of her being very young
and very pretty.
Now Murchison was a cautious and practical fellow, by no means given to
talking to strangers; and he decided that he would not look at the girl
again. A boat had just come in, so that he really had something
justifiable to stare at.
There came first the inexplicable persons who run and sometimes shout;
then motor cars, and streams of people, and drays and trucks with
vociferous teamsters. It was what happened every half hour or so, all
day long, yet it had the thrill there always is at the end of a journey,
no matter how short. And now, belated and fog-haunted, the incoming
ferryboat might have returned from the Antipodes.
The traffic, the shouts, the procession of people, ended abruptly. Then
the gates were pushed open, and the new swarm crowded forward, as eager
to be carried south as the others had been to rush northward. Murchison
was perfectly aware that the girl kept beside him, although he didn’t
turn his head. He could lose her easily enough by crossing over to the
smoking cabin; but he had to let a truck go by before he could do so,
and, without quite turning his head, he saw her, hesitant and dismayed,
looking after him.
Long after he was settled with his pipe he remembered her dark face, her
troubled eyes, something alien and tragic in her, and he felt uneasy,
almost guilty. He knew it was nonsense, the particular sort of nonsense
that he most disliked. He was sorry he had not bought a newspaper to
distract his mind.
A bell clanged; the boat slowed down, and the throb and jar of the
engines stopped. A great many people rushed to the windows, as always
happens, and this gave Murchison the chance for being most notably
Scotch, and not stirring. His sharp ears caught all the wild and
confused rumors and surmises of those about him. He felt incipient panic
in the atmosphere. He was grimly amused, until it suddenly occurred to
him how silly women were--how very, very silly a young girl would be,
with no Scotsman beside her!
He got up and crossed to the other cabin. That was not ridiculous; it
committed him to nothing. He entered the cabin and sauntered through it,
looking with an eye casual but very keen at the backs of the people
crowded two deep at the windows.
That girl wasn’t there. Perhaps she had rushed upstairs. If so, she
might stay there, for he had gone quite far enough.
He pushed open the door, and stepped out upon the forward deck. No
denying that the fog was unpleasantly thick, and that ominous and
immense shapes appeared half hidden behind it. The bells and whistles on
every side made a diabolic clamor. The boat was drifting silently, and
the fog concealed even the water on which it floated; and yet, with
nothing visible, he was in a crowded and noisy world, menacing,
incomprehensible.
He saw her out there, one hand on the railing, her young face in
profile. She had, he thought, such a forsaken air! She was so lovely and
young! She put him in mind of the beloved and half forgotten creatures
in the romances he had read in his young days--heroines brave, gentle,
and beautiful, for whom a man could die gladly. She was shabby, she was
frightened, she was alone, as a heroine should be. There was a halo of
romance about her dark head.
But still Murchison was entirely Murchison. He could have leaped
overboard and saved her from the sea more easily than he could address
one single word to her. He was eager to speak to her, to reassure her,
but it was not possible.
Her anxious glance, turning in his direction, fell full upon his face.
“Do you think anything’s going to happen?” she asked, as promptly and
simply as if he were an old friend.
“No, no!” said he. “But with these crowded ferries they’re very
cautious.”
He came over to the rail and stood near her. He had an absurd desire to
remove his hat and to stand bareheaded before her innocent youth; but he
resisted this preposterous impulse, and spoke in his driest way. He gave
her facts about the shipping in this stupendous harbor, quoting figures,
reports. He had an uneasy feeling that he was tiresome, and probably
making mistakes in his statistics, but he was so desperately occupied in
not looking at her that it distracted his mind.
“I find it an agreeable trip,” he ended abruptly.
He was obliged to look at her then, to see if his talk had wearied her,
and he observed a strange expression upon her downcast face.
“I’m so afraid of the sea!” she said faintly.
“But this is only a bay--” he began.
She glanced up.
“My father was a captain,” she said. “He was drowned when I was a baby;
and my brother was drowned in the war. So--you see--”
“Yes,” he answered gravely. “I see!”
He did not try to express sympathy, he did not speak one reassuring or
consolatory word. He stood silently beside her, neither seeking nor
evading her attention, simply being his own uncompromising self. Never
in life had he tried, never in life would he try, to make a favorable
impression upon any one. He took it for granted that she knew all the
compassion, interest, and respect he felt; and she, on her part,
accepted him without question.
“Do you think we’ll be kept here long like this?” she asked.
“It’s impossible to say; but there’s nothing to be alarmed about.”
“I’m late,” she said anxiously. “You see, I’ve come all the way from
Philadelphia this morning, and I got a little mixed up. I was expected
for lunch, but it’s much too late now.”
“Won’t the people--your friends--wait?” asked Robert indignantly.
“They’re strangers,” she said. “I’ve never seen them. I’m going as a
governess. I was recommended to Mrs. Wigmore--”
“Mrs. Wigmore!”
“Oh, do you know her?” the girl asked.
“I am acquainted with the lady,” said Robert, in so curt a manner that
she was abashed.
She fancied that he regretted having been drawn into conversation with
the governess of some one whom he knew. She flushed a little, and turned
away her head. She expected him to make some excuse and to leave her;
but he did not. He stood where he was, filled with the most
unaccountable chagrin and disappointment.
She was going to Gina! She would see him there, see him as Old Dog Tray!
He felt as if some ineffable happiness had been snatched from him. He
felt suddenly middle-aged and preposterously unpleasing.
An instant ago he had really believed that this marvelous girl was
interested in him, friendly toward him, even glad of his company. Well,
only let her see him climbing the hill with his arms full of bundles,
only let her see him playing with the children, being treated with
slightly condescending affection by Gina, only let her see Old Dog Tray
in his natural habitat, and he would never again be anything but that in
her eyes!
“I’ll not go,” he decided. “I don’t doubt they’ll do well enough without
me.”
But, thought he, what good would that do? He knew so well Gina’s fatal
lack of discretion, her shocking habit of confiding in every one. It was
impossible to believe that she could have a governess in the house
twenty-four hours without telling--even boasting--about her Old Dog
Tray.
“The devil!” he said, dismayed at the prospect.
Then he realized that he had spoken aloud, and he apologized earnestly
to his companion. He was surprised and relieved to see her smile--not
plaintively and sweetly, like Gina, but with a wide, youthful smile that
was almost a grin. With a faint shock he realized that while she was
undoubtedly an angel, she was also a delightful human being.
They were suddenly upon a new footing. They began to talk with
miraculous ease. They exchanged names. She said she was Anne Kittridge,
and instead of being, as he had half imagined, an isolated phenomenon,
she had a mother and a home in Philadelphia.
“I’ve never been a governess before,” she said. “I’ve never even been
away from mother. I hope--do you think I’ll get on with Mrs. Wigmore’s
children?”
“Aye,” said he, “I’ve no doubt you will.”
“But I’m not beginning very well,” she said, “being late like this.”
“And no lunch!” said he. “I’d forgotten that. It’s--let’s see--it’s
nearly three o’clock.”
“I don’t care,” she said stoutly.
He did, though. He was greatly worried.
“Well,” he said, after much thought, “I’ve a box of sweets here. Very
poor things they are for the teeth and the digestion, but I dare say
they’re better than nothing.”
He set to work to unwrap his neat package. As he did so, the box of
blocks fell out upside down, and the contents scattered over the deck.
“Oh!” said she. “Were they for your little boy?”
He did not answer until he had picked all the blocks up. Then he
straightened himself, with a slight frown.
“I’m a bachelor,” he said. “They were for the child of an old friend.”
And he added resolutely: “A very respectable, middle-aged body.”
The boat had started again, but they didn’t notice it. Miss Kittridge
was steadily and happily consuming Gina’s Scotch kisses.
V
It would be impossible to any chronicler to describe all that took place
in Murchison’s soul during that brief trip. The easiest way is to say
bluntly that he fell in love, and for most readers that will go a long
way toward an explanation; but one must bear in mind the character of
the man, his frightful obstinacy, his outrageous pride, and the
matter-of-fact romanticism of his secret heart.
He was amazed, delighted, awed. He knew that he was in love; he knew
that this was the real thing, for which he had always been waiting. Lack
of self-confidence was not among his faults. He hoped, he believed, that
if he could have a clear field, he would have a fair chance with this
matchless girl. She liked him, she trusted him, she was amused by his
jokes, interested in all the information he had to give. If he could
keep her from seeing him as Old Dog Tray!
“I won’t have it!” he thought fiercely. “I won’t have this spoiled by
such a thing!”
The boat bumped its way into the slip, and a lurching procession of
people came up to the gates. Miss Kittridge wished to join them. She
glanced anxiously at Murchison, but he didn’t stir. The gates opened,
and the crowd began to hurry off.
“Hadn’t we better go?” she said.
“Very well,” he answered absently, and off they went.
“Mrs. Wigmore told me to take the North Shore train,” she began, but
Murchison grasped her arm firmly and led her to the waiting room.
“Miss Kittridge,” he said, in a peculiar voice, “you’d better not go
there.”
“But why?” cried the startled girl.
“Well,” he replied, “well--mind you, I’ve nothing to say against Mrs.
Wigmore. I’ve a very high opinion of her. She’s a very pleasant,
respectable woman; but I advise you not to go there.”
“But I must! She’s expecting me; and where else can I go?”
“Go back to your mother in Philadelphia,” said he.
“I can’t, Mr. Murchison. It was my own idea to go out and earn my own
living, and I’m certainly not going home before I’ve even tried.”
“There’s a train every hour,” said he. “I’ll go with you, and I’ll
explain to your mother.”
“Explain what?” she protested, overwhelmed with astonishment.
“It’ll be better explained to your mother,” he told her. “You’re too
young.”
The doors were opened, and a new crowd was pressing through them.
Murchison joined the stream of people, leading his reluctant and
protesting companion back on board the ferryboat.