At the moment of embarkation I have received a message that my
father in Chicago is dangerously 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, I _am_--”
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 for _you_ to 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!”
“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.
MUNSEY’S
MAGAZINE
SEPTEMBER, 1925
Vol. LXXXV NUMBER 4