THE QUESTION
The _Mount Vernon_, favored by a good stage of water, soon cleared
the narrow Monongahela channel, passed the confluence, and headed
down under full steam, all things promising well for a speedy and
pleasant run. The sky was blue and cloudless, and the air fresh
with the tang of coming autumn. Especially beautiful were the
shores which they now were skirting. The hues of autumn had been
shaken down over mile after mile of wide forest which appeared in a
panorama of russet and gold and red, to grow the more resplendent
when they should arrive opposite the high bluffs which line the
stream almost to the town of Wheeling.
Below these upper reaches, then the least settled and wildest
portion of the country along the Ohio, the river flattened and
widened, the current becoming more gentle, and the shores, though
not yet wholly cleared of their forests, presenting here and there
scenes of rural rather than of savage beauty. Civilization had not
as yet taken full hold along this rich valley. The old town of
Marietta, the cities of Louisville and Cincinnati, the villages
huddled at mouths of such rivers as came down from the Virginia
hills, or the larger settlements marking points near the
debouchments of slower streams like the Muskingum and Wabash, which
crossed the flatter lands beyond, made the chief points of traffic
and of interest in those days of west bound travel.
On the upper deck or along the rails of the lower deck, many
passengers were gazing out at the varying pictures of the passing
shores. Not so the young officer, erstwhile accosted as jailer of
a woman, later hinted to be something else than jailer. With eyes
cast down, he spent most of his time pacing up and down alone. Yet
it was not an irresolute soul which reposed beneath the half-frigid
exterior. He presently arrived upon a plan of action.
The public, too, had its rights, he concluded, and the woman as a
woman had her rights also to her good fame. He must not harm her
name. Best then, to disarm suspicion by playing the game wholly in
the open. The midday meal now being announced by loud proclamation
of the boat's gong, he turned, and soon rapped at the door of room
nineteen.
Jeanne, the tearful but faithful maid who shared her mistress'
fortunes, by this time had done what she could to mend her lady's
appearance. The traces of travel had been quite removed, by virtue
of the contents of such valises as they had with them. Good health
and youth, as well as good courage, fought for Josephine St. Auban,
as well as good sense and a philosophy of travel learned by
experiences in other lands. If indeed she had not slept, at least
her face did not betray that fact. Her color was good, her eye was
clear. Her dark hair, brushed low over the temples in the fashion
of the day, was fresh and glossy. Moreover, her habiliments were
such as to cause most of the feminine occupants of the boat to make
careful note, when she had accepted Carlisle's escort and entered
the dining-room. She walked with calmness to the table reserved
for her, and with inclination of the head thanked him as he
arranged her chair for her. Thus in a way the gauntlet was by both
thrown down to all present.
Most of those present without hesitation showed their interest.
The hum of the dingy tables slackened and ceased. A score of women
frowned at a score of men whose glances wandered undutifully. Who
was she, and what? That question certainly passed in the minds of
most in the crowded little room. Meantime, Josephine St. Auban's
own eyes were not unregardful.
"I see that my guess was quite correct," she said at length,
smiling full at her guardian.
At once he caught her thought. "Oh, about Mr. Dunwody," he
assented, assuming a carelessness which she read through at once.
"Yes, I met him--a while ago. He told me he had suddenly decided
to change his plans and take the Vernon down the river, instead of
going by stage. Very natural of him, too, I should say. I would
be much distressed to think of myself traveling by coach, even in
weather pleasant as this. He has keen eyes, though, has he not?"
he added resentfully.
"That is to say--"
"So hard hit that he threatens a duel or worse if I do not at once
further his desire to pursue his acquaintance. It's not myself
he's so eager to meet. He has no love for me, that's sure, long
ago."
"Indeed?" She kept her eyes fixed on her plate. If a slight flush
tinged her cheek it scarce was visible. "Is that all?" she asked
at length.
"Madam, you yourself could best answer your own question." He
looked at her keenly, not showing his case; not telling her that
Dunwody had shown him her hasty note. Not the flicker of an
eyelash betrayed her own thought. Surely, she had courage.
Surely, she meant trouble.
"How delightful!" she resumed at length calmly. "Not that I weary
of your company, sir; but I told you my parole was ended when we
reached the boat. Suppose, now, I should stand up here and cry out
that I am being restrained of my liberty. What would be the
result?"
"I should be hung at the yard-arm instantly! I should be lynched.
Dunwody would come in the lead, crashing over the tables. I fear
Dunwody, even bearing a rope, as we used to say--in Virgil, was it?"
"Admirable! Now, since that is true, suppose you and I make some
sort of terms! I'm tired of being jailed, even in a traveling
jail. I told you fairly I should try to escape; and so I shall."
He needed no second look to catch the resolution in her glance.
"Our game is somewhat desperate, Madam, I admit," said he, "I
scarcely know whether you are in my hands or I in yours. As I have
already given you consideration, let us hope you will do as much
for me, remembering at least the delicacy of my position. I'm
under orders; and I'm responsible for you."
"Yes?" she rejoined. "Now, as to what I suggest, it is this: You
shall leave the boat at Louisville or Cincinnati. Your errand is
already sufficiently well done. You have got me out of Washington.
Suppose we set Cincinnati as the last point of our common journey?"
"But what then for you. Madam?"
"As to that, I can not tell. Why should you care? Do not be
concerned over details. You have brought me into this situation.
I must escape from it in my own way."
"You sting me deeply. I've had to do this, just as an executioner
may have to cut off a head; but a thousand times I ask your pardon.
A thousand times you, yourself, have made me ashamed. Come, when
we part, shall it not be as friends? You have won my respect, my
admiration. I wish I were entitled to your own. You've been
perfect. You've been splendid."
"Look," she said, without raising her eyelids.
He turned. Dunwody was making his way toward them among the tables.
"My dear Senator," said Carlisle, choking down his wrath as the
Missourian reached them and bowed his salutations, "I have the
greatest pleasure in the world in keeping my promise to you. I am
delighted to have you join our little party at this time. You
remember the Countess--I would say, Miss Barren?"
"I have not so soon forgotten," answered Dunwody. His commanding
eyes still sought her face. Beyond a slight bow and one upward
glance, she did not display interest; yet in truth a sudden shiver
of apprehension came into her heart. This was a different sort of
man she now must endeavor to handle. What was it that his straight
glance meant?
It was a singular situation in which these three found themselves.
That she had asked the aid of this new-comer was a fact known to
all three of them. Yet of the three, none knew precisely the
extent of the others' knowledge. Dunwody at least was polite, if
insistent, in his wish to learn more of this mysterious young woman
who had appealed to him for aid, yet who now made no further sign.
Who was she? What _sort_ was she? he demanded of himself. God! if
she was one sort. And why should she _not_ be that sort? Did not
the River carry many sorts? Was not the army ever gallant? What
officer ever hesitated in case of a fair damsel? And what fair
damsel was not fair game in the open contest among men--that old,
old, oldest and keenest of all contests since this hoary world
began?
"I am sure the fatigue of the journey across the mountains must
have left you quite weary," he ventured, addressing her. "There's
only the choice of sleeping, or of hanging over the deck rail and
looking at these hills." He waved a hand toward a window, whence
might be seen the near-by shores.
Josephine St. Auban showed no sign of perturbation as she answered:
"Not so weary as busy. The duties of an amanuensis leave one small
time for recreation." Her face was demureness itself.
[Illustration: Josephine showed no sign of perturbation.]
The situation assumed swift complications. Carlisle caught his
cue, with alertness fairly to be called brilliant. "Yes," said he,
"the young lady is of foreign education and family, and is most
skilful in these respects. I should find it difficult to carry
forward my literary work without her able assistance. It is a boon
which even few public men have shared with myself. You know, I am
in the West in view of certain writings." He virtuously sat erect,
with a fine air, presently pushing back his chair.
Dunwody looked from one to the other in perplexity. He had
expected to find a woman claiming his aid, or rather his
acquaintance under excuse of a plea for aid. He found both these
apparently in league against him, and one of these apparently after
all not what he had thought! His face flushed. Meantime Josephine
St. Auban arose, bowed, and left them.
When the two men found themselves alone, Dunwody, for a time lost
in moody silence, at length broke out into a peal of laughter.
"Well, human nature is human nature, I suppose. I make no comment,
further than to say that I consider all the lady's fears were
groundless. She has been well treated. There was no need to call
for _my_ aid. The army is hard to defeat, Captain, and always was!"
"I had not myself regarded any officer in the light of an oppressor
of the distressed amanuensis," he went on. "But come now, who is
she? You started to call her 'Countess.' Since when have
countesses gone into secretarying? Tut! Tut! and again, my dear
man, Tut!"
"Sir," replied Carlisle, "I recall that when I was a youth, some of
us, members of the Sabbath-school class, occasionally would ask our
teacher a question on the Scriptures which he could not answer. In
that case he always said, 'My dear young friends, there are some
things which are not for man to know.'"
"I accept my temporary defeat," said Dunwody slowly. "We'll see.
But come, now, Captain, time is passing and the tables are yearning
for trouble. The army is distinguished not alone in love.
Draw-poker hath its victories, not less than war. I told Jones and
Judge Clayton and one or two others that I was pining for a little
game of draw. What do you say? Should not all lesser questions be
placed in abeyance?"
"That," said the other, "comes to me at the present moment in the
nature of an excellent compromise measure. I am agreed!"
Fencing thus, neither sure of his adversary, they now made their
way to one of the larger saloons, which ordinarily was devoted to
those who preferred to smoke, mayhap to chew, perhaps even to do
worse; for the door leading to the bar-room of the boat was near at
hand. A darky boy stood grinning, arranging a table, offering
cards and tobacco in a tempting tray. The two drew up leisurely to
the table, and presently were joined by the gentlemen whom Dunwody
had mentioned. For the time, then, as two of the four reflected,
there was a truce, a compromise.