Under a brilliant summer sky the ocean heaved in mighty swells. Anna,
on one of the most delightful mornings of this ideal voyage to
America, found the port side of the ship unpleasant, because of the
sun's brilliance. From every tiny facet of the water, which a brisk
breeze crinkled, the light flashed at her eyes with the quick
vividness of electric sparks, and almost blinded her. Not even her
graceful, slender, and (surprising on that steerage-deck) beautifully
white hand, now curved against her brow, could so shade her vision as
to enable her to look upon the sea in search of the far sail which the
lookout in the crow's nest had just reported to the bridge in a long,
droning hail. Her curiosity in the passing stranger had been aroused
by the keen interest which the more fortunately situated, on the
promenade-deck, above, had shown by crowding to their rail. They were,
as she could see from her humbler portion of the ship, talking of the
far craft interestedly; but from her station, owing either to its lack
of altitude or to the more dazzling glitter of the sea, due to the
differing angle of her vision, she failed to catch a glimpse of it.
The glare made her give up the search.
She shrugged her small, plaid shawl about her shoulders to meet the
wind's now freshening assaults, pulled her knitted hood a little
closer all about her face to hide it, through some sort of instinct
(the first-cabin folk, above, all through the voyage, had been wont to
gaze down on the steerage passengers as if they were a sort of
interesting animals), and made her way across the slowly heaving
planks to starboard. Glancing quickly upward as she went, she colored
gloriously, for looking down straight at her from behind the rail
which edged the elevated platform of the prosperous, stood the youth
who had picked up her father's bag as they had come on board, and
whose eyes, since the first day of the voyage, she had found it wise
to dodge if she would keep the crimson from her cheeks.
Not that there had been anything, at any time, in the youth's gaze
which could offend; rather had there been in it that which bewitched
and thrilled. There was not another girl upon that steerage-deck who
would not have been immensely pleased by and who would not have shyly
answered his admiring glances, had they turned toward her, although
there probably was not a girl there who was other than quite sweet and
pure. Purity and sweetness are no bars to answering a glance and
giggling. But he paid no heed, at all, to pretty emigrants who would
have been delighted by flirtatious glances. It may, in fact, have been
because of the shy fright, not in the least resentful, but sweetly,
girlishly embarrassed, with which Anna greeted his, whenever her eyes
caught them, that he turned them toward her so exclusively and
frequently. Admiring youth called to admiring youth in surreptitious
glances from the high deck to the lower, and, it may be, from the
steerage-deck up to the promenade.
But, although she found no slightest thing offensive in the young
man's veiled, approving surveillance, Anna felt almost as if she were
in flight from peril--some brand-new, delightful peril--as, now, she
hurried out of range of it and sought her father where, by the
after-hatch, he perched upon a great coiled cable staring, staring,
staring out across the sea toward Germany, the land to which, a few
days since, although his actual departure had been from English
shores, his heart had said a passionate farewell.
If Anna, with her graceful form, her delicately-colored, healthful
cheeks, her cleancut and dainty features, offered a strong contrast
to the buxom German maidens, dark, big-eyed Italian girls and others
of the many-nationed women-travelers upon that steerage-deck, her
father offered as strong contrast to the men. Among the swart
Italians, blonde, stupid-looking Swedes, Danes and Norwegians and fat,
red-faced Germans of the male steerage company, his finely-chiselled
features, pale and ascetic-looking in their frame of whitened hair,
stood out with accentuated testimony to high breeding, right living
and exalted aims. And there was another difference, but less pleasing.
By this, the ninth day out from port, grief, born of leaving friends
and childhood scenes had vanished from the faces of the other
voyagers, and, under the influence of a moderately smooth sea and
splendid, sparkling weather, their thoughts were busy with the new
shores to which the voyagers were journeying, with expectations of
great days. But on his face no glow of pleasant anticipation ever
shone. The old man's eyes were always turned toward that dear Germany
which, first, he had been forced to leave for London, and now was, by
the stern necessities of life, obliged to go still further from.
Rarely, since the voyage had begun, had he, when on deck, raised his
gaze from the great vessel's churning wake, which stretched, he liked
to think, straight back toward Germany, save when his daughter spoke
to him and roused him, for a moment, from his black depression. It was
as if that thread of foam was the one thing, brief, evanescent,
futile, though it was, which bound him, now, to the only land he cared
for. His face was that of one who passes into final exile. Only when
his eyes were on his daughter's did the expression of suppressed grief
and despondency go from them for a moment; but when they looked at her
they lighted brilliantly with love.
He had found adjustment to his crude surroundings with the utmost
difficulty. Poor he had been in London, but his work had been among
musicians, and even cheap musicians have in them something better,
finer, higher than the majority of human cattle in the steerage of
this ship could show. He felt uncomfortably misplaced.
This had been apparent from the start to his most interested
observer--the handsome youth of the first cabin, whose glances
sometimes made the daughter's eyes dodge and evade. It added to that
young man's growing conviction that the aged man and beautiful young
girl were not at all of the same class as their enforced associates
upon the steerage-deck.
He remarked upon this to the second officer of the ship, who was
highly flattered by his notice and anxious to give ear. He, too, had
given some attention to the old man and his daughter and agreed with
Vanderlyn about their great superiority to their surroundings.
He would have agreed with Vanderlyn in almost anything, that second
officer, for every year he met and talked with some few thousand
passengers who said it was the longer voyage which had tempted them to
the old _Rochester_, while rarely was he in the least convinced by
what they said. With the Vanderlyns, who did not say it, he thought
that it was truth. Money they obviously had in plenty, and, inasmuch
as they were, therefore, such pronounced exceptions to the rule, he
spent what time with them he could. They were prosperous and yet they
sailed by that slow ship, therefore they loved the sea. Of this he was
convinced--and in his firm conviction was entirely wrong.
The real truth was that Mrs. Vanderlyn, made bold by the possession of
her money, had thought it was the magic key which certainly would open
every door for her. There were doors in New York City, which, coming
from the West, she had been palpitantly anxious to pass through, and,
to her amazement, she found that money would not open them. Then there
had occurred to her the brilliant plan of conquering, first, the
aristocracy of Europe, who, the newspapers had told her, bowed in
great humility before the eagle on the Yankee gold-piece. To the doors
with crests upon their paneling, abroad, she had therefore borne her
golden key that summer, only to discover that it fitted their locks
quite as ill as those upon Fifth Avenue. Her heart was saddened with
the woe of failure. The second officer could not guess that, sore from
buffetings from those who would have none of her, she had been glad to
secure passage on this ten-day boat, where, during the long voyage,
she could haughtily refuse to notice those of whom she would have
none. She had searched for a place and found one where she could
scorn as she had recently been scorned. Her soul was black-and-blue
from snubs. She wished to snub. A climber, who had failed to climb the
highest social ladder, the handsome, haughty lady found a certain
satisfaction in sitting for ten days upon the very apex of another
ladder--briefer, less important, very little, to be sure, but still a
social ladder--and giving it a quick, sharp shake as humble people put
their feet upon it timidly, bowing and smiling tentatively at her
unresponsive person. It was a sort of balm to her sore soul so see
them tumble metaphorically, upon their backs. Her demeanor on the
_Rochester_ was the demeanor of a princess among aliens whom she
utterly despises. The Cook's tourists, traveling school-teachers and
young married couples homeward-bound after modest European honeymoons,
were plainly scum to her, and it gave her ardent joy to see that most
of them were hurt when she impressed this on them mercilessly. It was
safer for her son to talk about the interesting German couple to the
second officer than it was for him to talk about them to his mother,
but, lo! youth knows not wisdom.
"Mother," he suggested upon the sixth day out, "I want to have you
come and see a fascinating couple on the steerage-deck."
"Another bride and groom?" she asked, in a bored voice. Brides and
grooms had come to be monotonous. She had seen all sorts since she had
started on this journey and now loathed the thought of newly married
fellow-creatures. She could not understand why John's interest had
been maintained in them.
He laughed. "No, not a bride and groom. The man is an old German,
handsome and refined, evidently out of place upon the steerage-deck,
the girl--she--why, mother, she's a peach. _She'd_ be out of place
'most anywhere but on a throne!"
"How very vulgar, John," his mother answered with that cold assumption
of superiority which had come to her with money. "I cannot see how
even you can link the steerage-deck with thrones. Princesses do not
travel steerage except between the covers of cheap books."
He laughed again. John Vanderlyn was clean and healthy-souled. He did
not always take his mother (whom he idolized) too seriously.
"I didn't say she was a princess," he replied, "but she might well be.
It was, however, rather the old man than the girl, though she is very
beautiful and quite as much misplaced upon the steerage-deck as he is,
that I wished to have you see." He was, it will be noted, learning
something of diplomacy. "He has a magnificent old face--the face of a
fine nature which has suffered terribly. I have seen him as he stood
at the ship's rail, astern, watching the white wake as if every
bubble on it was a marker on a tragic path. It is as if all he loved
on earth except the girl--you ought to see him look at her!--lies at
the far end of that frothy, watery trail."
"You become almost poetic!" she said without enthusiasm.
But, a day afterwards, she went with him and looked down at the
steerage passengers, singling out the pair he meant without the
slightest difficulty.
"What a distinguished-looking man he is!" said she, involuntarily.
"Isn't he?" said her delighted son.
The daughter was not on the deck, just then, and young Vanderlyn was
politic enough to say nothing of her, merely talking of the old man's
impressive bearing, asking his mother to help him speculate about his
history.
"I don't wonder he attracted you," she granted. "He looks very
interesting. I am sure he _has_ a history."
Her gaze was so intent, that, in a few moments, it attracted the
attention of Herr Kreutzer, and the youth, observing that he seemed
annoyed and shamed, hurried her away. Instinctively he had felt the
old man flinch; instinctively he knew his pride, already, had been
sorely hurt by the necessity of "traveling steerage"; that as they
gazed at him the handsome, white-haired, emigrant had felt that his
dire poverty had made of him a curiosity.
The young man led his mother back to her rug-padded deck-chair,
pleased by the result of the first step in what he had resolved must
be a strategy of worth. In some way he must fix things so that
properly and pleasantly he could get acquainted with that girl. This,
he thought (not being a born prophet), could only be accomplished
through his mother, and already he had plans for it indefinitely
sketched out in his mind. Events were fated to assist him and do
better for him than his mother could have done for him, but, of
course, he did not know that then.
From the moment when he saw the dignified old German shrink before his
mother's gaze the youth was careful to avoid appearances of curiosity.
If either old man or young girl came into view while he stood at the
rail, above the steerage-deck, he went away, though other passengers,
attracted by the beauty of the girl, and the distinguished look of the
old man, were less considerate and stared, to their distress. When,
later, the young man saw his mother staring as the others did and as
he had, himself, at first, he hesitantly spoke to her about it.
"Nonsense," she replied. "You give them credit for too much fine
feeling. Attention doubtless flatters them. It always does such
people."
That she had lost her first idea that the pair might be entitled to
unusual consideration bothered him; but he feared, because of his
great plan, to make too vehement defense, so only said, with studied
mildness:
"They are not 'such people', I am sure. You yourself, at first, said
they looked 'different.' It's hard luck, I'll bet a hat, and not a
lack of brains, decency or real distinction that's forced them to herd
down there with those cattle. I'll guarantee they know the whole thing
about the little social game in Germany." He watched his mother
closely, to see if the shot told, and was delighted when he saw it
did.
"Yes; he really looks superior," she admitted. "I have no doubt their
German is quite _perfect_. I wonder--perhaps he might, at one time,
have been someone of distinct importance."
"I have no doubt of it. Anyone can see it makes him sore as a mashed
thumb to have his poverty make him into a free side-show to be stared
at on this old canal-boat. I've seen the 'Cookies' rubbering and
making comments that I know he heard. He flushed red as beets and
took his daughter somewhere where their gimlet stare could not bore to
her. Those glass-eyed school-ma'ams actually drove them out of the
fresh air!"
"He seems to make no friends among the steerage passengers, as all the
others do."
"Those swine? They drive him crazy. The girl is constantly annoyed by
men that try to sidle up to her. I've been half expecting the old man
would bat that big Italian who's always talking New York
politics--shoot him with whatever he has always with him in that
queer, oval case, and throw him to the fish."
"I think that is some instrument--some music thing."
"Might be a flute."
"Perhaps he is some really great musician," Mrs. Vanderlyn said,
speculatively. "They go everywhere in Germany. No doors are closed to
them. It wouldn't be at all surprising for a musician to travel as
he's doing. Such people are eccentric, and often so foolishly
improvident. Something about music makes them so. But they worship
them in Germany. They know the very _highest_ people."
Her son grasped at the suggestion. "Funny, isn't it--how crazy all the
lieber-deutchers are when they hear music! Hoch der Kaiser sets the
pace, himself."
"Yes, I know he does," said Mrs. Vanderlyn, a little shocked by his
irreverent way of making reference to Heaven's Chosen. "Poor things!"
Her sympathy was quite aroused, now. She became quite certain that the
steerage couple had highly influential friends abroad. "Would it
please him, do you think, if I should show the daughter some
attention?"
John knew that "some attention" from his mother to the emigrants would
mean a course of open patronage and he didn't wish to have her try
that on with that particular pair. He shook his head. "I don't believe
they'd stand for it," he said. "But if you could do them some real
kindness--a courtesy that wasn't--er--er--patronizing, it--"
He gazed thoughtfully at Mrs. Vanderlyn for a short moment and then
thought better, even, of encouraging her thus much. He loved his
mother dearly but felt certain that she would be sure to wound the
strangers if she did anything whatever for them.
"Perhaps the best thing, after all," he said, "will be to let them,
undisturbed, preserve the incognito which they evidently wish to keep
in their misfortune." He had roused his mother's interest more keenly
than he had thought was possible. He would do no more to rouse it. He
could only hope that it might bear for him the fruit he wished--a
pleasant way of gaining an acquaintance with the lovely girl. He knew
that it was possible it might do otherwise and make a pleasant
meeting harder, even, than it seemed to be at present, but he had had
to take the chance. At any rate he had sufficiently excused himself,
in her eyes, for any reasonable thing he might, himself, do, when the
opportunity occurred, to gain the friendship of the steerage
travelers.
As for himself, he now carefully avoided any appearance of observing
them. In one way or another he watched them a good deal, but he did so
with such care that he was certain they were unaware of it--at least
was certain that the old man did not notice it. He found his heart
athrob with quite unusual speed, when, once or twice, he saw the
girl's big eyes directed toward him, not resentfully. They were, he
thought, the most resplendent eyes which ever had been turned in his
direction, but he did not let her know that he observed her glances.
His interest continually deepened, and the voyage, which he had
thought would be a tiresome trip, became one of the most absorbing
journeys he had ever known. Memories of those eyes were with him, even
when he was beyond the shy range of their timid glances. When, at the
ship's bow, he gazed over at the sporting dolphins or watched the
water curving gracefully from the black prow, they floated in the sea,
alluringly. If he turned his glance above to watch the fleecy clouds
which were the only vapors in the sky upon this ideal crossing, they
shaped themselves into her profile, the azure of the sky lost by
comparison with that which glowed serene from her great eyes. John
Vanderlyn was really dismayed to find that they were everywhere. He
had not been susceptible, as youths go, in the past; now he found
himself enthralled, spellbound by the appeal of this small German girl
who traveled cheaply in the steerage of a slow ship toward America, a
part of a large company of needy aliens seeking a new home in what
they thought the land of promise.
As the voyage neared its end he saw with some dismay that the old man
had managed to make enemies among the emigrants by his aloofness. The
sea was very smooth, these days, and, under smiling skies the
steerage-deck was swarming. The stewardess announced that but one of
all the seasick passengers, a young English girl, was left in the
infirmary; the only other call for the ship's doctor came from a
mother for her tiny babe of two or three months which had been
stricken with some increasing ailment before they had embarked upon
the ship. The emigrants were making merry daily, from early morning
until nine or ten of evenings; there were few moments when from their
part of the ship some crude music was not rising.
Concertinas, mouth-organs, a badly-mastered violin gave forth their
notes from time to time, their harshness softened by the mingling of
the waves' lap on the vessel's sides. Now and then the first-class
passengers looked down with amused curiosity upon rude dances, the
dancers' merriment enhanced by stumbling lurches born of the vessel's
slow, long rollings on the sea's vast, smooth-surfaced swells.
The old man and his daughter never joined in these crude pleasurings
and John found in this a certain comfort which he did not try to
analyze. His mother, also watching now and then, observed it, too, and
felt her interest in them increasing. Two days before the slow old
ship was due to reach New York she had almost made her mind up to
investigate the pair. Should she find that they were worthy, she told
John (that is, should she find they could, in any way, be useful in
her campaign of next summer, which, already, she was planning) she
might try to help them in New York. Her resentment of John's interest
in them had faded. If they were ordinary emigrants he would not see
them after the ship docked, if they were of enough importance to be
useful to her, if they had influential friends abroad, the more he saw
of them the better. Mrs. Vanderlyn was not a mercenary woman. The only
gold she worshiped had been beaten into coronets; of that which had
been minted she had plenty. She did not envy fortunes, though her envy
of position was unbounded.
"You might make a little inquiry," she told her son. "If they should
really have friends among the aristocracy--"
It both amused and angered him. He had imbibed, at a small western
college and in the little taste of business life which he had had in
New York City, a wondrous spirit of democracy which his stay in Europe
had by no means lessened. It was not the man's potential social
usefulness which made appeal to him, it was the soul which he saw
shining, clear and lovely, in his daughter's eyes; it was not the
father's slow, grey dignity which made him wish to help him, it was
the long, pathetic gaze, which, from time to time, he saw him cast
back along the vessel's wake, the lines of patiently-borne sorrow
which had formed about his fine, strong mouth, the stoop of weariness
and woe endured with uncomplaining fortitude which bent his shoulders.
He might be of an artistic worth which made him peer of and received
by kings--of that John Vanderlyn knew nothing and cared less; but that
he was a gentleman of lofty mind and many sorrows patiently endured he
felt quite certain, and, as such, his heart yearned to him. He would
have been delighted if some way had come to help him, but he could not
bring himself to such a curious investigation of his poor affairs as
his mother would have had him make with prying inquiries. It seemed to
him that such a course would be impertinent, and so, whenever she
suggested it, he temporized and hesitated.
As the voyage progressed, too, it was plain enough that others than the
Vanderlyns began to feel, instinctively, the real superiority of the old
man and his daughter. Down on the steerage-deck they were,
involuntarily, given a certain courteous consideration by the
passengers, and even by the stewards--and to impress a steerage-steward
is no ordinary victory. The old man showed a kindly heart, especially to
the many women with small babes among the huddled passengers. Love of
children, plainly, was mighty in his soul and by the hour he sat,
surrounded by a circle of the little ones, to their very great delight
and the relief of the poor mothers who thus obtained the first hours of
freedom from continual care which they had had since the long voyage had
begun.
It was his playing with the children that gave birth to a sensation
which thrilled the ship from end to end. He was trying patiently,
persistently, to amuse a little, ailing tot. It was beginning to seem
certain that she would not last the voyage out. The mother was in
agony as she held the tiny wailing, creature out toward him while he
cooed to it and touched its cheek with tender fingers, trying to
arouse its interest without success. It was as a final effort to amuse
it that he took his flute out of the curious leather case he always
carried.
Just as dusk fell on the vessel he began to play.
At first, the strains were soft and low, for the child's benefit,
alone, scarce audible at any distance. Almost instantly she quieted,
and, as Vanderlyn came up from dinner in the big saloon and glanced
across the rail, as usual, he saw a little group of fascinated folk
there, close about the flute-player, and faintly heard the sweet,
pathetic strains of an old German cradle-song. So soft the sounds
were, though, that he could barely catch them, and, therefore, at
first, he did not wholly realize their beauty.
Soon, though, the old man plainly utterly forgot the fact that there
were other people near than the now quiet child, its mother, his Anna
and himself, for he threw more force into his playing. The
steerage-passengers drew closer in a reverent silence, as the European
peasant always will at sound of really good music, and many of the
first-cabin passengers joined John at the rail, attracted by the sweet
and soaring melody. In a few moments a full score had gathered there,
all listening, intent, enthralled, quite silent.
"Marfellous! He iss a firtuoso!" grumbled a big German at John's side.
John turned to him and smiled. The man, he knew, was Anton Karrosch an
operatic impresario. He was glad to have his own impression of the
wondrous merit of the playing confirmed by an authority.
"He seems to be quite poor," he whispered eagerly. "Perhaps you might
find something for him, when we reach New York. He--"
"Ach! He will have no droobles," said Herr Karrosch. "A man who blays
like dot! Ven ve land, I see him; yes."
A moment later the flute-player glanced up and saw the audience behind
the rail. Instantly he lowered his slim instrument, from whose silver
mountings, now, the moonlight was beginning to glint prettily. He gave
the prosperous folk above but one short glance, apparently a bit
resentful, and then, as if they were of small importance, turned from
them to the mother of the child.
"Does she sleep, still?" John could hear him ask, as he bent above the
infant.
"Si, si," said the grateful mother, understanding what he meant,
although, apparently, she spoke no English.
"Good," said the flute-player, "I stop playing, then." And in spite of
a mild spatter of applause from the first-cabin deck and one or two
requests for more of his delightful music, he rose and went within. It
was clear that his soft courtesies, free performances, were for the
poor folk in the steerage, not for the rich upon the promenade.
Mrs. Vanderlyn was, after this, more than ever anxious to have John
approach the man and make acquaintance with him; but his belief that
such a course would be impertinent was strengthened. What the
impresario had said saddened him a little as he reflected on it. He
had begun to hope that, when they landed (not before), he might be of
service to the pair; but if what Karrosch had said was true, then they
would not need his kindnesses. Almost he had made up his mind, thus
soon, that the shy little German girl was the one woman in the world
for him, so he found it difficult to stop himself from hoping that the
fat manager's predictions would prove false; that the flute-player
might really find difficulty in arranging a career in the United
States; that he, himself, might prove to be essential to the
development of his opportunity.
He felt a little gloomy, when, long after most of the ship's company
had gone to sleep, he sought his stateroom. Fear that he would find it
quite impossible to win his way even to acquaintance, much depressed
him.
But the very day the ship turned into the wide beauty of the Lower
Bay, a situation grew out of the commonplace of life upon the
steerage-deck which sharply and dramatically involved him with the two
who had so interested him.
The steerage passengers were dancing to the music of a concertina,
many of them, more especially the Italians, joining in the merriment
with a gay fervor born of their elation at approach to the rich
mysteries of the new land they sought. Much cheap wine had been
consumed among them, and in some of them this had, already, wrought
its vicious alchemy and changed the gold of sunny tempers into the
dross of ugliness. Among those most affected by the liquor was the man
Moresco, who so continually boasted of the great things he had done in
New York politics and who, since his rebuff by the old German, when he
had tried to induce Anna to drink with him, had eyed the pair askance,
resentfully.
Young Vanderlyn observed that he was oftener and oftener, as he drank
and danced with women of his own race, turning envious and longing
eyes toward the beautiful young German girl, throwing resentful,
scowling glances at her father, who, on that previous occasion, had so
notably rebuffed him. It became quite plain, ere long, that the man
had worked up a great wrath against the flute-player.
"I am Pietro Moresco," he boasted, many times, as if the very name
should awe the world. Then, impressively: "I am no common emigrant.
Not a common emigrant, as all may learn, in time. In New York none are
too proud to dance with me. It is not a land for the aristocrat--the
aristocrat who travels steerage!"
He gazed at the old man fixedly, with that malevolent look of which
none but an Italian really is capable. Vanderlyn saw, also, with
amazement, that there were those among his countrymen--men evidently
knowing him--who were as much impressed by what he said as, evidently,
he believed the whole world ought to be. It almost seemed, indeed,
that these folk took his boastings seriously and thought the old man
and his daughter really had cause to fear the man's reprisals.
The old man paid no heed to him, however. He only drew his daughter
closer to his side. John noted that her cheeks were hotly flushed with
anger, combined, perhaps, with fear, and felt the blood of wrath
flood to his own and out again, leaving them, he knew, quite ghastly
pale. He always flushed, then paled, when he was very angry, and when
that pallor clung, as it did now, dire things inevitably impended. He
was astonished at the strength of cold resentment in his heart toward
the Italian. He did not for an instant hesitate in deciding to protect
the little girl from her tormentor, if need arose, at any hazard. It
did not once occur to him that this was not his work, that the ship's
officers would doubtless maintain order and, themselves, protect her
as a matter of mere discipline on board. Indeed, it seemed to him that
for some reason the Italian received more than ordinary courtesy from
them. As the episode developed, they appeared to edge away, leaving
the swarthy bully wholly undisturbed.
He did not fail to take advantage of this situation, but, after
glancing somewhat cautiously around, followed his declaration of his
own importance and resentment with an angry dive, and, an instant
later, had the girl by the right arm, while his countrymen called
loudly in approval. Another instant and the man was dragging Anna to
the center of the open space where dancing had been going on.
She screamed, her father rose, amazed, resentful, lurching with fierce
but futile rage toward their tormentor as the ship rolled, and the
slight push which the Italian gave him as he advanced upon him, was
all that was required to throw him heavily. Dazed by the fall he lay
there, for a moment, helpless, and by the time he rose the girl,
shrieking with alarm, was being whirled in the Italian's arms in a
crude dance. With a short laugh the man with the accordeon had started
up a faster waltz, and there were dozens who, applauding their bold
leader, looked on with delight.
[Illustration: Almost instantly the Italian bully was sprawling in the
scuppers and Vanderlyn had raised the old man to his feet]
But the single spectator above, behind the promenade-deck rail, did
not look on with delight. He lost no time. He did not even waste ten
seconds in rushing to the little stairway which led downward from his
place of vantage, but, with the wiry hand and arm of the trained
college athlete to help him in the spring, he vaulted lightly clean
across the barrier, and, with legs bent skilfully to break the force
of the long drop, landed like a lithe and angry tiger on the deck
below, within two feet of the utterly amazed and terrified Moresco.
Once there the young American proceeded neatly, rapidly. Almost
instantly the Italian bully was sprawling in the scuppers and
Vanderlyn had raised the old man to his feet. In another moment he had
taken the girl's hand, led her to her father and they were both
trying, in excited German and in English, suffering from the stress of
their emotions, to express their thanks to him.
It was at this moment that they met with one of the greatest surprises
of their lives. With a sharp cry M'riar burst on them. She had been,
as usual, hiding miserably in the narrow entrance to the companion-way
which led down to the steerage sleeping quarters, where, daily, since
she had in part recovered from her fierce attack of seasickness, she
had lurked with furtive eyes and worried heart, squeezing herself
against the bulkhead to give others way as they went up or down,
afraid to let the voyage end without revealing to her friends her
presence, lest they escape to leave her at the mercy of the outraged
law of the new land, of which she heard much gossip; afraid to let
them know that she was there, lest they, in anger at her presence,
refuse to let her join them. But this situation was too much for her.
Seeing her adored ones in distress she could restrain herself no
longer. She sprang out to the open deck and ranged herself, a
veritable little fury, between her friends and the prostrate Italian.
"_Garn! Don't yer dare to tech 'er! Garn! Garn!_" she cried and
poised, tense, vicious, ready to pit her puny strength against his
might if he should rise, vanquish Vanderlyn and try, again, to trouble
Anna and her father.
But members of the ship's crew now rushed up, and, seemingly almost
against their will (Moresco, being in New York City politics, might
control much steerage business for the line), but yielding to the loud
demand of many passengers above, who, attracted by the shouts, had
crowded to the rail, caught the man as, rising, he would have sprung
upon the young American. A moment later and he had been dragged away
and the blushing rescuer of beauty in distress and old age vanquished,
had, stammering in embarrassment before the thanks of his two
beneficiaries, gone back to his own part of the ship. He might have
wholly lost his self-possession had not the vicious glance of the
Italian and a shouted curse come to him while the man was struggling
viciously with his unwilling captors. It cheered him unto laughter to
hear Moresco laying claim to that mysterious importance which he had
so often boasted, and note that he was threatening him with awful
things. Much more interesting he found the small scene he was leaving,
in which two utterly bewildered and astonished Germans and a little
cockney girl were the three actors.
"_M'ri_-arrr! _M'ri_-arrr!" he heard Anna cry in sheer amazement.
"_M'ri_-arrr!"
"Mine Gott im himmel! It is M'ria-arrr!" he heard Kreutzer say.