ONCE THERE WAS A CHILD.
The meal that we ordered was well cooked and well served, and being
provided with that best of all sauces, hunger, I did it full justice.
Our conversation seemed, however, rather dull, and there was not that
flow of spirits that I expected when we entered the place. Miss May
seemed absorbed in thought, though she declared, when I rallied her on
the point, that she was not down hearted, but very happy to be there.
Occasionally when footsteps were heard in the corridor she started
nervously, which led me to suppose that she feared intrusion. I
thereupon remarked that while it was against the rules to bolt the door
of the room, I believed a good-sized tip would secure the privilege; to
which she replied, with a vehemence I could not understand, that she
would not hear of such a thing.
One might imagine she suspected me of an intention to murder her, so
earnest was her protest.
"Oh, I would much rather leave it unlocked," I said. "I was only trying
to please you."
She made no answer, and I found my spirits, always mercurial, beginning
to sink a little. Noticing my dejection, she came to my rescue and soon
had me all right again. We talked of the journey, she asking many
particulars of my former visit to the Caribbean Islands. She had never
been at sea for more than a few hours and wondered if she was liable to
that malady so much to be dreaded, seasickness. I assured her it was not
nearly as bad as it was painted and told of my own slight experiences in
that line, years before.
My companion ate and drank sparingly. She declined my proposal to order
champagne, and mixed her claret and apollinaris like a veritable tyro in
restaurant dining. This rather pleased me, on the lookout as I was for
indications that she might be other than she seemed. She had every mark
of the true lady, and I was well prepared to believe it, when I learned,
some days later, of the station in which she had been born and in which
her childhood was passed.
"I have been thinking," she remarked, after one of her long pauses;
"would it not be best for me, to take your family name? I wish, above
all things, to avoid suspicion."
"I fear we are a little too late for that," I replied. "I was obliged to
give your name to the agent and he has already placed it on the
passenger list."
"Will that list get into the newspapers?" she asked, nervously.
"I presume so."
"Then you must manage to have my name changed, at all hazards. My old
employer would use every means to annoy me if he discovered where I am
going."
"It is only recorded as 'Miss M. May,'" I said. "Surely there is more
than one person of that name in the world."
She shook her head and bit her lips in distress.
"It must be changed," she repeated. "It will not do to give him the
slightest clue. He imagines himself 'in love'--Heaven help me!--and I
dare not risk it. Any name you like, but my own."
"What can he do?" I inquired. "You don't think I would let him annoy
you, when you were under my protection."
"He can do many things. No, there is no way but to alter the name. Tell
the agent the lady you expected is not going--that she has been taken
ill--and that another is to fill her place. Do not argue, do not
hesitate, or I shall be compelled, even now, to give up the journey. And
that," she added, seeing my sober face, "you know well I would not like
to do."
This was enough to settle the matter and I said I would give the agent
in the morning any name she desired.
"I would like it the same as your own," she said, thoughtfully. "It
might save infinite trouble. Just record me as Miss M. Camwell. Is there
any reason against that?"
Yes, there was one and it occurred to me. The name, which I had decided
to use, was so near my own that Uncle Dugald would be likely to see it,
not to say anything about Hume, Tom Barton and Statia. They might lay
the twisting of Donald Camran into "David Camwell" to the carelessness
of copyist and printer, but their suspicions would certainly be aroused
if they saw next to my name that of a "Miss" Camwell.
"I will change your name in some way," I answered, after a long pause,
"but I see dangers in the plan you propose, nearly as great as in the
present one."
I then gave her an inkling of my fears, saying I did not wish any sharp
friend to guess what I was doing, which was possible with two such
uncommon names in just a position on an alphabetical list.
She did not seem satisfied, but raised no objection when I asked her if
I might call her Miss M. Carney, which I thereupon decided to do.
It was rather dull, take it altogether, the dinner, but when we were
again in a cab and rolling toward Forty-fifth Street, Miss May
brightened, like the close of a cloudy day, just before the sun sinks
into the obscurity of the western sky. She put one of her hands on mine,
quite as if the act was a wholly thoughtless one, but it sufficed to
cheer me up. She even volunteered a prophesy that we would be good
friends and contented fellow voyagers.
Before we reached her door she asked me at what hour I would call on the
morrow, quite as if anxious to see me. After a little debate I decided
upon three in the afternoon. That would give her the entire morning with
her dressmaker, for necessary alterations in the garments she had
purchased.
She did not seem to notice particularly when I raised the gloved hand I
held and pressed it to my lips at parting. It was an act that any lady
might pardon, and she probably thought nothing of it.
"To-morrow, then, at three," she said, smiling at me from the curbstone.
"Yes. Don't keep me waiting," I answered, remembering the morning.
"I will try not to; these dressmakers are so unreliable, though.
You--you wouldn't rather I would come to your rooms? Perhaps there is
another of those rules we have been running across, against it. If there
is none, and you prefer--"
I said I approved of the idea highly and that I was at liberty to invite
to my apartment any person I pleased.
"You spoke of a machine that I have never used," said Miss May,
tentatively. "If you have one there, as a sort of excuse--"
"I have one," said I. "Although it won't be needed for that purpose. You
remember the number, -- West Thirty-fourth."
She nodded and spoke to my driver, repeating it to him. Then with
another of her bright smiles she waved me good-by and ascended the
steps, while I was driven away.
"Henry," I was saying ten minutes after, to the hall boy, "I expect a
young lady to-morrow, between three and four, who will ask for Mr.
Camwell."
"There isn't any Mr. Camwell in the house, sir," said the boy.
"There will be at that hour. He will be in my rooms. You may not see him
enter and you may not see him leave, but he will be here. All you have
to do is to say 'Yes, ma'am,' to the lady and bring her to my door."
"I understand," said Henry, with a wholly superfluous grin, that showed
how little common sense the average hall-boy possesses.
"No, you don't understand anything," I responded, snappishly. "Do as I
order and you'll lose nothing. Make the least mistake and I will see
that you get your notice."
He responded meekly that he would be careful and then handed me a
letter, which I saw was from Miss Brazier. He also said that Mr. Barton
had called and expressed surprise when he heard that I had left no word
for him.
Poor Tom! It came to my recollection all at once that I had promised to
spend the evening at his house, or send him a note if unable to do so.
Well, I would write him an apology before I went to sleep.
This is what Miss Brazier said:
Dear Mr. Camwell:--I wish I could understand you, but the riddle
grows harder and harder. Sometimes you seem a combination of Don
Quixote, Mephistopheles and Hector Greyburn. At one moment I believe
you the greatest wretch alive; at the next I ascribe your sentiments
to the buoyancy of youth and convince myself that you are at heart
an honorable man.
As to dining with you, I must deny myself that pleasure. I do not
believe you would "bite" me, nor am I afraid your levity would turn
my head. I can merely say that dining with a stranger is not in
accord with my habits and that I see no sufficient reason to make
your case an exception. I would be glad to see your "Marjorie,"
though, were that feasible, but this also I must forego.
Now, as a last word--for my correspondence may weary you--remember
that true happiness in this life does not consist in the mere
gratification of every passing whim, and that the path you have
before you may contain thorns as well as roses. If you return to
America with your conscience void of offence toward God and your
companion you will have accomplished something of which you may
well be proud.
Won't you write me just a line when you are again at home, to say
that my petition has been answered.
Your True Friend,
A.B.
Jan. 2, 1898.
Sobered more than I could account for by reading this letter, I sat for
a long time in silence. Then, after writing a brief note to Tom,
excusing my neglect, I sought my pillow, or in plain English, went to
bed.
My first act in the morning after coffee was to go to Cook's and alter
the name of May to that of Carney, as well as change my own to "David
Camwell," for which I gave a satisfactory reason to the clerk. He told
me that he could omit both names from the list sent to the newspapers,
if I desired, and I decided that this was, on the whole, the better way.
On leaving I had an idea that pleased me, no less than to visit
Tiffany's and purchase a little jewelry for Marjorie. It would be
pleasant to see her eyes light up as I put it into her hand.
Taking a Broadway car, I soon reached the shop I sought, and emerged a
few minutes later with a pair of diamond eardrops, a ring of turquoise
and small diamonds, and another of chased gold without a stone. Each was
enclosed in a tasty case. I was much pleased that the selection had been
made so easily.
Miss May arrived at my room nearly on time, with a fine color in her
cheeks, due to the fact that she had walked some distance. She was
undeniably good-looking and my heart warmed as I thought of the long
companionship we were to have together. She was a little tired, she
said, from standing for the dressmaker's measurer, and dropped into my
largest chair with a very fetching air of fatigue. As soon as I could
without seeming in haste I produced the case containing the turquoise
ring and presented it for her inspection.
"I took the liberty," I remarked, "of buying this, to fill the vacant
place on one of your fingers. If it does not fit, you can take it back
for alteration; or if it does not please you Tiffany will exchange it."
She took it out languidly and found that it fitted very well. She was
not as delighted as I had supposed she would be, but her tired feeling
probably accounted for that.
"It is very pretty," she said, "and you are very kind."
Then I opened the case containing the plain ring and she found a
suitable position for that also. When I showed her the eardrops she grew
more interested and on trying them on declared them "perfectly sweet."
"I used to have some very like them," she said, with a sigh, "but that
was long ago. How very good you are. Are you not tired of the expense I
cause you?"
I assured her that I was not, in the least.
"I do not own a piece of jewelry in the world," she added, "except a
wedding ring, that belonged to my mother."
"And these," I corrected her by saying.
"No. These are not mine. They are merely part of the make-up for the
rôle I am to play. You shall have them all back again when the curtain
is rung down."
She took out her purse, and drew forth the ring of which she had spoken.
Placing it on her wedding finger she held it out to me.
"Don't I look quite like a married woman?" she asked, smilingly.
"Quite," I assented, "and a very sweet bride you make, too."
"Have you the typewriting machine here?" she asked, ignoring my
compliment. "I wish to see what it is like."
I put the machine on a table, arranging it for her inspection. It was an
original Hammond, which I prefer to the universal keyboard. She drew up
a chair and listened intently while I explained its workings, showing
how the capitals and figures are produced with the same set of keys as
the lower case letters. I showed the working of the ribbon, the
arrangement of the alarm bell and all the other points needed by one who
had never operated that style. When I had finished and inserted a sheet
of paper she began carefully to write a sentence, encouraged
occasionally by my guidance when the unfamiliar location of the keys
caused her to pause.
"I shall be able to use it as rapidly as the Remington, in a week," she
said, when she finished the sheet. "It is not nearly as hard as I
imagined."
She left the table and resumed her seat in the chair, where we fell into
a conversation that lasted several hours. She counted with me the days
that remained and was glad they were so few. She said she could think of
nothing more that she needed before starting: yes, the jewelry was
quite sufficient. She put back each piece in the case it had come in,
asking me to keep them till we were ready to go.
"You are sure you will not be sorry for what you are doing?" she asked,
after a time.
"How can I, if you enjoy the journey?" was my reply.
She shrugged her shoulders prettily and said it was time to leave. She
declined with many thanks an invitation to dine with me again, making a
light excuse, and with a friendly grasp of the hand took her departure.
It had been agreed that she would call for a short time each afternoon
that remained.
When I had become chilled at the vacancy her absence made in the room I
went over to the table and looked at what she had written on the
machine. It was a pleasure even to see the lines her fair hands had
made, and I withdrew the sheet she had covered as if it were something
sacred. Glancing over it I noted to my surprise, that the lines had not
been written with accidental meaning--that it contained a message for my
eyes and heart. There were naturally slight errors caused by the
writer's unfamiliarity with the instrument, but no ambiguity of any
kind. And this is what the message said to me:
* * * * *
Once there was a child, who had been reared in comfort, almost in
luxury, in the fairest part of the fair State of Maryland. At the age of
sixteen a cruel fate deprived her of both parents. The guardian to whom
her small means were intrusted proved false and in another year she was
left to face poverty alone.
Almost stunned by her misfortunes, this child found it necessary to
provide herself with some means of subsistence, for even sorrow must
have bread. She learned the art of stenography and typewriting; and
after attaining sufficient speed in these branches went to a large city
and sought a situation. Luckily she found one, though for a long time
the pay was very small and she could no more than support life in the
poorest manner.
Later a place was offered her with a largely increased stipend, and the
cloud seemed about to lift a little. But her new employer soon unmasked
his soul and disclosed himself a wretch. The girl could hardly breathe
in his presence, but she resolved to endure his attentions as long as
they were bearable, hoping for relief from some unknown source.
When the purpose of her employer became all too plain, and she was on
the point of despair; when advertisement after advertisement had been
answered and nothing secured; when she had advertised, herself, and
found by the replies received that the majority of the situations
promised nothing better than the one she was unable to endure--there
came a ray of light.
A gentleman, or what seemed to be one, sought an interview in reference
to a most novel proposition. He wanted her to accompany him, alone, on a
long journey; announced his willingness to provide her with an outfit
suitable for a member of his family, which she was to profess to be; and
assured her that behind this offer there was lurking no sinister design
such as she at first suspected.
Her situation had grown desperate. Slowly she came to the decision to
trust this man. She grew to believe that there might be one who could
give these things with an honest mind and a pure purpose.
She accepted the situation, if such it might be called; purchased the
necessary clothing; donned the jewelry he provided; gave her trust into
his hands, and sailed with him on the ship he selected.
He was only twenty-four years of age, she but twenty-two. She had not
concealed from him that she was poor and nearly friendless. He was rich
and what is called a man of the world.
What will happen to the girl on that journey?
* * * * *
There can be but two possibilities. Either the man will prove the kind
friend he has represented and they will return able to look the world in
the face without a blush--that is one of them. Or somewhere beneath the
blue waters of the Caribbean Sea the fishes will gnaw the flesh of a
woman who is drowned--that is the other. Let neither delude themselves,
when the hour of temptation comes. There is no possibility outside these
two.
* * * * *
I rose and paced the floor in remorse for my ill-spent life, in sympathy
for the unhappy creature whose fears clouded the pleasure I meant to
share with her.
If there had been, away down in the lowest depths of my wild nature, the
slightest thought of wrong to Marjorie May, it was crushed out of sight
by that pathetic appeal.
Crushed out of sight, yes! But there are seeds that put forth life with
the dust of years piled above them.