TOO MUCH EXCITEMENT.
It seemed as if I never would learn that my companion could not bear
sudden surprises, or mysterious hints. Her delicate nature took alarm at
the least departure from the conventional. Before the arrival of the
servant I was tempted to imprint on her pale cheeks the kisses she had
always denied me, but a spark of manliness still left in my composition
prevented.
Her swoon was but momentary. Before the slow bell boy could arrive she
had roused herself and begged me to admit no one, saying she would be
all right again in a few moments. Realizing that I had probably rung
already, she asked me to make some excuse to the servant when he arrived
and not to open the door wide enough for him to see her. When the boy
had come and gone I began my apologies in the most profuse way.
"Do not excuse yourself, I beg," she answered. "I was very foolish. You
speak of being a convalescent, but you will begin to think I am the
invalid. I will try my best not to disturb you again."
She was very sober and though she was able to sit upright I saw that her
strength was returning but slowly. She would not go down to lunch when
the bell rang, and I sent her up a little toast and tea, which she
barely touched. As the evening approached I asked if she felt able to
drive, but she said if I did not mind she would rather I would go alone,
and I complied with her suggestion. On my return two hours later, she
was up and about, with a little of the old color in her face. I
connected her improved state, in a certain way, with information that I
received later from Mr. Armstrong, that Edgerly had left the island on a
steamer bound directly for New York. Her anxiety lest he and I should
come again into collision was thus abated. In fact, I had never seen her
so bright at dinner as she was that day, her appetite good and her
manner actually vivacious.
The next day being Sunday we went to a church not far from the hotel,
where I was struck as before by the devotional bearing of my companion.
Not being an Episcopalian, I have always considered it quite a feat to
know just when to kneel and to rise, to find the place in the prayer
book, to stand and sit at the right places. I watched Miss May
carefully, doing exactly as she did, though, I am afraid, the effort
detracted from the religious effect on my mind. When the affair was over
we walked back to the Marine and went over to the little Park, called
for some unknown reason "Hastings Rocks," the entrance of which is
guarded by a black Cerberus who demands a penny from each visitor. Here
we sat and looked out on the sea, and my mind reverted to Edgerly, now a
hundred miles or so to the north of us.
If Wesson had only accompanied him, I thought, there would be nothing to
disturb the even tenor of my life. Why did he continue to remain at the
hotel?
He could not hope to rob us again; and he must know that the promise I
had given him would not tie my tongue if any other guest of the house
should report that his valuables were missing. Perhaps he was waiting
now for some steamer bound to South America or Colon. I sincerely hoped
that, if this was so, the boat would arrive at an early date.
Monday I rose very early, and in pursuance to an arrangement made the
previous night, took a carriage before breakfast with Miss May. We drove
in our bathing suits and bath robes to a beach about a mile up the road,
where we had a delicious bath in the surf. The sight of her again in
that attire aroused all the masculine forces in me and made me resolve
anew that I would win her for my life mate if there was any possibility
of so doing. A more exquisite shape it has never been my fortune to
meet, and I must confess I am not exactly an amateur at that business.
She seemed wholly oblivious of the effect her charms created, but
declared with bright eyes that there was no pleasure in the world half
as great as bathing in salt water of that temperature.
After breakfast the typewriting machine was put in use again and that
day, urged on by Miss May's statement that she was just in the trim for
work, we accomplished what are catalogued as the fifth, sixth and
seventh chapters of the book you are reading.
Marjorie was plainly interested to a high degree now in every word that
I gave her to write. The tale of the excited night I passed after first
meeting her, my half-formed resolves to give up the plan of taking a
companion on my voyage, the celerity with which I changed my mind the
following morning, upon awakening, the reception of the next letter she
sent me, with my comments thereon, kept her as entertained as if the
story had indeed been fiction. She laughed a little when I admitted
starting the letter in reply beginning "My Darling, I cannot breathe
until once more I am in your loved presence," and paused to remark that
she had never known a man so excitable and uncontrollable. My meeting
with Statia on Broadway seemed to affect her strongly. All her
sympathies were evidently with that young lady, for she shook her head
and uttered several sighs as I told how we parted after her withdrawal
of the invitation to call at her house.
Then came the chapter in which my amanuensis had said at last, "I am
going, of course," with the stipulations she had made, her cheeks
blushing, as to the conduct she would demand from me. Marjorie smiled
again at the letter I wrote to Alice Brazier, in which I tried to
describe my "secretary," and the dream I had that night, but she grew as
sober as possible when I read the second letter from Miss Brazier,
adjuring me to treat my fellow voyager with courtesy and honor. The
solemn resolutions I made to comply with this request pleased her, as
did the story of Tom Barton's visit to my rooms and his plan for a
_modus vivendi_ between Statia and me. Then she had to copy, at my
dictation, her own long letter explaining why, if she was to travel as
my relation, more money than I had given her would be required.
At the end she commented aloud on what she called the mercenary tone of
that note.
"You had a good many doubts of me, first and last," she added.
"First only," I reply, "not last. I'd like to know what could make me
doubt you now."
The chapter ended (the ninth chapter) with the sentence before the one
that now closes it and Miss May rose from her long task with a sigh of
relief.
Tuesday, both of us being still in excellent trim, the dictation was
resumed. That day she finished the tenth, eleventh and twelfth chapters,
smiling at the right places and looking pensive when there was occasion.
Once she interpolated, "I like that Tom Barton--he is made of true
metal," which naturally pleased me. The nervous wait I had at her rooms
made her shake her head in a way that meant much, and the excessive joy
with which I greeted her when she did come sobered her considerably.
"Have you not drawn the long bow a little here?" she asked, pausing.
"You need not think it necessary to stretch your sensations just because
the object of them happens to be their recorder."
"If anything I have understated them," I replied, "Language is wholly
inadequate to describe the constant anxiety I felt till you were
actually on board the Madiana. But proceed. If I get on that strain I
shall never be able to finish."
My account of our shopping, with our subsequent visit to the restaurant,
made her remark that I was a close observer. She said there was not a
thought in her head that I had not photographed.
"Who but a born novelist," she said, "would have deemed it worth while
to tell that I objected to having the door of our little dining-room
locked?"
"It is merely to show the reader another proof of your excessively
proper conduct," I replied, "and give him an opportunity to appreciate
your true character."
"You have mistaken your vocation, after all," she said. "You would make
a splendid detective. Not even the smallest thing escapes you. You make
me think of a hunter on a trail. A broken twig, a nearly indiscernible
print on the moss, a leaf brushed aside, show you where the creature has
passed."
"The only wild creatures I have ever hunted were 'dears,'" I answered,
laughing. "Don't you think such earnestness in the chase deserves its
full reward?"
"The reward is all very well for the hunter," she said, solemnly, "but
for the deer there is only the bullet and the knife."
She had cornered me there. Instead of trying to straighten out the
muddle I went on with my work. Miss May was plainly affected when I told
of the remorse I had felt for my ill-spent life, after reading the note
she had left on the typewriting machine at her first visit to my rooms.
The concluding paragraph of the tenth chapter, as it now appears, had
not been written then.
Wednesday we did but one chapter--the eleventh. I noticed that my
companion appeared fatigued when it was finished and I refused to let
her continue. She was intensely surprised when I identified Miss Howes.
I detected a repellant shrug of the shoulders as she realized the kind
of woman who had occupied the stateroom with her during her voyage from
New York to St. Thomas. She showed great interest when I described my
fellow passengers at table, and grew white when I came to the point of
the larceny of her earrings. Fearing that I would excite some
unpleasant memory I made no comment whatever on the occurrence beyond
what was in the MS. she was writing.
She wanted very much to continue her work, but I would not listen. She
was too evidently ill. There is a limit to what even the best natured
amanuensis can perform with impunity.
When we went on, the next day, I tried to give out my dictation in a
slower manner, to conserve Marjorie's force, but it was a difficult
thing to do. Her speed was naturally great and I had got into the habit
of speaking in much my ordinary manner. She told me twenty times that I
might dictate more rapidly, and her fingers flew over the keys at a
speed that astonished me. All she would consent to do was to let me
order a glass of wine, from which she sipped occasionally. She declared
that my "novel" was so diverting that she was anxious to get as far
along as possible.
The description of my games of cards with Edgerly caused her to have
frequent recourse to the wine, but the meeting with Eggert and his
family came to relieve the strain. She grew uneasy again when I told of
sitting by her bed and bathing her forehead; and reddened like a peony
when I remarked how lovely she appeared in her bathing costume that
morning we took our first bath on the beach of the Quarantine Station.
"Must you put in such things as that?" she asked, pleadingly. "I think
it spoils what was getting to be a very entertaining story."
"I can leave out nothing," I answered. "Really, Marjorie, you cannot
conceive how rapturously beautiful--"
She shivered as if a cold wind had blown on her.
"Are you dictating?" she asked. "I think we had best keep to the text."
"Then do not attempt to go outside your path and province," I said.
"Once more, this is my story, not yours, remember. Here is something
that will interest you."
I gave her the concluding paragraph of that chapter--the one recording
the sudden and unexpected appearance of Mr. Wesson.
She went on very quietly after that, though the frequent allusions to my
growing affection disturbed her visibly.
Every evening after our work we went for a drive. On most of these
occasions we met somewhere on the road a blue-eyed man and a brown-eyed
woman, riding in a cart, drawn by two horses, hitched tandem. I often
wonder what has become of them; whether they have decided to go through
the world tandem--one in front of the other--or side by side, as I used
to see them there. Sometimes they rode bicycles, which they handled
equally well. When the darkness settled their lamps were lit, according
to the local laws, and the lanterns looked like fireflies as they spun
along the hard roads. Perhaps that is what Froude saw which made him say
in his book that there are fireflies in Barbados--who can tell? The
woman was rather handsome, with a well rounded form, and a mouth made
for kisses, though she assured me once that none had ever rested there.
If true, it is a sad case of luscious fruit going to waste on a tree
well worth climbing.
With the exception of the following Sunday we worked every day. Miss May
was getting more and more used to hearing her every act recorded and
made few interruptions. I warned her when I came to the episode of the
book on criminology and she steadied her nerves and went through it like
a heroine. She did demur a little--hesitating and flashing an appealing
look at me--when I came to her admission that she wanted to kiss me
quite as much as I wished her to do so, and she breathed heavily when I
told what had caused me to decide that, even if permitted, I must refuse
the boon. When I reached the place where I had to admit reading the
letter she wrote to her friend Helen she stopped short and we looked for
some seconds at each other.
"That is the only really dishonorable thing I have known of you," she
said, reproachfully.
"I do not defend it," was my reply; "but I would not give up the
happiness it caused me for all the world."
"You surely cannot remember that letter, word for word!"
"I believe I can give it literally."
"If you have any doubt, I will get the original for you," she said.
"When I came to read it over I thought it wiser not to send it. I wrote
another in its stead and kept the one you saw--as a warning for the
future."
She arose, went to her bedroom, procured the letter, and brought it to
me.
"But it came from your heart, my love," I said, bending toward her.
"That is what gives it value. And all this time you have been pretending
that my slightest sentiment of affection must be repelled. Have you
forgotten our compact, dear one? We were only to lie to outsiders, never
to each other. Marjorie, once more, listen to me. I love you! I want you
for my wife. Here, with this confession before us, need we go on longer
without a definite understanding? Why not say that little word that will
make me the happiest man who breathes?"
I had not uttered all this without many attempts on her part to stop the
flow of words. When I finished she turned her chair directly toward me
and spoke with firmness, though her face was as white as I had ever seen
it.
"Mr. Camran, you are taking an unfair advantage. Having violated the
privacy of my room and read the letter I wrote to an intimate friend,
you now seek to make that act the basis for renewing a suit I have told
you more than once cannot succeed. Ah, no! There are reasons stronger
than I care to make known why I cannot be your wife. I beg you do not
give me the pain of compelling me to say this again. I will repeat, if
you desire, the words I wrote to my friend: 'It is all I can do to
prevent myself falling head over ears in love with this man.'
"Yes," she continued, "that was true--that is true. It is all I can do;
but I can do it, I have done it, I shall continue to do it! Mr. Camran,
I esteem you beyond the power of language to express. Your kindness,
your consideration, your generosity have affected me wonderfully. Some
day you will know to what extent. But there can be no relation between
us nearer than the one we now occupy. Never, never, never!"
She had covered every point, but like suitors the world over I would not
believe her.
"Answer me a few questions," I said. "Yes, in justice to my proposal,
which I cannot but feel does honor to both of us. Do you mean to say
that your final declination of my offer is based on the fact that I read
your private correspondence?"
"No, it would have been the same without that," she answered. "Let me
add that I forgive you freely for what you did in that respect."
"Is it because--I want to understand perfectly--you think it
dishonorable to wed a man richer than you, whose acquaintance you made
in an unusual way?"
She shook her head in negation.
"Is there, then, anything that you have heard, or suspect, against my
reputation?"
Again she shook her head decidedly.
I took up her letter and read:
If I were of his social grade--if I could have retained the position
in which I was born, he would be my ideal. Such thoughts, alas! are
not for your poor friend, Marjorie.
"Those words mean something," I said, earnestly.
Tears came into her eyes.
"Mr. Camran, do you think it is fair to press me like this?" she asked,
with a sob.
"There is an adage," I replied, "that all is fair in love. To give you
up means to shatter my existence. I have been a reckless boy. With you
as my wife I would make a worthy man--worthy of you, of myself, of the
noble line from which I sprung. I fear, and I say it deliberately, that
if I lose you I shall sink again into the depths from which I have
escaped."
"All that," she said, gently, "you said when your friend Statia gave you
the same answer I am compelled to give now."
"It is jealousy!" I exclaimed, excitedly. "You are angry because I asked
her, before I had even seen you! Very well. But, understand what you are
doing! I cannot go through the agony I suffered a year ago."
She sprang up, as if to ward off an impending danger, and came so near
that her face was within six inches of mine.
I looked her squarely in the eyes.
"You cannot fascinate me in that way!" I cried, bitterly. "You have
ruined a man who has taken you from poverty and given you for two
months, at least, the life of a lady. Don't put your hands on me!" as
she attempted to touch my shoulder. "I have finished with you. Take the
advance payment you have had and go to your home, if you have one. But,
remember, by your own agreement, the clothes in which you stand belong
to me. Take them off before you leave this room, give them up, or I will
strip them from you by force!"
I do not know that I am quoting my exact words, but I am sure this was
the sentiment that, in my rage, I expressed. At the moment I hated the
woman more than I had loved her a few minutes before.
"You shall have them, every one," answered Miss May, without the least
trace of excitement. "I will go immediately to the village and buy just
enough articles of dress to make me fit to take passage to America. All
I had from you shall be packed in the trunks you bought and left
behind."
"And the jewelry," I added, still blind with my disappointment, for she
had received and was wearing it again. "Take those rings from your
hands, those diamonds from your ears. They are mine, remember. That was
our agreement. I broke into Wesson's trunk and reclaimed them. They are
mine!"
At the mention of Wesson she paled even more than before, but complied
with my request, laying the articles on the table before me, one by one.
"Good-by," she said, softly, going toward the door that led to her
chamber.
Like an avalanche the horror of what I was doing swept over me. I rose,
clutched wildly at the air, and fell, not unconscious, but with a
deathly nausea. The next moment a woman's form was kneeling by my side
and my head was raised to the support of a woman's arm.
"Forgive me--oh! forgive me!" was murmured convulsively in my ear.