In the early morning of the fifth day out, George Morris paced the deck
alone.
“Shop-girl or not,” he had said to himself, “Miss Katherine Earle is
much more of a lady than the other ever was.” But as he paced the deck,
and as Miss Earle did not appear, he began to wonder more and more what
had been said to her in the long talk of yesterday forenoon. Meanwhile
Miss Earle sat in her own state-room thinking over the same subject.
Blanche had sweetly asked her for permission to sit down beside her.
“I know no ladies on board,” she said, “and I think I have met you
before.”
“Yes,” answered Miss Earle, “I think we have met before.”
“How good of you to have remembered me,” said Blanche, kindly.
“I think,” replied Miss Earle, “that it is more remarkable that you
should remember me than that I should remember you. Ladies very rarely
notice the shop-girls who wait upon them.”
“You seemed so superior to your station,” said Blanche, “that I could
not help remembering you, and could not help thinking what a pity it
was you had to be there.”
“I do not think that there is anything either superior or inferior
about the station. It is quite as honourable, or dishonourable, which
ever it may be, as any other branch of business. I cannot see, for
instance, why my station, selling ribbons at retail, should be any more
dishonourable than the station of the head of the firm, who merely does
on a very large scale what I was trying to do for him on a very limited
scale.”
“Still,” said Blanche, with a yawn, “people do not all look upon it in
exactly that light.”
“Hardly any two persons look on any one thing in the same light. I hope
you have enjoyed your voyage so far?”
“I have not enjoyed it very much,” replied the young lady with a sigh.
“I am sorry to hear that. I presume your father has been ill most of
the way?”
“My father?” cried the other, looking at her questioner.
“Yes, I did not see him at the table since the first day.”
“Oh, he has had to keep his room almost since we left. He is a very
poor sailor.”
“Then that must make your voyage rather unpleasant?”
The blonde young lady made no reply, but, taking up the book which Miss
Earle was reading, said, “You don’t find Mr. Morris much of a reader, I
presume? He used not to be.”
“I know very little about Mr. Morris,” said Miss Earle, freezingly.
“Why, you knew him before you came on board, did you not?” questioned
the other, raising her eyebrows.
“No, I did not.”
“You certainly know he is junior partner in the establishment where you
work?”
“I know that, yes, but I had never spoken to him before I met him on
board this steamer.”
“Is that possible? Might I ask you if there is any probability of your
becoming interested in Mr. Morris?”
“Interested! What do you mean?”
“Oh, you know well enough what I mean. We girls do not need to be
humbugs with each other, whatever we may be before the men. When a
young woman meets a young man in the early morning, and has coffee with
him, and when she reads to him, and tries to cultivate his literary
tastes, whatever they may be, she certainly shows some interest in the
young man, don’t you think so?”
Miss Earle looked for a moment indignantly at her questioner. “I do not
recognise your right,” she said, “to ask me such a question.”
“No? Then let me tell you that I have every right to ask it. I assure
you that I have thought over the matter deeply before I spoke. It
seemed to me there was one chance in a thousand—only one chance in a
thousand, remember—that you were acting honestly, and on that one
chance I took the liberty of speaking to you. The right I have to ask
such a question is this—Mr. George Morris has been engaged to me for
several years.”
“Engaged to _you_?”
“Yes. If you don’t believe it, ask him.”
“It is the very last question in the world I would ask anybody.”
“Well, then, you will have to take my word for it. I hope you are not
very shocked, Miss Earle, to hear what I have had to tell you.”
“Shocked? Oh dear, no. Why should I be? It is really a matter of no
interest to me, I assure you.”
“Well, I am very glad to hear you say so. I did not know but you might
have become more interested in Mr. Morris than you would care to own. I
think myself that he is quite a fascinating young gentleman; but I
thought it only just to you that you should know exactly how matters
stood.”
“I am sure I am very much obliged to you.”
This much of the conversation Miss Earle had thought over in her own
room that morning. “Did it make a difference to her or not?” that was
the question she was asking herself. The information had certainly
affected her opinion of Mr. Morris, and she smiled to herself rather
bitterly as she thought of his claiming to be so exceedingly truthful.
Miss Earle did not, however, go up on deck until the breakfast gong had
rung.
“Good morning,” said Morris, as he took his place at the little table.
“I was like the boy on the burning deck this morning, when all but he
had fled. I was very much disappointed that you did not come up, and
have your usual cup of coffee.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” said Miss Earle; “if I had known I was
disappointing anybody I should have been here.”
“Miss Katherine,” he said, “you are a humbug. You knew very well that I
would be disappointed if you did not come.”
The young lady looked up at him, and for a moment she thought of
telling him that her name was Miss Earle, but for some reason she did
not do so.
“I want you to promise now,” he continued, “that to-morrow morning you
will be on deck as usual.”
“Has it become a usual thing, then?”
“Well, that’s what I am trying to make it,” he answered. “Will you
promise?”
“Yes, I promise.”
“Very well, then, I look on that as settled. Now, about to-day. What
are you going to do with yourself after breakfast?”
“Oh, the usual thing, I suppose. I shall sit in my steamer chair and
read an interesting book.”
“And what is the interesting book for to-day?”
“It is a little volume by Henry James, entitled _The Siege of London._”
“Why, I never knew that London had been besieged. When did that
happen?”
“Well, I haven’t got very far in the book yet, but it seems to have
happened quite recently, within a year or two, I think. It is one of
the latest of Mr. James’s short stories. I have not read it yet.”
“Ah, then the siege is not historical?”
“Not historical further than Mr. James is the historian.”
“Now, Miss Earle, are you good at reading out loud?”
“No, I am not.”
“Why, how decisively you say that. I couldn’t answer like that, because
I don’t know whether I am or not. I have never tried any of it. But if
you will allow me, I will read that book out to you. I should like to
have the good points indicated to me, and also the defects.”
“There are not likely to be many defects,” said the young lady. “Mr.
James is a very correct writer. But I do not care either to read aloud
or have a book read to me. Besides, we disturb the conversation or the
reading of any one else who happens to sit near us. I prefer to enjoy a
book by reading it myself.”
“Ah, I see you are resolved cruelly to shut me out of all participation
in your enjoyment.”
“Oh, not at all. I shall be very happy to discuss the book with you
afterwards. You should read it for yourself. Then, when you have done
so, we might have a talk on its merits or demerits, if you think, after
you have read it, that it has any.”
“Any what? merits or demerits?”
“Well, any either.”
“No; I will tell you a better plan than that. I am not going to waste
my time reading it.”
“Waste, indeed!”
“Certainly waste. Not when I have a much better plan of finding out
what is in the book. I am going to get you to tell me the story after
you have read it.”
“Oh, indeed, and suppose I refuse?”
“Will you?”
“Well, I don’t know. I only said suppose.”
“Then I shall spend the rest of the voyage trying to persuade you.”
“I am not very easily persuaded, Mr. Morris.”
“I believe that,” said the young man. “I presume I may sit beside you
while you are reading your book?”
“You certainly may, if you wish to. The deck is not mine, only that
portion of it, I suppose, which I occupy with the steamer chair. I have
no authority over any of the rest.”
“Now, is that a refusal or an acceptance?”
“It is which ever you choose to think.”
“Well, if it is a refusal, it is probably softening down the _No_, but
if it is an acceptance it is rather an ungracious one, it seems to me.”
“Well, then, I shall be frank with you. I am very much interested in
this book. I should a great deal rather read it than talk to you.”
“Oh, thank you, Miss Earle. There can be no possible doubt about your
meaning now.”
“Well, I am glad of that, Mr. Morris. I am always pleased to think that
I can speak in such a way as not to be misunderstood.”
“I don’t see any possible way of misunderstanding that. I wish I did.”
“And then, after lunch,” said the young lady, “I think I shall finish
the book before that time;—if you care to sit beside me or to walk the
deck with me, I shall be very glad to tell you the story.”
“Now, that is perfectly delightful,” cried the young man. “You throw a
person down into the depths, so that he will appreciate all the more
being brought up into the light again.”
“Oh, not at all. I have no such dramatic ideas in speaking frankly with
you. I merely mean that this forenoon I wish to have to myself, because
I am interested in my book. At the end of the forenoon I shall probably
be tired of my book and will prefer a talk with you. I don’t see why
you should think it odd that a person should say exactly what a person
means.”
“And then I suppose in the evening you will be tired of talking with
me, and will want to take up your book again.”
“Possibly.”
“And if you are, you won’t hesitate a moment about saying so?”
“Certainly not.”
“Well, you are a decidedly frank young lady, Miss Earle; and, after
all, I don’t know but what I like that sort of thing best. I think if
all the world were honest we would all have a better time of it here.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Yes, I do.”
“You believe in honesty, then?”
“Why, certainly. Have you seen anything in my conduct or bearing that
would induce you to think that I did not believe in honesty?”
“No, I can’t say I have. Still, honesty is such a rare quality that a
person naturally is surprised when one comes unexpectedly upon it.”
George Morris found the forenoon rather tedious and lonesome. He sat in
the smoking room, and once or twice he ventured near where Miss Earle
sat engrossed in her book, in the hope that the volume might have been
put aside for the time, and that he would have some excuse for sitting
down and talking with her. Once as he passed she looked up with a
bright smile and nodded to him.
“Nearly through?” he asked dolefully.
“Of _The Siege of London_?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Oh, I am through that long ago, and have begun another story.”
“Now, that is not according to contract,” claimed Morris. “The contract
was that when you got through with _The Siege of London_ you were to
let me talk with you, and that you were to tell me the story.”
“That was not my interpretation of it. Our bargain, as I understood it,
was that I was to have this forenoon to myself, and that I was to use
the forenoon for reading. I believe my engagement with you began in the
afternoon.”
“I wish it did,” said the young man, with a wistful look.
“You wish what?” she said, glancing up at him sharply.
He blushed as he bent over towards her and whispered, “That our
engagement, Miss Katherine, began in the afternoon.”
The colour mounted rapidly into her cheeks, and for a moment George
Morris thought he had gone too far. It seemed as if a sharp reply was
ready on her lips; but, as on another occasion, she checked it and said
nothing. Then she opened her book and began to read. He waited for a
moment and said—
“Miss Earle, have I offended you?”
“Did you mean to give offence?” she asked.
“No, certainly, I did not.”
“Then why should you think you had offended me?”
“Well, I don’t know, I—” he stammered.
Miss Earle looked at him with such clear, innocent, and unwavering eyes
that the young man felt that he could neither apologise nor make an
explanation.
“I’m afraid,” he said, “that I am encroaching on your time.”
“Yes, I think you are: that is, if you intend to live up to your
contract, and let me live up to mine. You have no idea how much more
interesting this book is than you are.”
“Why, you are not a bit flattering, Miss Earle, are you?”
“No, I don’t think I am. Do you try to be?”
“I’m afraid that in my lifetime I have tried to be, but I assure you,
Miss Earle, that I don’t try to be flattering, or try to be anything
but what I really am when I am in your company. To tell the truth, I am
too much afraid of you.”
Miss Earle smiled and went on with her reading, while Morris went once
more back into the smoking-room.
“Now then,” said George Morris, when lunch was over, “which is it to
be? The luxurious languor of the steamer chair or the energetic
exercise of the deck? Take your choice.”
“Well,” answered the young lady, “as I have been enjoying the luxurious
languor all the forenoon, I prefer the energetic exercise, if it is
agreeable to you, for a while, at least.”
“It is very agreeable to me. I am all energy this afternoon. In fact,
now that you have consented to allow me to talk with you, I feel as if
I were imbued with a new life.”
“Dear me,” said she, “and all because of the privilege of talking to
me?”
“All.”
“How nice that is. You are sure that it is not the effect of the sea
air?”
“Quite certain. I had the sea air this forenoon, you know.”
“Oh, yes, I had forgotten that.”
“Well, which side of the deck then?”
“Oh, which ever is the least popular side. I dislike a crowd.”
“I think, Miss Earle, that we will have this side pretty much to
ourselves. The madd’ing crowd seems to have a preference for the sunny
part of the ship. Now, then, for the siege of London. Who besieged it?”
“A lady.”
“Did she succeed?”
“She did.”
“Well, I am very glad to hear it, indeed. What was she besieging it
for?”
“For social position, I presume.
“Then, as we say out West, I suppose she had a pretty hard row to hoe?”
“Yes, she had.”
“Well, I never can get at the story by cross-questioning. Now,
supposing that you tell it to me.”
“I think that you had better take the book and read it. I am not a good
story-teller.”
“Why, I thought we Americans were considered excellent story-tellers.’
“We Americans?”
“Oh, I remember now, you do not lay claim to being an American. You are
English, I think you said?”
“I said nothing of the kind. I merely said I lay no claims to being an
American.”
“Yes, that was it.”
“Well, you will be pleased to know that this lady in the siege of
London was an American. You seem so anxious to establish a person’s
nationality that I am glad to be able to tell you at the very first
that she was an American, and, what is more, seemed to be a Western
American.”
“Seemed? Oh, there we get into uncertainties again. If I like to know
whether persons are Americans or not, it naturally follows that I am
anxious to know whether they were Western or Eastern Americans. Aren’t
you sure she was a Westerner?”
“The story, unfortunately, leaves that a little vague, so if it
displeases you I shall be glad to stop the telling of it.”
“Oh no, don’t do that. I am quite satisfied to take her as an American
citizen; whether she is East or West, or North or South, does not make
the slightest difference to me. Please go on with the story.”
“Well, the other characters, I am happy to be able to say, are not at
all indefinite in the matter of nationality. One is an Englishman; he
is even more than that, he is an English nobleman. The other is an
American. Then there is the English nobleman’s mother, who, of course,
is an English woman; and the American’s sister, married to an
Englishman, and she, of course, is English-American. Does that satisfy
you?”
“Perfectly. Go on.”
“It seems that the besieger, the heroine of the story if you may call
her so, had a past.”
“Has not everybody had a past?”
“Oh no. This past is known to the American and is unknown to the
English nobleman.”
“Ah, I see; and the American is in love with her in spite of her past?”
“Not in Mr. James’s story.”
“Oh, I beg pardon. Well, go on; I shall not interrupt again.”
“It is the English nobleman who is in love with her in spite of his
absence of knowledge about her past. The English nobleman’s mother is
very much against the match. She tries to get the American to tell what
the past of this woman is. The American refuses to do so. In fact, in
Paris he has half promised the besieger not to say anything about her
past. She is besieging London, and she wishes the American to remain
neutral. But the nobleman’s mother at last gets the American to promise
that he will tell her son what he knows of this woman’s past. The
American informs the woman what he has promised the nobleman’s mother
to do, and at this moment the nobleman enters the room. The besieger of
London, feeling that her game is up, leaves them together. The American
says to the nobleman, who stands rather stiffly before him, ‘If you
wish to ask me any questions regarding the lady who has gone out I
shall be happy to tell you.’ Those are not the words of the book, but
they are in substance what he said. The nobleman looked at him for a
moment with that hauteur which, we presume, belongs to noblemen, and
said quietly, ‘I wish to know nothing.’ Now, that strikes me as a very
dramatic point in the story.”
“But _didn’t_ he wish to know anything of the woman whom he was going
to marry?”
“I presume that, naturally, he did.”
“And yet he did not take the opportunity of finding out when he had the
chance?”
“No, he did not.”
“Well, what do you think of that?”
“What do I think of it? I think it’s a very dramatic point in the
story.”
“Yes, but what do you think of his wisdom in refusing to find out what
sort of a woman he was going to marry? Was he a fool or was he a very
noble man?”
“Why, I thought I said at the first that he was a nobleman, an
Englishman.”
“Miss Katherine, you are dodging the question. I asked your opinion of
that man’s wisdom. Was he wise, or was he a fool?”
“What do you think about it? Do you think he was a fool, or a wise
man?”
“Well, I asked you for your opinion first. However, I have very little
hesitation in saying, that a man who marries a woman of whom he knows
nothing, is a fool.”
“Oh, but he was well acquainted with this woman. It was only her past
that he knew nothing about.”
“Well, I think you must admit that a woman’s past and a man’s past are
very important parts of their lives. Don’t you agree with me?”
“I agree with you so seldom that I should hesitate to say I did on this
occasion. But I have told the story very badly. You will have to read
it for yourself to thoroughly appreciate the different situations, and
then we can discuss the matter intelligently.”
“You evidently think the man was very noble in refusing to hear
anything about the past of the lady he was interested in.”
“I confess I do. He was noble, at least, in refusing to let a third
party tell him. If he wished any information he should have asked the
lady himself.”
“Yes, but supposing she refused to answer him?”
“Then, I think he should either have declined to have anything more to
do with her, or, if he kept up his acquaintance, he should have taken
her just as she was, without any reference to her past.”
“I suppose you are right. Still, it is a very serious thing for two
people to marry without knowing something of each other’s lives.”
“I am tired of walking,” said Miss Earle, “I am now going to seek
comfort in the luxuriousness, as you call it, of my steamer chair.”
“And may I go with you?” asked the young man.
“If you also are tired of walking.”
“You know,” he said, “you promised the whole afternoon. You took the
forenoon with _The Siege_, and now I don’t wish to be cheated out of my
half of the day.”
“Very well, I am rather interested in another story, and if you will
take _The Siege of London_, and read it, you’ll find how much better
the book is than my telling of the story.”
George Morris had, of course, to content himself with this proposition,
and they walked together to the steamer chairs, over which the gaily
coloured rugs were spread.
“Shall I get your book for you?” asked the young man, as he picked up
the rugs.
“Thank you,” answered Miss Earle, with a laugh, “you have already done
so,” for, as he shook out the rugs, the two books, which were small
handy volumes, fell out on the deck.
“I see you won’t accept my hint about not leaving the books around. You
will lose some precious volume one of these days.”
“Oh, I fold them in the rugs, and they are all right. Now, here is your
volume. Sit down there and read it.”
“That means also, ‘and keep quiet,’ I suppose?”
“I don’t imagine you are versatile enough to read and talk at the same
time. Are you?”
“I should be very tempted to try it this afternoon.”
Miss Earle went on with her reading, and Morris pretended to go on with
his. He soon found, however, that he could not concentrate his
attention on the little volume in his hand, and so quickly abandoned
the attempt, and spent his time in meditation and in casting furtive
glances at his fair companion over the top of his book. He thought the
steamer chair a perfectly delightful invention. It was an easy,
comfortable, and adjustable apparatus, that allowed a person to sit up
or to recline at almost any angle. He pushed his chair back a little,
so that he could watch the profile of Miss Katherine Earle, and the
dark tresses that formed a frame for it, without risking the chance of
having his espionage discovered.
“Aren’t you comfortable?” asked the young lady, as he shoved back his
chair.
“I am very, very comfortable,” replied the young man.
“I am glad of that,” she said, as she resumed her reading.
George Morris watched her turn leaf after leaf as he reclined lazily in
his chair, with half-closed eyes, and said to himself, “Shop-girl or
not, past or not, I’m going to propose to that young lady the first
good opportunity I get. I wonder what she will say?”
“How do you like it?” cried the young lady he was thinking of, with a
suddenness that made Morris jump in his chair.
“Like it?” he cried; “oh, I like it immensely.”
“How far have you got?” she continued.
“How far? Oh, a great distance. Very much further than I would have
thought it possible when I began this voyage.”
Miss Earle turned and looked at him with wide-open eyes, as he made
this strange reply.
“What are you speaking of?” she said.
“Oh, of everything—of the book, of the voyage, of the day.”
“I was speaking of the book,” she replied quietly. “Are you sure you
have not fallen asleep and been dreaming?”
“Fallen asleep? No. Dreaming? Yes.”
“Well, I hope your dreams have been pleasant ones.”
“They have.”
Miss Earle, who seemed to think it best not to follow her
investigations any further, turned once more to her own book, and read
it until it was time to dress for dinner. When that important meal was
over, Morris said to Miss Earle: “Do you know you still owe me part of
the day?”
“I thought you said you had a very pleasant afternoon.”
“So I had. So pleasant, you see, that I want to have the pleasure
prolonged. I want you to come out and have a walk on the deck now in
the starlight. It is a lovely night, and, besides, you are now halfway
across the ocean, and yet I don’t think you have been out once to see
the phosphorescence. That is one of the standard sights of an ocean
voyage. Will you come?”
Although the words were commonplace enough, there was a tremor in his
voice which gave a meaning to them that could not be misunderstood.
Miss Earle looked at him with serene composure, and yet with a touch of
reproachfulness in her glance. “He talks like this to me,” she said to
herself, “while he is engaged to another woman.”
“Yes,” she answered aloud, with more firmness in her voice than might
have seemed necessary, “I will be happy to walk on the deck with you to
see the phosphorescence.”
He helped to hinder her for a moment in adjusting her wraps, and they
went out in the starlit night together.
“Now,” he said, “if we are fortunate enough to find the place behind
the after-wheel house vacant we can have a splendid view of the
phosphorescence.”
“Is it so much in demand that the place is generally crowded?” she
asked.
“I may tell you in confidence,” replied Mr. Morris, “that this
particular portion of the boat is always very popular. Soon as the
evening shades prevail the place is apt to be pre-empted by couples
that are very fond of—”
“Phosphorescence,” interjected the young lady.
“Yes,” he said, with a smile that she could not see in the darkness,
“of phosphorescence.”
“I should think,” said she, as they walked towards the stern of the
boat, “that in scientific researches of that sort, the more people who
were there, the more interesting the discussion would be, and the more
chance a person would have to improve his mind on the subject of
phosphorescence, or other matters pertaining to the sea.”
“Yes,” replied Morris. “A person naturally would think that, and yet,
strange as it may appear, if there ever was a time when two is company
and three is a crowd, it is when looking at the phosphorescence that
follows the wake of an ocean steamer.”
“Really?” observed the young lady, archly. “I remember you told me that
you had crossed the ocean several times.”
The young man laughed joyously at this _repartee_, and his companion
joined him with a laugh that was low and musical.
“He seems very sure of his ground,” she said to herself. “Well, we
shall see.”
As they came to the end of the boat and passed behind the temporary
wheel-house erected there, filled with _debris_ of various sorts,
blocks and tackle and old steamer chairs, Morris noticed that two
others were there before them standing close together with arms upon
the bulwarks. They were standing very close together, so close in fact,
that in the darkness, it seemed like one person. But as Morris stumbled
over some chains, the dark, united shadow dissolved itself quickly into
two distinct separate shadows. A flagpole stood at the extreme end of
the ship, inclining backwards from the centre of the bulwarks, and
leaning over the troubled, luminous sea beneath. The two who had taken
their position first were on one side of the flag-pole and Morris and
Miss Earle on the other. Their coming had evidently broken the spell
for the others. After waiting for a few moments, the lady took the arm
of the gentleman and walked forward. “Now,” said Morris, with a sigh,
“we have the phosphorescence to ourselves.”
“It is very, very strange,” remarked the lady in a low voice. “It seems
as if a person could see weird shapes arising in the air, as if in
torment.”
The young man said nothing for a few moments. He cleared his throat
several times as if to speak, but still remained silent. Miss Earle
gazed down at the restless, luminous water. The throb, throb of the
great ship made the bulwarks on which their arms rested tremble and
quiver.
Finally Morris seemed to muster up courage enough to begin, and he said
one word—
“Katherine.” As he said this he placed his hand on hers as it lay white
before him in the darkness upon the trembling bulwark. It seemed to him
that she made a motion to withdraw her hand, and then allowed it to
remain where it was.
“Katherine,” he continued, in a voice that he hardly recognised as his
own, “we have known each other only a very short time comparatively;
but, as I think I said to you once before, a day on shipboard may be as
long as a month on shore. Katherine, I want to ask you a question, and
yet I do not know—I cannot find—I—I don’t know what words to use.”
The young lady turned her face towards him, and he saw her clear-cut
profile sharply outlined against the glowing water as he looked down at
her. Although the young man struggled against the emotion, which is
usually experienced by any man in his position, yet he felt reasonably
sure of the answer to his question. She had come with him out into the
night. She had allowed her hand to remain in his. He was, therefore,
stricken dumb with amazement when she replied, in a soft and musical
voice—
“You do not know what to say? What do you _usually_ say on such an
occasion?”
“Usually say?” he gasped in dismay. “I do not understand you. What do
you mean?”
“Isn’t my meaning plain enough? Am I the first young lady to whom you
have not known exactly what to say?”
Mr. Morris straightened up, and folded his arms across his breast;
then, ridiculously enough, this struck him as a heroic attitude, and
altogether unsuitable for an American, so he thrust his hands deep in
his coat pockets.
“Miss Earle,” he said, “I knew that you could be cruel, but I did not
think it possible that you could be so cruel as this.”
“Is the cruelty all on my side, Mr. Morris?” she answered. “Have you
been perfectly honest and frank with me? You know you have not. Now, I
shall be perfectly honest and frank with you. I like you very much
indeed. I have not the slightest hesitation in saying this, because it
is true, and I don’t care whether you know it, or whether anybody else
knows it or not.”
As she said this the hope which Morris had felt at first, and which had
been dashed so rudely to the ground, now returned, and he attempted to
put his arm about her and draw her to him; but the young lady quickly
eluded his grasp, stepping to the other side of the flag-pole, and
putting her hand upon it.
“Mr. Morris,” she said, “there is no use of your saying anything
further. There is a barrier between us; you know it as well as I. I
would like us to be friends as usual; but, if we are to be, you will
have to remember the barrier, and keep to your own side of it.”
“I know of no barrier,” cried Morris, vehemently, attempting to come
over to her side.
“There is the barrier,” she said, placing her hand on the flag-pole.
“My place is on this side of that barrier; your place is on the other.
If you come on this side of that flag-pole, I shall leave you. If you
remain on your own side, I shall be very glad to talk with you.”
Morris sullenly took his place on the other side of the flag-pole. “Has
there been anything in my actions,” said the young lady, “during the
time we have been acquainted that would lead you to expect a different
answer?”
“Yes. You have treated me outrageously at times, and that gave me some
hope.”
Miss Earle laughed her low, musical laugh at this remark.
“Oh, you may laugh,” said Morris, savagely; “but it is no laughing
matter to me, I assure you.”
“Oh, it will be, Mr. Morris, when you come to think of this episode
after you get on shore. It will seem to you very, very funny indeed;
and when you speak to the next young lady on the same subject, perhaps
you will think of how outrageously I have treated your remarks
to-night, and be glad that there are so few young women in the world
who would act as I have done.”
“Where did you get the notion,” inquired George Morris, “that I am in
the habit of proposing to young ladies? It is a most ridiculous idea. I
have been engaged once, I confess it. I made a mistake, and I am sorry
for it. There is surely nothing criminal in that.”
“It depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“It depends on how the other party feels about it. It takes two to make
an engagement, and it should take two to break it.”
“Well, it didn’t in my case,” said the young man.
“So I understand,” replied Miss Earle. “Mr. Morris, I wish you a very
good evening.” And before he could say a word she had disappeared in
the darkness, leaving him to ponder bitterly over the events of the
evening.