Chapter III: Part 3

“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.

Sixth Day

In the vague hope of meeting Miss Earle, Morris rose early, and for a while paced the deck alone; but she did not appear. Neither did he have the pleasure of her company at breakfast. The more the young man thought of their interview of the previous evening, the more puzzled he was.

Miss Earle had frankly confessed that she thought a great deal of him, and yet she had treated him with an unfeelingness which left him sore and bitter. She might have refused him; that was her right, of course. But she need not have done it so sarcastically. He walked the deck after breakfast, but saw nothing of Miss Earle. As he paced up and down, he met the very person of all others whom he did not wish to meet. “Good morning, Mr. Morris,” she said lightly, holding out her hand.

“Good morning,” he answered, taking it without much warmth.

“You are walking the deck all alone, I see. May I accompany you?”

“Certainly,” said the young man, and with that she put her hand on his arm and they walked together the first two rounds without saying anything to each other. Then she looked up at him, with a bright smile, and said, “So she refused you?”

“How do you know?” answered the young man, reddening and turning a quick look at her.

“How do I know?” laughed the other. “How should I know?”

For a moment it flashed across his mind that Miss Katherine Earle had spoken of their interview of last night; but a moment later he dismissed the suspicion as unworthy.

“How do you know?” he repeated.

“Because I was told so on very good authority.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Ha, ha! now you are very rude. It is very rude to say to a lady that she doesn’t speak the truth.”

“Well, rude or not, you are not speaking the truth. Nobody told you such a thing.”

“My dear George, how impolite you are. What a perfect bear you have grown to be. Do you want to know who told me?”

“I don’t care to know anything about it.”

“Well, nevertheless, I shall tell you. _You_ told me.”

“I did? Nonsense, I never said anything about it.”

“Yes, you did. Your walk showed it. The dejected look showed it, and when I spoke to you, your actions, your tone, and your words told it to me plainer than if you had said, ‘I proposed to Miss Earle last night and I was rejected.’ You poor, dear innocent, if you don’t brighten up you will tell it to the whole ship.”

“I am sure, Blanche, that I am very much obliged to you for the interest you take in me. Very much obliged, indeed.”

“Oh no, you are not; and now, don’t try to be sarcastic, it really doesn’t suit your manner at all. I was very anxious to know how your little flirtation had turned out. I really was. You know I have an interest in you, George, and always will have, and I wouldn’t like that spiteful little black-haired minx to have got you, and I am very glad she refused you, although why she did so I cannot for the life of me imagine.”

“It must be hard for you to comprehend why she refused me, now that I am a partner in the firm.” Blanche looked down upon the deck, and did not answer.

“I am glad,” she said finally, looking up brightly at him with her innocent blue eyes, “that you did not put off your proposal until to-night. We expect to be at Queenstown to-night some time, and we leave there and go on through by the Lakes of Killarney. So, you see, if you hadn’t proposed last night I should have known nothing at all about how the matter turned out, and I should have died of curiosity and anxiety to know.”

“Oh, I would have written to you,” said Morris. “Leave me your address now, and I’ll write and let you know how it turns out.”

“Oh,” she cried quickly, “then it isn’t ended yet? I didn’t think you were a man who would need to be refused twice or thrice.”

“I should be glad to be refused by Miss Earle five hundred times.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, five hundred times, if on the five hundredth and first time she accepted.”

“Is it really so serious as that?”

“It is just exactly that serious.”

“Then your talk to me after all was only pretence?”

“No, only a mistake.”

“What an escape I have had!”

“You have, indeed.”

“Ah, here comes Miss Earle. Really, for a lady who has rejected a gentleman, she does not look as supremely happy as she might. I must go and have a talk with her.”

“Look here, Blanche,” cried the young man, angrily, “if you say a word to her about what we have been speaking of, I’ll—”

“What will you do?” said the young lady, sweetly.

Morris stood looking at her. He didn’t himself know what he would do; and Blanche, bowing to him, walked along the deck, and sat down in the steamer chair beside Miss Earle, who gave her a very scant recognition.

“Now, you needn’t be so cool and dignified,” said the lady. “George and I have been talking over the matter, and I told him he wasn’t to feel discouraged at a first refusal, if he is resolved to have a shop-girl for his wife.”

“What! Mr. Morris and you have been discussing me, have you?”

“Is there anything forbidden in that, Miss Earle? You must remember that George and I are very, very old friends, old and dear friends. Did you refuse him on my account? I know you like him.”

“Like him?” said Miss Earle, with a fierce light in her eyes, as she looked at her tormentor. “Yes, I like him, and I’ll tell you more than that;” she bent over and added in an intense whisper, “I love him, and if you say another word to me about him, or if you dare to discuss me with him, I shall go up to him where he stands now and accept him. I shall say to him, ‘George Morris, I love you.’ Now if you doubt I shall do that, just continue in your present style of conversation.”

Blanche leaned back in the steamer chair and turned a trifle pale. Then she laughed, that irritating little laugh of hers, and said, “Really I did not think it had gone so far as that. I’ll bid you good morning.”

The moment the chair was vacated, George Morris strolled up and sat down on it.

“What has that vixen been saying to you?” he asked.

“That vixen,” said Miss Earle, quietly, “has been telling me that you and she were discussing me this morning, and discussing the conversation that took place last night.”

“It is a lie,” said Morris.

“What is? What I say, or what she said, or what she says you said?”

“That we were discussing you, or discussing our conversation, is not true. Forgive me for using the coarser word. This was how it was; she came up to me—”

“My dear Mr. Morris, don’t say a word. I know well enough that you would not discuss the matter with anybody. I, perhaps, may go so far as to say, least of all with her. Still, Mr. Morris, you must remember this, that even if you do not like her now—”

“Like her?” cried Morris; “I hate her.”

“As I was going to say, and it is very hard for me to say it, Mr. Morris, you have a duty towards her as you—we all have our duties to perform,” said Miss Earle, with a broken voice. “You must do yours, and I must do mine. It may be hard, but it is settled. I cannot talk this morning. Excuse me.” And she rose and left him sitting there.

“What in the world does the girl mean? I am glad that witch gets off at Queenstown. I believe it is she who has mixed everything up. I wish I knew what she has been saying.”

Miss Earle kept very closely to her room that day, and in the evening, as they approached the Fastnet Light, George Morris was not able to find her to tell her of the fact that they had sighted land. He took the liberty, however, of scribbling a little note to her, which the stewardess promised to deliver. He waited around the foot of the companion-way for an answer. The answer came in the person of Miss Katherine herself.

If refusing a man was any satisfaction, it seemed as if Miss Katherine Earle had obtained very little gratification from it. She looked weary and sad as she took the young man’s arm, and her smile as she looked up at him had something very pathetic in it, as if a word might bring the tears. They sat in the chairs and watched the Irish coast. Morris pointed out objects here and there, and told her what they were. At last, when they went down to supper together, he said—

“We will be at Queenstown some time to-night. It will be quite a curious sight in the moonlight. Wouldn’t you like to stay up and see it?”

“I think I would,” she answered. “I take so few ocean voyages that I wish to get all the nautical experiences possible.”

The young man looked at her sharply, then he said—

“Well, the stop at Queenstown is one of the experiences. May I send the steward to rap at your door when the engine stops?”

“Oh, I shall stay up in the saloon until that time?”

“It may be a little late. It may be as late as one or two o’clock in the morning. We can’t tell. I should think the best thing for you to do would be to take a rest until the time comes. I think, Miss Earle, you need it.”

It was a little after twelve o’clock when the engine stopped. The saloon was dimly lighted, and porters were hurrying to and fro, getting up the baggage which belonged to those who were going to get off at Queenstown. The night was very still, and rather cold. The lights of Queenstown could be seen here and there along the semi-circular range of hills on which the town stood. Passengers who were to land stood around the deck well muffled up, and others who had come to bid them good-bye were talking sleepily with them. Morris was about to send the steward to Miss Earle’s room, when that young lady herself appeared. There was something spirit-like about her, wrapped in her long cloak, as she walked through the half-darkness to meet George Morris.

“I was just going to send for you,” he said.

“I did not sleep any,” was the answer, “and the moment the engine stopped I knew we were there. Shall we go on deck?”

“Yes,” he said, “but come away from the crowd,” and with that he led her towards the stern of the boat. For a moment Miss Earle seemed to hold back, but finally she walked along by his side firmly to where they had stood the night before. With seeming intention Morris tried to take his place beside her, but Miss Earle, quietly folding her cloak around her, stood on the opposite side of the flagpole, and, as if there should be no forgetfulness on his part, she reached up her hand and laid it against the staff.

“She evidently meant what she said,” thought Morris to himself, with a sigh, as he watched the low, dim outlines of the hills around Queenstown Harbour, and the twinkling lights here and there.

“That is the tender coming now,” he said, pointing to the red and green lights of the approaching boat. “How small it looks beside our monster steamship.”

Miss Earle shivered.

“I pity the poor folks who have to get up at this hour of the night and go ashore. I should a great deal rather go back to my state-room.”

“Well, there is one passenger I am not sorry for,” said Morris, “and that is the young woman who has, I am afraid, been saying something to you which has made you deal more harshly with me than perhaps you might otherwise have done. I wish you would tell me what she said?”

“She has said nothing,” murmured Miss Earle, with a sigh, “but what you yourself have confirmed. I do not pay much attention to what she says.”

“Well, you don’t pay much attention to what I say either,” he replied. “However, as I say, there is one person I am not sorry for; I even wish it were raining. I am very revengeful, you see.”

“I do not know that I am very sorry for her myself,” replied Miss Earle, frankly; “but I am sorry for her poor old father, who hasn’t appeared in the saloon a single day except the first. He has been sick the entire voyage.”

“Her father?” cried Morris, with a rising inflection in his voice.

“Certainly.”

“Why, bless my soul! Her father has been dead for ages and ages.”

“Then who is the old man she is with?”

“Old man! It would do me good to have her hear you call him the old man. Why, that is her husband.”

“Her husband!” echoed Miss Earle, with wide open eyes, “I thought he was her father.”

“Oh, not at all. It is true, as you know, that I was engaged to the young lady, and I presume if I had become a partner in our firm sooner we would have been married. But that was a longer time coming than suited my young lady’s convenience, and so she threw me over with as little ceremony as you would toss a penny to a beggar, and she married this old man for his wealth, I presume. I don’t see exactly why she should take a fancy to him otherwise. I felt very cut up about it, of course, and I thought if I took this voyage I would at least be rid for a while of the thought of her. They are now on their wedding trip. That is the reason your steamer chair was broken, Miss Earle. Here I came on board an ocean steamer to get rid of the sight or thought of a certain woman, and to find that I was penned up with that woman, even if her aged husband was with her, for eight or nine days, was too much for me. So I raced up the deck and tried to get ashore. I didn’t succeed in that, but I _did_ succeed in breaking your chair.”

Miss Earle was evidently very much astonished at this revelation, but she said nothing. After waiting in vain for her to speak, Morris gazed off at the dim shore. When he looked around he noticed that Miss Earle was standing on his side of the flagstaff. There was no longer a barrier between them.

Seventh Day

If George Morris were asked to say which day of all his life had been the most thoroughly enjoyable, he would probably have answered that the seventh of his voyage from New York to Liverpool was the red-letter day of his life. The sea was as calm as it was possible for a sea to be. The sun shone bright and warm. Towards the latter part of the day they saw the mountains of Wales, which, from the steamer’s deck, seemed but a low range of hills. It did not detract from Morris’s enjoyment to know that Mrs. Blanche was now on the troubleless island of Ireland, and that he was sailing over this summer sea with the lady who, the night before, had promised to be his wife.

During the day Morris and Katherine sat together on the sunny side of the ship looking at the Welsh coast. Their books lay unread on the rug, and there were long periods of silences between them.

“I don’t believe,” said Morris, “that anything could be more perfectly delightful than this. I wish the shaft would break.”

“I hope it won’t,” answered the young lady; “the chances are you would be as cross as a bear before two days had gone past, and would want to go off in a small boat.”

“Oh, I should be quite willing to go off in a small boat if you would come with me. I would do that now.”

“I am very comfortable where I am,” answered Miss Katherine. “I know when to let well enough alone.”

“And I don’t, I suppose you mean?”

“Well, if you wanted to change this perfectly delightful day for any other day, or this perfectly luxurious and comfortable mode of travel for any other method, I should suspect you of not letting well enough alone.”

“I have to admit,” said George, “that I am completely and serenely happy. The only thing that bothers me is that to-night we shall be in Liverpool. I wish this hazy and dreamy weather could last for ever, and I am sure I could stand two extra days of it going just as we are now. I think with regret of how much of this voyage we have wasted.”

“Oh, you think it was wasted, do you?”

“Well, wasted as compared with this sort of life. This seems to me like a rest after a long chase.”

“Up the deck?” asked the young lady, smiling at him.

“Now, see here,” said Morris, “we may as well understand this first as last, that unfortunate up-the-deck chase has to be left out of our future life. I am not going to be twitted about that race every time a certain young lady takes a notion to have a sort of joke upon me.”

“That was no joke, George. It was the most serious race you ever ran in your life. You were running away from one woman, and, poor blind young man, you ran right in the arms of another. The danger you have run into is ever so much greater than the one you were running away from.”

“Oh, I realise that,” said the young man, lightly; “that’s what makes me so solemn to-day, you know.” His hand stole under the steamer rugs and imprisoned her own.

“I am afraid people will notice that,” she said quietly.

“Well, let them; I don’t care. I don’t know anybody on board this ship, anyhow, except you, and if you realised how very little I care for their opinions you would not try to withdraw your hand.”

“I am not trying very hard,” answered the young woman; and then there was another long silence. Finally she continued—

“I am going to take the steamer chair and do it up in ribbons when I get ashore.”

“I am afraid it will not be a very substantial chair, no matter what you do with it. It will be a trap for those who sit in it.”

“Are you speaking of your own experience?”

“No, of yours.”

“George,” she said, after a long pause, “did you like her very much?”

“Her?” exclaimed the young man, surprised. “Who?”

“Why, the young lady you ran away from. You know very well whom I mean.”

“Like her? Why, I hate her.”

“Yes, perhaps you do now. But I am asking of former years. How long were you engaged to her?”

“Engaged? Let me see, I have been engaged just about—well, not twenty-four hours yet. I was never engaged before. I thought I was, but I wasn’t really.”

Miss Earle shook her head. “You must have liked her very much,” she said, “or you never would have proposed marriage to her. You would never have been engaged to her. You never would have felt so badly when she—”

“Oh, say it out,” said George, “jilted me, that is the word.”

“No, that is not the phrase I wanted to use. She didn’t really jilt you, you know. It was because you didn’t have, or thought you didn’t have, money enough. She would like to be married to you to-day.”

George shuddered.

“I wish,” he said, “that you wouldn’t mar a perfect day by a horrible suggestion.”

“The suggestion would not have been so horrible a month ago.”

“My dear girl,” said Morris, rousing himself up, “it’s a subject that I do not care much to talk about, but all young men, or reasonably young men, make mistakes in their lives. That was my mistake. My great luck was that it was discovered in time. As a general thing, affairs in this world are admirably planned, but it does seem to me a great mistake that young people have to choose companions for life at an age when they really haven’t the judgment to choose a house and lot. Now, confess yourself, I am not your first lover, am I?”

Miss Earle looked at him for a moment before replying.

“You remember,” she said, “that once you spoke of not having to incriminate yourself. You refused to answer a question I asked you on that ground. Now, I think this is a case in which I would be quite justified in refusing to answer. If I told you that you were my first lover, you would perhaps be manlike enough to think that after all you had only taken what nobody else had expressed a desire for. A man does not seem to value anything unless some one else is struggling for it.”

“Why, what sage and valuable ideas you have about men, haven’t you, my dear?”

“Well, you can’t deny but what there is truth in them.”

“I not only can, but I do. On behalf of my fellow men, and on behalf of myself, I deny it.”

“Then, on the other hand,” she continued, “if I confessed to you that I did have half a score or half a dozen of lovers, you would perhaps think I had been jilting somebody or had been jilted. So you see, taking it all in, and thinking the matter over, I shall refuse to answer your question.”

“Then you will not confess?”

“Yes, I shall confess. I have been wanting to confess to you for some little time, and have felt guilty because I did not do so.”

“I am prepared to receive the confession,” replied the young man, lazily, “and to grant absolution.”

“Well, you talk a great deal about America and about Americans, and talk as if you were proud of the country, and of its ways, and of its people.”

“Why, I am,” answered the young man.

“Very well, then; according to your creed one person is just as good as another.”

“Oh, I don’t say that, I don’t hold that for a moment. I don’t think I am as good as you, for instance.”

“But what I mean is this, that one’s occupation does not necessarily give one a lower station than another. If that is not your belief then you are not a true American, that is all.”

“Well, yes, that is my belief. I will admit I believe all that. What of it?”

“What of it? There is this of it. You are the junior partner of a large establishment in New York?”

“Nothing criminal in that, is there?”

“Oh, I don’t put it as an accusation, I am merely stating the fact. You admit the fact, of course?”

“Yes. The fact is admitted, and marked _Exhibit A,_ and placed in evidence. Now, what next?”

“In the same establishment there was a young woman who sold ribbons to all comers?”

“Yes, I admit that also, and the young lady’s name was Miss Katherine Earle.”

“Oh, you knew it, then?”

“Why, certainly I did.”

“You knew it before you proposed to me.”

“Oh, I seem to have known that fact for years and years.”

“She told it to you.”

“She? What she?”

“You know very well who I mean, George. She told it to you, didn’t she?”

“Why, don’t you think I remembered you—remembered seeing you there?”

“I know very well you did not. You may have seen me there, but you did not remember me. The moment I spoke to you on the deck that day in the broken chair, I saw at once you did not remember me, and there is very little use of your trying to pretend you thought of it afterwards. She told it to you, didn’t she?”

“Now, look here, Katherine, it isn’t I who am making a confession, it is you. It is not customary for a penitent to cross-examine the father confessor in that style.”

“It does not make any difference whether you confess or not, George; I shall always know she told you that. After all, I wish she had left it for me to tell. I believe I dislike that woman very much.”

“Shake hands, Kate, over that. So do I. Now, my dear, tell me what she told _you_.”

“Then she _did_ tell you that, did she?”

“Why, if you are so sure of it without my admitting it, why do you ask again?”

“I suppose because I wanted to make doubly sure.”

“Well, then, assurance is doubly sure. I admit she did.”

“And you listened to her, George?” said Katherine, reproachfully.

“Listened? Why, of course I did. I couldn’t help myself. She said it before I knew what she was going to say. She didn’t give me the chance that your man had in that story you were speaking of. I said something that irritated her and she out with it at once as if it had been a crime on your part. I did not look on it in that light, and don’t now. Anyhow, you are not going back to the ribbon counter.”

“No,” answered the young lady, with a sigh, looking dreamily out into the hazy distance. “No, I am not.”

“At least, not that side of the counter,” said George.

She looked at him for a moment, as if she did not understand him; then she laughed lightly.

“Now,” said Morris, “I have done most of the confession on this confession of yours. Supposing I make a confession, and ask you to tell me what she told you.”

“Well, she told me that you were a very fascinating young man,” answered Katherine, with a sigh.

“Really. And did after-acquaintance corroborate that statement?”

“I never had occasion to tell her she was mistaken.”

“What else did she say? Didn’t mention anything about my prospects or financial standing in any way?”

“No; we did not touch on that subject.”

“Come, now, you cannot evade the question. What else did she say to you about me?”

“I don’t know that it is quite right to tell you, but I suppose I may. She said that you were engaged to her.”

“Had been.”

“No, were.”

“Oh, that’s it. She did not tell you she was on her wedding tour?”

“No, she did not.”

“And didn’t you speak to her about her father being on board?”

Katherine laughed her low, enjoyable laugh.

“Yes,” she said, “I did, and I did not think till this moment of how flustered she looked. But she recovered her lost ground with a great deal of dexterity.”

“By George, I should like to have heard that! I am avenged!”

“Well, so is she,” was the answer.

“How is that?”

“You are engaged to me, are you not?”

Before George could make any suitable reply to this bit of humbug, one of the officers of the ship stopped before them.

“Well,” he said, “I am afraid we shall not see Liverpool to-night.”

“Really. Why?” asked George.

“This haze is settling down into a fog. It will be as thick as pea-soup before an hour. I expect there will be a good deal of grumbling among the passengers.”

As he walked on, George said to Katherine, “There are two passengers who won’t grumble any, will they, my dear?”

“I know one who won’t,” she answered.

The fog grew thicker and thicker; the vessel slowed down, and finally stopped, sounding every now and then its mournful, timber-shaking whistle.

Eighth Day

On the afternoon of the eighth day George Morris and Katherine Earle stood together on the deck of the tender, looking back at the huge steamship which they had just left.

“When we return,” he said, “I think we shall choose this ship.”

“Return?” she answered, looking at him.

“Why, certainly; we are going back, are we not?”

“Dear me,” she replied, “I had not thought of that. You see, when I left America I did not intend to go back.”

“Did you not? I thought you were only over here for the trip.”

“Oh no. I told you I came on business, not on pleasure.”

“And did you intend to stay over here?”

“Certainly.”

“Why, that’s strange; I never thought of that.”

“It is strange, too,” said Katherine, “that I never thought of going back.”

“And—and,” said the young man, “won’t you go?”

She pressed his arm, and stood motionless.

“_Where thou goest, I will go. Thy people shall be my people._”

“That’s a quotation, I suppose?” said George.

“It is,” answered Katherine.

“Well, you see, as I told you, I am not very well read up on the books of the day.”

“I don’t know whether you would call that one of the books of the day or not,” said Katherine; “it is from the Bible.”

“Oh,” answered the other. “I believe, Kate, you will spend the rest of your life laughing at me.”

“Oh no,” said the young lady, “I always thought I was fitted for missionary life. Now, look what a chance I have.”

“You have taken a big contract, I admit.”

They had very little trouble with their luggage. It is true that the English officials looked rather searchingly in Katherine’s trunk for dynamite, but, their fears being allayed in that direction, the trunks were soon chalked and on the back of a stout porter, who transferred them to the top of a cab.

“I tell you what it is,” said George, “it takes an American Custom-house official to make the average American feel ashamed of his country.”

“Why, I did not think there was anything over there that could make you feel ashamed of your country. You are such a thorough-going American.”

“Well, the Customs officials in New York have a knack of making a person feel that he belongs to no place on earth.”

They drove to the big Liverpool hotel which is usually frequented by Americans who land in that city, and George spent the afternoon in attending to business in Liverpool, which he said he did not expect to have to look after when he left America, but which he desired very much to get some information about.

Katherine innocently asked if she could be of any assistance to him, and he replied that she might later on, but not at the present state of proceedings.

In the evening they went to a theatre together, and took a long route back to the hotel.

“It isn’t a very pretty city,” said Miss Earle.

“Oh, I think you are mistaken,” replied her lover. “To me it is the most beautiful city in the world.”

“Do you really mean that?” she said, looking at him with surprise.

“Yes, I do. It is the first city through which I have walked with the lady who is to be my wife.”

“Oh, indeed,” remarked the lady who was to be his wife, “and have you never walked with—”

“Now, see here,” said Morris, “that subject is barred out. We left all those allusions on the steamer. I say I am walking now with the lady who _is_ to be my wife. I think that statement of the case is perfectly correct, is it not?”

“I believe it is rather more accurate than the average statement of the average American.”

“Now, Katherine,” he said, “do you know what information I have been looking up since I have been in Liverpool?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” she said. “Property?”

“No, not property.”

“Looking after your baggage, probably?”

“Well, I think you have got it this time. I _was_ looking after my baggage. I was trying to find out how and when we could get married.”

“Oh!”

“Yes, oh! Does that shock you? I find they have some idiotic arrangement by which a person has to live here three months before he can be married, although I was given some hope that, by paying for it, a person could get a special licence. If that is the case, I am going to have a special licence to-morrow.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, indeed. Then we can be married at the hotel.”

“And don’t you think, George, that I might have something to say about that?”

“Oh, certainly! I intended to talk with you about it. Of course I am talking with you now on that subject. You admitted the possibility of our getting married. I believe I had better get you to put it down in writing, or have you say it before witnesses, or something of that sort.”

“Well, I shouldn’t like to be married in a hotel.”

“In a church, then? I suppose I can make arrangements that will include a church. A parson will marry us. That parson, if he is the right sort, will have a church. It stands to reason, therefore, that if we give him the contract he will give us the use of his church, _quid pro quo_, you know.”

“Don’t talk flippantly, please. I think it better to wait until to-morrow, George, before you do anything rash. I want to see something of the country. I want us to take a little journey together to-morrow, and then, out in the country, not in this grimy, sooty city, we will make arrangements for our marriage.”

“All right, my dear. Where do you intend to go?”

“While you have been wasting your time in getting information relating to matrimony, I have been examining time-tables. Where I want to go is two or three hours’ ride from here. We can take one of the morning trains, and when we get to the place I will allow you to hire a conveyance, and we will have a real country drive. Will you go with me?”

“_Will_ I? You better believe I will. But you see, Katherine, I want to get married as soon as possible. Then we can take a little trip on the Continent before it is time for us to go back to America. You have never been on the Continent, have you?”

“Never.”

“Well, I am very glad of that. I shall be your guide, philosopher, and friend, and, added to that, your husband.”

“Very well, we will arrange all that on our little excursion to-morrow.”

Ninth Day

Spring in England—and one of those perfect spring days in which all rural England looks like a garden. The landscape was especially beautiful to American eyes, after the more rugged views of Transatlantic scenery. The hedges were closely clipped, the fields of the deepest green, and the hills far away were blue and hazy in the distance.

“There is no getting over the fact,” said Morris, “that this is the prettiest country in the whole world.”

During most of the journey Katherine Earle sat back in her corner of the first-class compartment, and gazed silently out of the flying windows. She seemed too deeply impressed with the beauty of the scene to care for conversation even with the man she was to marry. At last they stopped at a pretty little rural station, with the name of the place done in flowers of vivid colour that stood out against the brown of the earth around, them and the green turf which formed the sloping bank.

“Now,” said George, as they stood on the platform, “whither away? Which direction?”

“I want to see,” said she, “a real, genuine, old English country home.”

“A castle?”

“No, not a castle.”

“Oh, I know what you want. Something like Haddon Hall, or that sort of thing. An old manor house. Well, wait a minute, and I’ll talk to the station master, and find out all there is about this part of the country.”

And before she could stop him, he had gone to make his inquiry of that official. Shortly after he came back with a list of places that were worth seeing, which he named.

“Holmwood House,” she repeated. “Let us see that. How far is it?”

George again made inquiries, and found that it was about eight miles away. The station-master assured him that the road thither was one of the prettiest drives in the whole country.

“Now, what kind of a conveyance will you have? There are four-wheeled cabs, and there is even a hansom to be had. Will you have two horses or one, and will you have a coachman?”

“None of these,” she said, “if you can get something you can drive yourself—I suppose you are a driver?”

“Oh, I have driven a buggy.”

“Well, get some sort of conveyance that we can both sit in while you drive.”

“But don’t you think we will get lost?”

“We can inquire the way,” she said, “and if we do get lost, it won’t matter. I want to have a long talk with you before we reach the place.”

They crossed the railway by a bridge over the line, and descended into a valley along which the road wound.

The outfit which George had secured was a neat little cart made of wood in the natural colour and varnished, and a trim little pony, which looked ridiculously small for two grown people, and yet was, as George afterwards said, “as tough as a pine knot.”

The pony trotted merrily along, and needed no urging. George doubtless was a good driver, but whatever talents he had in that line were not brought into play. The pony was a treasure that had apparently no bad qualities. For a long time the two in the cart rode along the smooth highway silently, until at last Morris broke out with—

“Oh, see here! This is not according to contract. You said you wanted a long talk, and now you are complacently saying nothing.”

“I do not know exactly how to begin.”

“Is it so serious as all that?”

“It is not serious exactly—it is merely, as it were, a continuation of the confession.”

“I thought we were through with that long ago. Are there any more horrible revelations?”

She looked at him with something like reproach in her eyes.

“If you are going to talk flippantly, I think I will postpone what I have to say until another time.”

“My dear Kate, give a man a chance. He can’t reform in a moment. I never had my flippancy checked before. Now then, I am serious again. What appalling—I mean—you see how difficult it is, Katherine—I mean, what serious subject shall we discuss?”

“Some other time.”

“No—now. I insist on it. Otherwise I will know I am unforgiven.”

“There is nothing to forgive. I merely wanted to tell you something more than you know about my own history.”

“I know more now than that man in the story.”

“He did not object to the knowledge, you know. He objected to receiving it from a third person. Now I am not a third person, am I?”

“Indeed, you are not. You are first person singular—at present—the first person to me at least. There, I am afraid I have dropped into flippancy again.”

“That is not flippancy. That is very nice.” The interval shall be unreported.

At last Katherine said quietly, “My mother came from this part of England.”

“Ah! That is why you wanted to come here.”

“That is why I wanted to come here. She was her father’s only daughter, and, strange to say, he was very fond of her, and proud of her.”

“Why strange?”

“Strange from his action for years after. She married against his will. He never forgave her. My father did not seem to have the knack of getting along in the world, and he moved to America in the hope of bettering his condition. He did not better it. My father died ten years ago, a prematurely broken down man, and my mother and I struggled along as best we could until she died two years ago. My grandfather returned her letter unopened when mother wrote to him ten years ago, although the letter had a black border around it. When I think of her I find it hard to forgive him, so I suppose some of his nature has been transmitted to me.”

“Find it hard? Katherine, if you were not an angel you would find it impossible.”

“Well, there is nothing more to tell, or at least, not much. I thought you should know this. I intended to tell you that last day on shipboard, but it seemed to me that here was where it should be told—among the hills and valleys that she saw when she was my age.”

“Katherine, my dear, do not think about it any more than you can help. It will only uselessly depress you. Here is a man coming. Let us find out now whether we have lost our way or not.”

They had.

Even after that they managed to get up some wrong lanes and byways, and took several wrong turnings; but by means of inquiry from every one they met, they succeeded at last in reaching the place they were in search of.

There was an old and grey porter’s lodge, and an old and grey gateway, with two tall, moss-grown stone pillars, and an iron gate between them. On the top of the pillars were crumbled stone shields, seemingly held in place by a lion on each pillar.

“Is this Holmwood House?” asked Morris of the old and grey man who came out of the porter’s lodge.

“Yes, sir, it be,” replied the man.

“Are visitors permitted to see the house and the grounds?”

“No, they be’ant,” was the answer. “Visitors were allowed on Saturdays in the old Squire’s time, but since he died they tell me the estate is in the courts, and we have orders from the London lawyers to let nobody in.”

“I can make it worth your while,” said George, feeling in his vest pocket; “this lady would like to see the house.”

The old man shook his head, even although George showed him a gold piece between his finger and thumb. Morris was astonished at this, for he had the mistaken belief which all Americans have, that a tip in Europe, if it is only large enough, will accomplish anything.

“I think perhaps I can get permission,” said Katherine, “if you will let me talk a while to the old man.”

“All right. Go ahead,” said George. “I believe you could wheedle anybody into doing what he shouldn’t do.”

“Now, after saying that, I shall not allow you to listen. I shall step down and talk with him a moment and you can drive on for a little distance, and come back.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” said George, “I know how it is. You don’t want to give away the secret of your power. Be careful, now, in stepping down. This is not an American buggy,” but before he had finished the warning, Katherine had jumped lightly on the gravel, and stood waiting for him to drive on. When he came back he found the iron gates open.

“I shall not get in again,” she said. “You may leave the pony with this man, George, he will take care of it. We can walk up the avenue to the house.”

After a short walk under the spreading old oaks they came in sight of the house, which was of red brick and of the Elizabethan style of architecture.

“I am rather disappointed with that,” said George, “I always thought old English homesteads were of stone.”