Chapter IV: Part 4

“Well, this one at least is of brick, and I imagine you will find a great many of them are of the same material.”

They met with further opposition from the housekeeper who came to the door which the servant had opened after the bell was rung.

She would allow nobody in the house, she said. As for Giles, if he allowed people on the grounds that was his own look-out, but she had been forbidden by the lawyers to allow anybody in the house, and she had let nobody in, and she wasn’t going to let anybody in.

“Shall I offer her a tip?” asked George, in a whisper.

“No, don’t do that.”

“You can’t wheedle her like you did the old man, you know. A woman may do a great deal with a man, but when she meets another woman she meets her match. You women know each other, you know.”

Meanwhile the housekeeper, who had been about to shut the door, seemed to pause and regard the young lady with a good deal of curiosity. Her attention had before that time been taken up with the gentleman.

“Well, I shall walk to the end of the terrace, and give you a chance to try your wiles. But I am ready to bet ten dollars that you don’t succeed.”

“I’ll take you,” answered the young lady.

“Yes, you said you would that night on the steamer.”

“Oh, that’s a very good way of getting out of a hopeless bet.”

“I am ready to make the bet all right enough, but I know you haven’t a ten-dollar bill about you.”

“Well, that is very true, for I have changed all my money to English currency; but I am willing to bet its equivalent.”

Morris walked to the end of the terrace. When he got back he found that the door of the house was as wide open as the gates of the park had been.

“There is something uncanny about all this,” he said. “I am just beginning to see that you have a most dangerous power of fascination. I could understand it with old Giles, but I must admit that I thought the stern housekeeper would—”

“My dear George,” interrupted Katherine, “almost anything can be accomplished with people, if you only go about it the right way.”

“Now, what is there to be seen in this house?”

“All that there is to be seen about any old English house. I thought, perhaps, you might be interested in it.”

“Oh, I am. But I mean, isn’t there any notable things? For instance, I was in Haddon Hall once, and they showed me the back stairway where a fair lady had eloped with her lover. Have they anything of that kind to show here?”

Miss Earle was silent for a few moments. “Yes,” she said, “I am afraid they have.”

“Afraid? Why, that is perfectly delightful. Did the young lady of the house elope with her lover?”

“Oh, don’t talk in that way, George,” she said. “Please don’t.”

“Well, I won’t, if you say so. I admit those little episodes generally turn out badly. Still you must acknowledge that they add a great interest to an old house of the Elizabethan age like this?”

Miss Earle was silent. They had, by this time, gone up the polished stairway, which was dimly lighted by a large window of stained glass.

“Here we are in the portrait hall,” said Miss Earle. “There is a picture here that I have never seen, although I have heard of it, and I want to see it. Where is it?” she asked, turning to the housekeeper, who had been following them up the stairs.

“This way, my lady,” answered the housekeeper, as she brought them before a painting completely concealed by a dark covering of cloth.

“Why is it covered in that way? To keep the dust from it?”

The housekeeper hesitated for a moment; then she said—

“The old Squire, my lady, put that on when she left, and it has never been taken off since.”

“Then take it off at once,” demanded Katherine Earle, in a tone that astonished Morris.

The housekeeper, who was too dignified to take down the covering herself, went to find the servant, but Miss Earle, with a gesture of impatience, grasped the cloth and tore it from its place, revealing the full-length portrait of a young lady.

Morris looked at the portrait in astonishment, and then at the girl by his side.

“Why, Katherine,” he cried, “it is your picture!”

The young lady was standing with her hands tightly clenched and her lips quivering with nervous excitement. There were tears in her eyes, and she did not answer her lover for a moment; then she said—

“No, it is not my picture. This is a portrait of my mother.”

Mrs. Tremain

“And Woman, wit a flaming torch
Sings heedless, in a powder-mine
Her careless smiles they warp and scorch
Man’s heart, as fire the pine
Cuts keener than the thrust of lance
Her glance”

The trouble about this story is that it really has no ending. Taking an ocean voyage is something like picking up an interesting novel, and reading a chapter in the middle of it. The passenger on a big steamer gets glimpses of other people’s lives, but he doesn’t know what the beginning was, nor what the ending will be.

The last time I saw Mrs. Tremain she was looking over her shoulder and smiling at Glendenning as she walked up the gangway plank at Liverpool, hanging affectionately on the arm of her husband. I said to myself at the time, “You silly little handsome idiot, Lord only knows what trouble you will cause before flirting has lost its charm for you.” Personally I would like to have shoved Glendenning off the gangway plank into the dark Mersey; but that would have been against the laws of the country on which we were then landing.

Mrs. Tremain was a woman whom other women did not like, and whom men did. Glendenning was a man that the average man detested, but he was a great favourite with the ladies.

I shall never forget the sensation Mrs. Tremain caused when she first entered the saloon of our steamer. I wish I were able to describe accurately just how she was dressed; for her dress, of course, had a great deal to do with her appearance, notwithstanding the fact that she was one of the loveliest women I ever saw in my life. But it would require a woman to describe her dress with accuracy, and I am afraid any woman who was on board the steamer that trip would decline to help me. Women were in the habit of sniffing when Mrs. Tremain’s name was mentioned. Much can be expressed by a woman’s sniff. All that I can say about Mrs. Tremain’s dress is that it was of some dark material, brightly shot with threads of gold, and that she had looped in some way over her shoulders and around her waist a very startlingly coloured silken scarf, while over her hair was thrown a black lace arrangement that reached down nearly to her feet, giving her a half-Spanish appearance. A military-looking gentleman, at least twice her age, was walking beside her. He was as grave and sober as she appeared light and frivolous, and she walked by his side with a peculiar elastic step, that seemed hardly to touch the carpet, laughing and talking to him just as if fifty pair of eyes were not riveted upon her as the pair entered. Everybody thought her a Spanish woman; but, as it turned out afterward, she was of Spanish-Mexican-American origin, and whatever beauty there is in those three nationalities seemed to be blended in some subtle, perfectly indescribable way in the face and figure of Mrs. Tremain.

The grave military-looking gentleman at her side was Captain Tremain, her husband, although in reality he was old enough to be her father. He was a captain in the United States army, and had been stationed at some fort near the Mexican border where he met the young girl whom he made his wife. She had seen absolutely nothing of the world, and they were now on their wedding trip to Europe, the first holiday he had taken for many a year.

In an incredibly short space of time Mrs. Tremain was the acknowledged belle of the ship. She could not have been more than nineteen or twenty years of age, yet she was as perfectly at her ease, and as thoroughly a lady as if she had been accustomed to palaces and castles for years. It was astonishing to see how naturally she took to it. She had lived all her life in a rough village in the wilds of the South-West, yet she had the bearing of a duchess or a queen.

The second day out she walked the deck with the captain, which, as everybody knows, is a very great honour. She always had a crowd of men around her, and apparently did not care the snap of her pretty fingers whether a woman on board spoke to her or not. Her husband was one of those slow-going, sterling men whom you meet now and again, with no nonsense about him, and with a perfect trust in his young wife. He was delighted to see her enjoying her voyage so well, and proud of the universal court that was paid to her. It was quite evident to everybody on board but himself that Mrs. Tremain was a born coquette, and the way she could use those dark, languishing, Spanish-Mexican eyes of hers was a lesson to flirts all the world over. It didn’t, apparently, so much matter as long as her smiles were distributed pretty evenly over the whole masculine portion of the ship. But by-and-by things began to simmer down until the smiles were concentrated on the most utterly objectionable man on board—Glendenning. She walked the deck with him, she sat in cozy corners of the saloon with him, when there were not many people there, and at night they placed their chairs in a little corner of the deck where the electric light did not shine. One by one the other admirers dropped off, and left her almost entirely to Glendenning.

Of all those of us who were deserted by Mrs. Tremain none took it so hard as young Howard of Brooklyn. I liked Howard, for he was so palpably and irretrievably young, through no fault of his own, and so thoroughly ashamed of it. He wished to be considered a man of the world, and he had grave opinions on great questions, and his opinions were ever so much more settled and firm than those of us older people.

Young Howard confided a good deal in me, and even went so far one time as to ask if I thought he appeared very young, and if I would believe he was really as old as he stated.

I told him frankly I had taken him to be a very much older man than that, and the only thing about him I didn’t like was a certain cynicism and knowledge of the world which didn’t look well in a man who ought to be thinking about the serious things of life. After this young Howard confided in me even more than before. He said that he didn’t care for Mrs. Tremain in that sort of way at all. She was simply an innocent child, with no knowledge of the world whatever, such as he and I possessed. Her husband—and in this I quite agreed with him—had two bad qualities: in the first place he was too easy going at the present, and in the second place he was one of those quiet men who would do something terrible if once he were aroused.

One day, as young Howard and I walked the deck together, he burst out with this extraordinary sentiment—

“All women,” he said, “are canting hypocrites.”

“When a man says that,” I answered, “he means some particular woman. What woman have you in your eye, Howard?”

“No, I mean _all_ women. All the women on board this boat, for instance.”

“Except one, of course,” I said.

“Yes,” he answered, “except one. Look at the generality of women,” he cried bitterly; “especially those who are what they call philanthropic and good. They will fuss and mourn over some drunken wretch who cannot be reclaimed, and would be no use if he could, and they will spend their time and sympathy over some creature bedraggled in the slums, whose only hope can be death, and that as soon as possible, yet not one of them will lift a finger to save a fellow creature from going over the brink of ruin. They will turn their noses in the air when a word from them would do some good, and then they will spend their time fussing and weeping over somebody that nothing on earth can help.”

“Now, Howard,” I said, “that’s your cynicism which I’ve so often deplored. Come down to plain language, and tell me what you mean?”

“Look at the women on board this steamer,” he cried indignantly. “There’s pretty little Mrs. Tremain, who seems to have become fascinated by that scoundrel Glendenning. Any person can see what kind of a man he is—any one but an innocent child, such as Mrs. Tremain is. Now, no man can help. What she needs is some good kindly woman to take her by the hand and give her a word of warning. Is there a woman on board of this steamer who will do it? Not one. They see as plainly as any one else how things are drifting; but it takes a man who has murdered his wife to get sympathy and flowers from the modern so-called lady.”

“Didn’t you ever hear of the man, Howard, who made a large sum of money, I forget at the moment exactly how much, by minding his own business?”

“Oh yes, it’s all very well to talk like that; but I would like to pitch Glendenning overboard.”

“I admit that it would be a desirable thing to do, but if anybody is to do it, it is Captain Tremain and not you. Are you a married man, Howard?”

“No,” answered Howard, evidently very much flattered by the question.

“Well, you see, a person never can tell on board ship; but, if you happen to be, it seems to me that you wouldn’t care for any outsider to interfere in a matter such as we are discussing. At any rate Mrs. Tremain is a married woman, and I can’t see what interest you should have in her. Take my advice and leave her alone, and if you want to start a reforming crusade among women, try to convert the rest of the ladies of the ship to be more charitable and speak the proper word in time.”

“You may sneer as much as you like,” answered young Howard, “but I will tell you what I am going to do. _Two is company, and three is none_; I’m going to make the third, as far as Mrs. Tremain and Glendenning are concerned.”

“Supposing she objects to that?”

“Very likely she will; I don’t care. The voyage lasts only a few days longer, and I am going to make the third party at any _tête-à-tête_.”

“Dangerous business, Howard; first thing, you know, Glendenning will be wanting to throw _you_ overboard.”

“I would like to see him try it,” said the young fellow, clenching his fist.

And young Howard was as good as his word. It was very interesting to an onlooker to see the way the different parties took it. Mrs. Tremain seemed to be partly amused with the boy, and think it all rather good fun. Glendenning scowled somewhat, and tried to be silent; but, finding that made no particular difference, began to make allusions to the extreme youth of young Howard, and seemed to try to provoke him, which laudable intention, to young Howard’s great credit, did not succeed.

One evening I came down the forward narrow staircase, that leads to the long corridor running from the saloon, and met, under the electric light at the foot, Mrs. Tremain, young Howard, and Glendenning. They were evidently about to ascend the stairway; but, seeing me come down, they paused, and I stopped for a moment to have a chat with them, and see how things were going on.

Glendenning said, addressing me, “Don’t you think it’s time for children to be in bed?”

“If you mean me,” I answered, “I am just on my way there.”

Mrs. Tremain and young Howard laughed, and Glendenning after that ignored both Howard and myself.

He said to Mrs. Tremain, “I never noticed you wearing that ring before. It is a very strange ornament.”

“Yes,” answered Mrs. Tremain, turning it round and round. “This is a Mexican charmed ring. There is a secret about it, see if you can find it out.” And with that she pulled off the ring, and handed it to Glendenning.

“You ought to give it to him as a keepsake,” said young Howard, aggressively. “The ring, I notice, is a couple of snakes twisted together.”

“Little boys,” said Mrs. Tremain, laughing, “shouldn’t make remarks like that. They lead to trouble.”

Young Howard flushed angrily as Mrs. Tremain said this. He did not seem to mind it when Glendenning accused him of his youth, but he didn’t like it coming from her.

Meanwhile Glendenning was examining the ring, and suddenly it came apart in his hand. The coils of the snake were still linked together, but instead of composing one solid ring they could now be spread several inches apart like the links of a golden chain. Mrs. Tremain turned pale, and gave a little shriek, as she saw this.

“Put it together again,” she cried; “put it together quickly.”

“What is the matter?” said Glendenning, looking up at her. She was standing two or three steps above him; Glendenning was at the bottom of the stair; young Howard stood on the same step as Mrs. Tremain, and I was a step or two above them.

“Put it together,” cried Mrs. Tremain again. “I am trying to,” said Glendenning, “is there a spring somewhere?”

“Oh, I cannot tell you,” she answered, nervously clasping and unclasping her hands; “but if you do not put it together without help, that means very great ill-luck for both you and me.”

“Does it?” said Glendenning, looking up at her with a peculiar glance, quite ignoring our presence.

“Yes, it does,” she said; “try your best to put that ring together as you found it.” It was quite evident that Mrs. Tremain had all the superstition of Mexico.

Glendenning fumbled with the ring one way and another, and finally said, “I cannot put it together.”

“Let me try,” said young Howard.

“No, no, that will do no good.” Saying which Mrs. Tremain snatched the links from Glendenning, slipped them into one ring again, put it on her finger, and dashed quickly up the stairs without saying a word of good night to any of us.

Glendenning was about to proceed up the stair after her, when young Howard very ostentatiously placed himself directly in his path. Glendenning seemed to hesitate for a moment, then thought better of it, turned on his heel and walked down the passage towards the saloon.

“Look here, Howard,” I said, “you are going to get yourself into trouble. There’s sure to be a fuss on board this steamer before we reach Liverpool.”

“I wouldn’t be at all surprised,” answered young Howard.

“Well, do you think it will be quite fair to Mrs. Tremain?”

“Oh, I shan’t bring her name into the matter.”

“The trouble will be to keep her name out. It may not be in your power to do that. A person who interferes in other people’s affairs must do so with tact and caution.”

Young Howard looked up at me with a trace of resentment in his face. “Aren’t you interfering now?” he said.

“You are quite right, I am. Good night.” And I went up the stairway. Howard shouted after me, but I did not see him again that night.

Next day we were nearing Queenstown, and, as I had letters to write, I saw nothing of young Howard till the evening. I found him unreasonably contrite for what he had said to me the night before; and when I told him he had merely spoken the truth, and was quite justified in doing so, he seemed more miserable than ever.

“Come,” he said, “let us have a walk on the deck.”

It was between nine and ten o’clock; and when we got out on the deck, I said to him, “Without wishing to interfere any further—”

“Now, don’t say that,” he cried; “it is cruel.”

“Well, I merely wanted to know where your two charges are.”

“I don’t know,” he answered, in a husky whisper; “they are not in the usual corner to-night, and I don’t know where they are.”

“She is probably with her husband,” I suggested.

“No, he is down in the saloon reading.”

As young Howard was somewhat prone to get emphatic when he began to talk upon this subject, and as there was always a danger of other people overhearing what he said, I drew him away to a more secluded part of the ship. On this particular boat there was a wheelhouse aft unused, and generally filled up with old steamer chairs. A narrow passage led around this at the curving stern, seldom used by promenaders because of certain obstructions which, in the dark, were apt to trip a person up. Chains or something went from this wheelhouse to the sides of the ship, and, being covered up by boxes of plank, made this part of the deck hard to travel on in the dark. As we went around this narrow passage young Howard was the first to stop. He clutched my arm, but said nothing. There in the dark was the faint outline of two persons, with their backs towards us, leaning over the stern of the ship. The vibration at this part of the boat, from the throbbing of the screw, made it impossible for them to hear our approach. They doubtless thought they were completely in the dark; but they were deluded in that idea, because the turmoil of the water left a brilliant phosphorescent belt far in the rear of the ship, and against this bright, faintly yellow luminous track their forms were distinctly outlined. It needed no second glance to see that the two were Glendenning and Mrs. Tremain. Her head rested on his shoulder, and his arm was around her waist.

“Let us get back,” I said in a whisper; and, somewhat to my surprise, young Howard turned back with me. I felt his hand trembling on my arm, but he said nothing. Before we could say a word to each other a sadden and unexpected complication arose. We met Captain Tremain, with a shawl on his arm, coming towards us.

“Good evening, captain,” I said; “have a turn on the deck with us?”

“No, thanks,” he replied, “I am looking for my wife. I want to give her this shawl to put over her shoulders. She is not accustomed to such chilly weather as we are now running into, and I am afraid she may take cold.”

All this time young Howard stood looking at him with a startled expression in his eyes, and his lower jaw dropped. I was afraid Captain Tremain would see him, and wonder what was the matter with the boy. I tried to bring him to himself by stamping my heel—not too gently—on his toes, but he turned his face in the semi-darkness toward me without changing its expression. The one idea that had taken possession of my mind was that Captain Tremain must not be allowed to go further aft than he was, and I tried by looks and nudges to tell young Howard to go back and give her warning, but the boy seemed to be completely dazed with the unexpected horror of the situation. To have this calm, stern, unsuspecting man come suddenly upon what we had seen at the stern of the boat was simply appalling to think of. He certainly would have killed Glendenning where he stood, and very likely Mrs. Tremain as well. As Captain Tremain essayed to pass us I collected my wits as well as I could, and said—

“Oh, by the way, captain, I wanted to speak to you about Mexico. Do you—do you—think that it is a good—er—place for investment?”

“Well,” said Captain Tremain, pausing, “I am not so sure about that. You see, their Government is so very unstable. The country itself is rich enough in mineral wealth, if that is what you mean.” All the while Howard stood there with his mouth agape, and I felt like shoving my fist into it.

“Here, Howard,” I said, “I want to speak to Captain Tremain for a moment. Take this shawl and find Mrs. Tremain, and give it to her.” Saying this, I took the shawl from the captain’s arm and threw it at young Howard. He appeared then to realise, for the first time, what was expected of him, and, giving me a grateful look, disappeared toward the stern.

“What I wanted more particularly to know about Mexico,” I said to the captain, who made no objection to this move, “was whether there would be any more—well, likely to have trouble—whether we would have trouble with them in a military way, you know—that’s more in your line.”

“Oh, I think not,” said the captain. “Of course, on the boundary where we were, there was always more or less trouble with border ruffians, sometimes on one side of the line and sometimes on the other. There is a possibility always that complications may arise from that sort of thing. Our officers might go over into the Mexican territory and seize a desperado there, or they might come over into ours. Still, I don’t think anything will happen to bring on a war such as we had once or twice with Mexico.”

At this moment I was appalled to hear Glendenning’s voice ring out above the noise of the vibration of the vessel.

“What do you mean by that, you scoundrel,” he said.

“Hallo,” exclaimed the captain, “there seems to be a row back there. I wonder what it is?”

“Oh, nothing serious, I imagine. Probably some steerage passengers have come on the cabin deck. I heard them having a row with some one to-day on that score. Let’s walk away from it.”

The captain took my arm, and we strolled along the deck while he gave me a great deal of valuable information about Mexico and the state of things along the border line, which I regret to say I cannot remember a word of. The impressions of a man who has been on the spot are always worth hearing, but my ears were strained to catch a repetition of the angry cry I had heard, or the continuation of the quarrel which it certainly seemed to be the beginning of. As we came up the deck again we met young Howard with the shawl still on his arm and Mrs. Tremain walking beside him. She was laughing in a somewhat hysterical manner, and his face was as pale as ashes with a drawn look about the corners of his lips, but the captain’s eyes were only on his wife.

“Why don’t you put on the shawl, my dear?” he said to her affectionately. “The shawl?” she answered. Then, seeing it on young Howard’s arm, she laughed, and said, “He never offered it to me.”

Young Howard made haste to place the shawl on her shoulders, which she arranged around herself in a very coquettish and charming way. Then she took her husband’s arm.

“Good night,” she said to me; “good night, and thanks, Mr. Howard.”

“Good night,” said the captain; “I will tell you more about that mine to-morrow.”

We watched them disappear towards the companion-way. I drew young Howard towards the side of the boat.

“What happened?” I asked eagerly. “Did you have trouble?”

“Very nearly, I made a slip of the tongue. I called her Mrs. Glendenning.”

“You called her _what_?”

“I said, ‘Mrs. Glendenning, your husband is looking for you.’ I had come right up behind them, and they hadn’t heard me, and of course both were very much startled. Glendenning turned round and shouted, ‘What do you mean by that, you scoundrel?’ and caught me by the throat. She instantly sprang between us, pushing him toward the stern of the boat, and me against the wheelhouse. “‘Hush, hush,’ she whispered; ‘you mean, Mr. Howard, that my husband is there, do you not?’

“‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘and he will be here in a moment unless you come with me.’ With that she said ‘Good night, Mr. Glendenning,’ and took my arm, and he, like a thief, slunk away round the other side of the wheelhouse. I was very much agitated. I suppose I acted like a fool when we met the captain, didn’t I?”

“You did,” I answered; “go on.”

“Well, Mrs. Tremain saw that, and she laughed at me, although I could see she was rather disturbed herself.”

Some time that night we touched at Queenstown, and next evening we were in Liverpool. When the inevitable explosion came, I have no means of knowing, and this, as I have said before, is a story without a conclusion.

Mrs. Tremain the next day was as bright and jolly as ever, and the last time I saw her, she was smiling over her shoulder at Glendenning, and not paying the slightest attention to either her husband on whose arm she hung, or to young Howard, who was hovering near.

Share and Share Alike

“The quick must haste to vengeance taste, For time is on his head; But he can wait at the door of fate, Though the stay be long and the hour be late— The dead.”

Melville Hardlock stood in the centre of the room with his feet wide apart and his hands in his trousers pockets, a characteristic attitude of his. He gave a quick glance at the door, and saw with relief that the key was in the lock, and that the bolt prevented anybody coming in unexpectedly. Then he gazed once more at the body of his friend, which lay in such a helpless-looking attitude upon the floor. He looked at the body with a feeling of mild curiosity, and wondered what there was about the lines of the figure on the floor that so certainly betokened death rather than sleep, even though the face was turned away from him. He thought, perhaps, it might be the hand with its back to the floor and its palm towards the ceiling; there was a certain look of hopelessness about that. He resolved to investigate the subject some time when he had leisure. Then his thoughts turned towards the subject of murder. It was so easy to kill, he felt no pride in having been able to accomplish that much. But it was not everybody who could escape the consequences of his crime. It required an acute brain to plan after events so that shrewd detectives would be baffled. There was a complacent conceit about Melville Hardlock, which was as much a part of him as his intense selfishness, and this conceit led him to believe that the future path he had outlined for himself would not be followed by justice.

With a sigh Melville suddenly seemed to realise that while there was no necessity for undue haste, yet it was not wise to be too leisurely in some things, so he took his hands from his pockets and drew to the middle of the floor a large Saratoga trunk. He threw the heavy lid open, and in doing so showed that the trunk was empty. Picking up the body of his friend, which he was surprised to note was so heavy and troublesome to handle, he with some difficulty doubled it up so that it slipped into the trunk. He piled on top of it some old coats, vests, newspapers, and other miscellaneous articles until the space above the body was filled. Then he pressed down the lid and locked it, fastening the catches at each end. Two stout straps were now placed around the trunk and firmly buckled after he had drawn them as tight as possible. Finally he damped the gum side of a paper label, and when he had pasted it on the end of the trunk, it showed the words in red letters, “S.S. _Platonic_, cabin, wanted.” This done, Melville threw open the window to allow the fumes of chloroform to dissipate themselves in the outside air. He placed a closed, packed and labelled portmanteau beside the trunk, and a valise beside that again, which, with a couple of handbags, made up his luggage. Then he unlocked the door, threw back the bolt, and, having turned the key again from the outside, strode down the thickly-carpeted stairs of the hotel into the large pillared and marble-floored vestibule where the clerk’s office was. Strolling up to the counter behind which stood the clerk of the hotel, he shoved his key across to that functionary, who placed it in the pigeon-hole marked by the number of his room.

“Did my friend leave for the West last night, do you know?”

“Yes,” answered the clerk, “he paid his bill and left. Haven’t you seen him since?”

“No,” replied Hardlock.

“Well, he’ll be disappointed about that, because he told me he expected to see you before he left, and would call up at your room later. I suppose he didn’t have time. By the way, he said you were going back to England to-morrow. Is that so?”

“Yes, I sail on the _Platonic_. I suppose I can have my luggage sent to the steamer from here without further trouble?”

“Oh, certainly,” answered the clerk; “how many pieces are there? It will be fifty cents each.”

“Very well; just put that down in my bill with the rest of the expenses, and let me have it to-night. I will settle when I come in. Five pieces of luggage altogether.”

“Very good. You’ll have breakfast to-morrow, I suppose?”

“Yes, the boat does not leave till nine o’clock.”

“Very well; better call you about seven, Mr. Hardlock. Will you have a carriage?”

“No, I shall walk down to the boat. You will be sure, of course, to have my things there in time.”

“Oh, no fear of that. They will be on the steamer by half-past eight.”

“Thank you.”

As Mr. Hardlock walked down to the boat next morning he thought he had done rather a clever thing in sending his trunk in the ordinary way to the steamer. “Most people,” he said to himself, “would have made the mistake of being too careful about it. It goes along in the ordinary course of business. If anything should go wrong it will seem incredible that a sane man would send such a package in an ordinary express waggon to be dumped about, as they do dump luggage about in New York.”

He stood by the gangway on the steamer watching the trunks, valises, and portmanteaus come on board.

“Stop!” he cried to the man, “that is not to go down in the hold; I want it. Don’t you see it’s marked ‘wanted?’”

“It is very large, sir,” said the man; “it will fill up a state-room by itself.”

“I have the captain’s room,” was the answer.

So the man flung the trunk down on the deck with a crash that made even the cool Mr. Hardlock shudder.

“Did you say you had the captain’s room, sir?” asked the steward standing near.

“Yes.”

“Then I am your bedroom steward,” was the answer; “I will see that the trunk is put in all right.”

The first day out was rainy but not rough; the second day was fair and the sea smooth. The second night Hardlock remained in the smoking-room until the last man had left. Then, when the lights were extinguished, he went out on the upper deck, where his room was, and walked up and down smoking his cigar. There was another man also walking the deck, and the red glow of his cigar, dim and bright alternately, shone in the darkness like a glow-worm.

Hardlock wished that he would turn in, whoever he was. Finally the man flung his cigar overboard and went down the stairway. Hartlock had now the dark deck to himself. He pushed open the door of his room and turned out the electric light. It was only a few steps from his door to the rail of the vessel high above the water. Dimly on the bridge he saw the shadowy figure of an officer walking back and forth. Hardlock looked over the side at the phosphorescent glitter of the water which made the black ocean seem blacker still. The sharp ring of the bell betokening midnight made Melville start as if a hand had touched him, and the quick beating of his heart took some moments to subside. “I’ve been smoking too much to-day,” he said to himself. Then looking quickly up and down the deck, he walked on tip toe to his room, took the trunk by its stout leather handle and pulled it over the ledge in the doorway. There were small wheels at the bottom of the trunk, but although they made the pulling of it easy, they seemed to creak with appalling loudness. He realised the fearful weight of the trunk as he lifted the end of it up on the rail. He balanced it there for a moment, and glanced sharply around him, but there was nothing to alarm him. In spite of his natural coolness, he felt a strange, haunting dread of some undefinable disaster, a dread which had been completely absent from him at the time he committed the murder. He shoved off the trunk before he had quite intended to do so, and the next instant he nearly bit through his tongue to suppress a groan of agony. There passed half a dozen moments of supreme pain and fear before he realised what had happened. His wrist had caught in the strap handle of the trunk, and his shoulder was dislocated. His right arm was stretched taut and helpless, like a rope holding up the frightful and ever-increasing weight that hung between him and the sea. His breast was pressed against the rail and his left hand gripped the iron stanchion to keep himself from going over. He felt that his feet were slipping, and he set his teeth and gripped the iron with a grasp that was itself like iron. He hoped the trunk would slip from his useless wrist, but it rested against the side of the vessel, and the longer it hung the more it pressed the hard strap handle into his nerveless flesh. He had realised from the first that he dare not cry for help, and his breath came hard through his clenched teeth as the weight grew heavier and heavier. Then, with his eyes strained by the fearful pressure, and perhaps dazzled by the glittering phosphorescence running so swiftly by the side of the steamer far below, he seemed to see from out the trunk something in the form and semblance of his dead friend quivering like summer heat below him. Sometimes it was the shimmering phosphorescence, then again it was the wraith hovering over the trunk. Hardlock, in spite of his agony, wondered which it really was; but he wondered no longer when it spoke to him.

“Old Friend,” it said, “you remember our compact when we left England. It was to be _share and share alike,_ my boy—_share and share alike._ I have had my share. Come!”

Then on the still night air came the belated cry for help, but it was after the foot had slipped and the hand had been wrenched from the iron stanchion.

An International Row

“A simple child That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of——” kicking up a row

(_Note_.—Only the last four words of the above poem are claimed as original.) “Then America declared war on England.”—_History of_ 1812

Lady, not feeling particularly well, reclining in a steamer chair, covered up with rags. Little girl beside her, who wants to know. Gentleman in an adjoining steamer chair. The little girl begins to speak.

“And do you have to pay to go in, mamma?”

“Yes, dear.”

“How much do you have to pay? As much as at a theatre?”

“Oh, you need not pay anything particular—no set sum, you know. You pay just what you can afford.”

“Then it’s like a collection at church, mamma?”

“Yes, dear.”

“And does the captain get the money, mamma?”

“No, dear; the money goes to the poor orphans, I think.”

“Where are the orphans, mamma?”

“I don’t know, dear, I think they are in Liverpool.”

“Whose orphans are they, mamma?”

“They are the orphans of sailors, dear.”

“What kind of sailors, mamma?”

“British sailors, darling.”

“Aren’t there any sailors in America, mamma?”

“Oh yes, dear, lots of them.”

“And do they have any orphans?”

“Yes, dear, I suppose there are orphans there too.”

“And don’t they get any of the money, mamma?”

“I am sure I do not know, dear. By the way, Mr. Daveling, how is that? Do they give any of the money to American orphans?”

“I believe not, madam. Subscriptions at concerts given on board British steamers are of course donated entirely to the Seamen’s Hospital or Orphanage of Liverpool.”

“Well, that doesn’t seem to be quite fair, does it? A great deal of the money is subscribed by Americans.”

“Yes, madam, that is perfectly true.”

“I should think that ten Americans cross on these lines for every one Englishman.”

“I am sure I do not know, madam, what the proportion is. The Americans are great travellers, so are the English too, for that matter.”

“Yes; but I saw in one of the papers that this year alone over a hundred thousand persons had taken their passage from New York to England. It seems to me, that as all of them contribute to the receipts of the concerts, some sort of a division should be made.”

“Oh, I have no doubt if the case were presented to the captain, he would be quite willing to have part of the proceeds at least go to some American seamen’s charity.”

“I think that would be only fair.”

Two young ladies, arm in arm, approach, and ask Mrs. Pengo how she is feeling to-day.

Mrs. Pengo replies that she doesn’t suppose she will feel any better as long as this rolling of the ship continues.

They claim, standing there, endeavouring to keep as perpendicular as possible, that the rolling is something simply awful.

Then the lady says to them, “Do you know, girls, that all the money subscribed at the concerts goes to England?”

“Why, no; I thought it went to some charity.”

“Oh, it _does_ go to a charity. It goes to the Liverpool Seamen’s Hospital.”

“Well, isn’t that all right?”

“Yes, it’s all right enough; but, as Sadie was just suggesting now, it doesn’t seem quite fair, when there are orphans of sailors belonging to America, and as long as such large sums are subscribed by Americans, that the money should not be divided and part of it at least given to an American charity.”

“Why, that seems perfectly fair, doesn’t it, Mr. Daveling?”

“Yes, it is perfectly fair. I was just suggesting that perhaps if the state of things was presented to the captain, he would doubtless give a portion at least of the proceeds to an American Seamen’s Home—if such an institution exists.”

“Then,” remarked the other girl, “I propose we form a committee, and interview the captain. I think that if Americans subscribe the bulk of the money, which they certainly do, they should have a voice in the disposal of it.”

This was agreed to on all hands, and so began one of the biggest rows that ever occurred on board an Atlantic liner. Possibly, if the captain had had any tact, and if he had not been so thoroughly impressed with his own tremendous importance, what happened later on would not have happened.

The lady in the steamer chair took little part in the matter, in fact it was not at that time assumed to be of any importance whatever; but the two young American girls were enthusiastic, and they spoke to several of the passengers about it, both American and English. The English passengers all recognised the justice of the proposed plan, so a committee of five young ladies, and one young gentleman as spokesman, waited upon the captain. The young ladies at first had asked the doctor of the ship to be the spokesman; but when the doctor heard what the proposal was, he looked somewhat alarmed, and stroked his moustache thoughtfully.

“I don’t know about that,” he said; “it is a little unusual. The money has always gone to the Liverpool Seamen’s Hospital, and—well, you see, we are a conservative people. We do a thing in one way for a number of years, and then keep on doing it because we have always done it in that way.”

“Yes,” burst out one of the young ladies, “that is no reason why an unjust thing should be perpetuated. Merely because a wrong has been done is no reason why it should be done again.”

“True,” said the doctor, “true,” for he did not wish to fall out with the young lady, who was very pretty; “but, you see, in England we think a great deal of precedent.”

And so the result of it all was that the doctor demurred at going to see the captain in relation to the matter. He said it wouldn’t be the thing, as he was an official, and that it would be better to get one of the passengers.

I was not present at the interview, and of course know only what was told me by those who were there. It seems that the captain was highly offended at being approached on such a subject at all. A captain of an ocean liner, as I have endeavoured to show, is a very great personage indeed. And sometimes I imagine the passengers are not fully aware of this fact, or at least they do not show it as plainly as they ought to. Anyhow, the committee thought the captain had been exceedingly gruff with them, as well as just a trifle impolite. He told them that the money from the concerts had always gone to the Liverpool Seamen’s Hospital, and always would while he was commanding a ship. He seemed to infer that the permission given them to hold a concert on board the ship was a very great concession, and that people should be thankful for the privilege of contributing to such a worthy object.

So, beginning with the little girl who wanted to know, and ending with the captain who commanded the ship, the conflagration was started.

Such is British deference to authority that, as soon as the captain’s decision was known, those who had hitherto shown an open mind on the subject, and even those who had expressed themselves as favouring the dividing of the money, claimed that the captain’s dictum had settled the matter. Then it was that every passenger had to declare himself. “Those who are not with us,” said the young women, “are against us.” The ship was almost immediately divided into two camps. It was determined to form a committee of Americans to take the money received from the second concert; for it was soon resolved to hold two concerts, one for the American Seamen’s Orphans’ Home and the other for that at Liverpool.

One comical thing about the row was, that nobody on board knew whether an American Seamen’s Orphans’ Home existed or not. When this problem was placed before the committee of young people, they pooh-poohed the matter. They said it didn’t make any difference at all; if there was no Seamen’s Hospital in America, it was quite time there should be one; and so they proposed that the money should be given to the future hospital, if it did not already exist.

When everything was prepared for the second concert there came a bolt from the blue. It was rumoured round the ship that the captain had refused his permission for the second concert to be held. The American men, who had up to date looked with a certain amused indifference on the efforts of the ladies, now rallied and held a meeting in the smoking-room. Every one felt that a crisis had come, and that the time to let loose the dogs of war—sea-dogs in this instance—had arrived. A committee was appointed to wait upon the captain next day. The following morning the excitement was at its highest pitch. It was not safe for an American to be seen conversing with an Englishman, or _vice versâ_.

Rumour had it at first—in fact all sorts of wild rumours were flying around the whole forenoon—that the captain refused to see the delegation of gentlemen who had requested audience with him. This rumour, however, turned out to be incorrect. He received the delegation in his room with one or two of the officers standing beside him. The spokesman said—

“Captain, we are informed that you have concluded not to grant permission to the Americans to hold a concert in aid of the American Seamen’s Orphans’ Home. We wish to know if this is true?”

“You have been correctly informed,” replied the captain.

“We are sorry to hear that,” answered the spokesman. “Perhaps you will not object to tell us on what grounds you have refused your permission?”

“Gentlemen,” said the captain, “I have received you in my room because you requested an interview. I may say, however, that I am not in the habit of giving reasons for anything I do, to the passengers who honour this ship with their company.”

“Then,” said the spokesman, endeavouring to keep calm, but succeeding only indifferently, “it is but right that we should tell you that we regard such a proceeding on your part as a high handed outrage; that we will appeal against your decision to the owners of this steamship, and that, unless an apology is tendered, we will never cross on this line again, and we will advise all our compatriots never to patronise a line where such injustice is allowed.”

“Might I ask you,” said the captain very suavely, “of what injustice you complain?”

“It seems to us,” said the spokesman, “that it is a very unjust thing to allow one class of passengers to hold a concert, and to refuse permission to another class to do the same thing.”

“If that is all you complain of,” said the captain, “I quite agree with you. I think that would be an exceedingly unjust proceeding.”

“Is not that what you are about to do?”

“Not that I am aware of.”

“You have prohibited the American concert?”

“Certainly. But I have prohibited the English concert as well.”

The American delegates looked rather blankly at each other, and then the spokesman smiled. “Oh, well,” he said, “if you have prohibited both of them, I don’t see that we have anything to grumble at.”

“Neither do I,” said the captain.

The delegation then withdrew; and the passengers had the unusual pleasure of making one ocean voyage without having to attend the generally inevitable amateur concert.

A Ladies Man

“Jest w’en we guess we’ve covered the trail So’s no one can’t foller, w’y then we fail W’en we feel safe hid. Nemesis, the cuss, Waltzes up with nary a warnin’ nor fuss. Grins quiet like, and says, ‘How d’y do, So glad we’ve met, I’m a-lookin’ fer you’”