Part 39

The creature clawed and clutched desperately, swung under the bending branch, came up on the other side, and began to come down, facing him with wild yellow eyes. He caught her as she came within reach. He thought the touch of a firm human hand would reassure the terrified animal, but it was not so. She appeared to be suspicious and resentful.

As the cat’s claws pierced his shoulder, Edward recoiled, and very nearly fell from the ladder. Probably he uttered some sort of exclamation, as almost anybody would. Anyhow, Mildred’s head appeared at an upper window.

“I’m getting your cat down,” Edward explained.

By the time he had reached the foot of the ladder, with the cat, Mildred had opened the front door. She was carrying something in her arms, which she set down in the shadow of the veranda. She gave it a gentle push with her foot, and it ran off, unseen by Edward.

Edward set down his cat, and she also ran off.

“There you are!” he said.

Mildred came down the steps.

“Oh, Eddie!” she cried.

It was quite light now in the open. He could see her face, and it seemed to him rather wonderful.

“Eddie!” she said. “You’re soaking wet! Oh, Eddie, it was all my fault!”

“I don’t know that it was,” replied Edward meditatively. “Some of it was my fault, I think.”

She came nearer to him.

“Oh, Eddie!” she cried. “It really doesn’t matter one bit whose fault things are, does it?”

He was startled, for that was his own particular bit of wisdom, painfully arrived at. Mildred _was_ a remarkable girl!

MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE

JULY, 1925 Vol. LXXXV NUMBER 2

Miss What’s-Her-Name

AN INEXPERIENCED TRAVELER’S EVENTFUL VOYAGE TO A SUMMER ISLE OF PALM TREES AND SAPPHIRE WATERS

By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

Miss Smith was a governess. She was not one of those beautiful young governesses so popular in romance, who live in the families of earls or millionaires and suffer all sorts of persecutions. Though young, Miss Smith was not exactly beautiful, and certainly she was not persecuted. On the contrary, the Pattersons were kind to her and thought very highly of her.

She was a brisk, sensible little thing, neat as a new pin, with crisp, curling black hair, clear blue eyes, and a lovely, healthy color. Her dress, her manner, her smile, were brisk and neat and sensible. Everything about her was pleasant--except for one great black shadow at the back of her mind, which she bravely pretended to ignore.

Sometimes, however, this lurking shadow refused to be ignored and crept out, clouding her clear blue eyes, troubling her nice, sensible thoughts, and making her, all in an instant, pale and downcast and dismayed. The shadow was a fear--fear of poverty, fear of defeat and failure, fear, above all, of romance.

Miss Smith’s charming mother and father had been a romantic couple, and she remembered what had happened to them. They had both been too poor and too young and too charming. They had had no business to get married, but they had got married, and their daughter remembered--

She remembered her mother putting a piece of cardboard inside her slipper, because of a great hole in the sole, and her father going down on one knee to kiss the slender little foot. It was very romantic, but Miss Smith had seen tears in her father’s eyes and in her mother’s.

She remembered a terrible quarrel over a boiled egg. There had been only two eggs. She, a little girl, had got one of them for her breakfast, and the other had been set before her father; but he wouldn’t have it. He said that Nora positively needed it; and Nora--her mother--said that she didn’t need it, didn’t want it, and wouldn’t have it.

In the end Mr. Smith had thrown the egg out of the window, where it lay in the mud, with the summer rain beating down on it. He had shouted bitterly that he was no good, because he couldn’t make enough money to buy enough eggs for his family; and the little girl had cried, and her mother had cried, and their poor devoted little servant--their servants were always devoted--had cried, too. It had ended with her father sitting on the arm of her mother’s chair, tenderly stroking that wonderful black hair, and herself sitting on her mother’s lap, while the little servant stood in the doorway, drying her eyes on her apron. Everybody begged everybody else’s pardon, and, after a while, they all laughed; and that very morning a devoted neighbor--for their neighbors were generally devoted, too--sent them a dozen new-laid eggs.

That was the sort of thing which was always happening to them; but Miss Smith remembered, not the gay ending, but the storm itself. Her mother had said, often and often, that her life had been a beautiful one, that she had been blessed above any woman she knew in the love and comradeship of her husband; but Miss Smith remembered too many tears, too many anxieties. She sometimes added, at the end of her prayers:

“And please, dear Lord, don’t let me do anything like _that_!”

She would not have made that particular prayer with such particular earnestness if she had not known how easy it would be for her to do something like that; but she did know. She knew that the germs of that fatal disease called romance were in her blood, and she had to take frequent doses of a bitter sort of moral quinine to keep them inactive.

One of the best of these cures was in repeating to herself her full name--her poor, pathetic, dreadful name, which she never let any one know. Mr. and Mrs. Patterson were middle-aged and very serious, and Gladys Patterson, though only ten in years, was quite a settled and responsible character; and the life in that sedate West Side house was so calm, so orderly, that there was much time for idle, foolish thoughts. When any such came drifting through her mind, Miss Smith would repeat her name to herself with a stern smile, and would be deeply thankful for the “Smith” part of it, which was so thoroughly unromantic and sensible.

She tried to be thankful all the time. Before going to sleep she would tell herself how thankful she was for this nice, dignified, safe position, where she could probably remain five years longer, if she continued to do her duty. The very thought of having to leave the Pattersons and go out to look for a new position dismayed her; but she comforted herself by the thought that in five years’ time she would be twenty-nine--which is almost thirty--and that she would probably be much more sensible then than she was now.

In the meantime all she asked was that life should let her alone, and she would let it alone. She couldn’t bear the idea of change.

When Mr. Patterson first began talking about a trip to Bermuda, she was so much delighted with the idea that she knew it must be wrong, and became frightened, and hoped and hoped that that wonderful and dangerous thing would never happen. When the trip was definitely settled upon, she was increasingly miserable. Of course it wasn’t her business to give advice to Mr. Patterson, and she never said a word, but she knew that it was foolish. She knew how much better it would be to stay at home and be safe.

When Mr. Patterson talked about crystal caves and sapphire water and angel fishes, when he spoke of blue skies and palm trees and roses in December, she was ready to cry. She knew it was perfectly impossible for such things to exist, and still more impossible that she could ever see them. It was a dream, and dreams are terribly dangerous. She would not buy any new clothes for the trip, and she would not believe in it.

That is how matters stood on that dreadful Saturday morning when Miss Smith cried:

“Oh, I’ve forgotten my ticket!”

II

Certain psychologists say that we forget only what we wish to forget, but it would be a gross libel to say that poor Miss Smith had wanted to forget her ticket. Quite the contrary! She was terribly ashamed of herself, and terribly worried.

“I’ll go back and get it,” she said.

They were all on the pier then, and other passengers, who had not forgotten their tickets, were showing them and going aboard. Trunks and bags were being trundled past. Miss Smith caught a glimpse of the gangplank, a curtain of fine, steady rain, and, behind that curtain, the deck of the ship. There was magic about that ship, as there is about all ships. There was the ship smell, as exciting as gunpowder.

“I’ll _rush_ back and get it!” cried Miss Smith.

That was really the beginning of the whole thing, and quite as strange as any of the other things that happened. For Miss Smith to cry, in that eager voice, that she would “rush,” for Miss Smith to be so flushed and starry-eyed, for Miss Smith to be saying to herself, “Oh, I wouldn’t miss going for _anything_!”--all this was nothing less than marvelous.

“You’ve just about got time,” said Mr. Patterson severely.

She rushed madly. A taxi had just drawn up outside, and a young man dashed out of it in a frightful hurry. Miss Smith seemed vaguely to remember his face, but it didn’t matter. She was in the taxi almost as soon as his foot touched the ground. She was off. She was urging on the taxi, in silence, with clenched hands. She would not miss that ship. She wanted to go! She would go!

Like a whirlwind she tore up the stairs of the sedate West Side house. She pulled open her bureau drawer so violently that it came out altogether and fell to the floor. There was the ticket. She thrust it into her coat pocket, flew down the stairs, past the astonished servants, hopped into the taxi again, and was off. How thankful she was now that Mr. Patterson, in his characteristic fashion, had insisted upon their going down to the ship in good time!

The rain was coming down steadily. The taxi splashed through puddles, and sometimes skidded a little, but what cared she? She felt triumphant and happy. She felt sure she would not miss the ship; and she did not. The crowd standing on the pier and the crowd standing on the deck, separated by the curtain of rain, saw a flushed and breathless young woman hurry up the gangplank at the very last moment. Up went the plank, a minute later the whistle blew, and they were off.

Still a little breathless, Miss Smith stood by the railing. In the excitement of the moment she felt inclined to wave her hand, or her handkerchief, as the people about her were doing; but that was absurd, for she wasn’t saying good-by to any one, wasn’t leaving any one behind. She turned, instead, to look for the Pattersons.

They were not in sight, and Miss Smith, being a very inexperienced traveler, did not quite know how to find them. As they were all on the same ship, however, this did not worry her very much. She found a steward to lead her to the stateroom that she was to share with Mrs. Patterson and Gladys, and knocked on the door. No one answered. She opened the door and went in. Not a trace of a Patterson there--no baggage except her own suit case. She had had a steamer trunk, too, but it was not there.

Miss Smith sat down in a wicker armchair and waited. She meant to wait patiently, but as a matter of fact she waited delightedly. The throb of the engines set her blood dancing. Everything she saw was fascinating--the three berths so neatly made up, the snugness, the coziness of this little cabin, with the rain falling outside. She knew that she had been very stupid and careless about the ticket, and that Mr. and Mrs. Patterson were surprised and not very well pleased; but even that couldn’t disturb her just now. She was on a ship, sailing the sea!

The sound of a bugle interrupted her reverie. Common sense, and another and stronger inner voice, told her that this must mean lunch. There was a little book hanging up on the wall. She looked in it, and learned that lunch began at half past twelve. It was noon now.

“Perhaps they’ll wait for me in the dining room--I mean, the dining saloon,” thought Miss Smith. “I wonder if I ought to go down there or wait here! I wonder what I ought to do!”

She sat where she was for another very long half hour. Then she washed her hands, straightened her hat, and set forth, rather timidly. She felt that the Pattersons were keeping away from her in order to show their disapproval, and she didn’t altogether blame them.

That apologetic look, that little shadow of a doubtful smile, were singularly becoming to her. What is more, the damp air had made her hair curl quite riotously, and the glow of her recent excitement still lingered on her face. Mr. Powers saw her standing there, looking anxiously about the dining saloon, and he thought he had never seen such a pretty little thing.

III

The fog had closed round them. The engines stopped, and the ship wallowed helplessly in a heavy sea. The great whistle blew warningly, threateningly, but nothing answered. The engines started up again, and the ship moved forward slowly. The captain was maneuvering very cautiously against this worst of all sea enemies.

The passengers, thought Mr. Powers, were as unconcerned as so many babies in a huge perambulator. There they sat, wrapped up in their steamer chairs, reading, or talking, or flirting, or disapproving of flirting, trusting absolutely to that unseen captain. Mr. Powers had traveled so much that he knew that things could happen. He was not apprehensive or nervous, for that was not his nature; but he was alert and interested. He lay back in his own deck chair, his soft hat pulled well down, and under it his dark eyes stared thoughtfully before him at the impenetrable fog. People tramped past him, but he took only a mild interest in them until--

“Again!” he said to himself. “What on earth is that girl doing?”

By “that girl” he meant Miss Smith, who had just hurried by like a leaf in the wind, her face pale and anxious. It was the third time she had hurried by like that, and he felt quite sure that she was not walking for amusement or health. Evidently she was troubled--very much troubled; and Mr. Powers, instead of telling himself that it was none of his business, wanted to help her.

That little figure hastening through the rainy dusk, so pale and troubled, made a strong appeal to his imagination. He did not make light of other people’s difficulties, and was not afraid to meddle in other people’s affairs, either, if he thought he could be of any use. He was not a very cautious or prudent young man, anyhow. He felt thoroughly at home in this world, and on excellent terms with his fellow creatures, and was not at all shy or awkward with them. He was waiting for a chance to speak to this young woman, and it came.

Miss Smith did not appear for some time. Before she passed Mr. Powers again, she had climbed to the upper deck, and had got thoroughly wet and chilled. She was thoroughly disheartened, too, so that there were tears in her eyes, and she couldn’t see very well. In consequence, she stumbled against an empty deck chair.

“Oh! Excuse me!” she said, to nobody at all, and crossed hastily to the rail, ostensibly to look out over it, but really to dry her eyes.

Mr. Powers stood beside her.

“You’re very wet,” he said.

“Oh! No, thank you!” replied Miss Smith politely.

“Don’t mention it,” said he, equally polite; “but you really are. If I were you--”

“But I--I can’t find the people I’m with!” cried Miss Smith, with something like a sob.

She was too miserable to realize that she was actually talking to a strange man. She didn’t even glance at him. She didn’t care what he looked like. He had an agreeable and steady sort of voice, however. Anyhow, the moment had come when she had to tell some one.

“I’ve looked and looked--and I can’t find them!” she went on.

Now some people pretend, out of pompousness and self-importance, never to be surprised by anything, and Mr. Patterson was one of these. If you told him of anything amazing, he would say:

“Ah! Is that so? Well, I’m not at all surprised.”

Some people really are not surprised by anything, because they know what an astounding world this is; and Mr. Powers was one of these. So he said, in a quiet and friendly way:

“Perhaps I can help you. I’ll try.”

Poor little Miss Smith had no objection to his trying. She went below to her cabin, changed into dry clothes from her suit case, and rested. She did everything that Mr. Powers had suggested, and one thing that he had not suggested--which was to shed a few tears, for it was a very distressing situation.

A little after four o’clock she descended to the dining saloon for a cup of tea, and to see Mr. Powers, who was to meet her there and give her his news of the lost Pattersons. She had felt sure that Mr. Powers would be there waiting for her, and he was; yet Miss Smith gave a start at the sight of him.

This benevolent stranger who had so kindly offered to help her was not the bespectacled, middle-aged stranger he ought to have been, but a remarkably good-looking young man. Though he was neatly and quietly dressed, and in no way conspicuous, either in appearance or manner, yet there was something in the nonchalant grace of his tall body, in the expression of his dark, keen face, that was unmistakably--romantic. She felt it, she knew it. As she came toward him, her own expression changed, and she became every inch a governess.

It seemed to be part of Mr. Powers’s mental equipment, however, to judge pretty shrewdly what other people were feeling. He spoke to Miss Smith in quite an impersonal tone.

“I’m afraid,” he said, “that the people you’re with aren’t with _you_. It appears that neither they nor their luggage ever came aboard.”

“Oh!” cried Miss Smith. “But they must have come! They had their tickets, and I left them on the pier, with all their trunks and bags. Oh, can I possibly have got on the wrong ship?”

“No,” said he. “Your name’s on the passenger list, and so are their names; but they’re not aboard.”

“But where are they? They couldn’t have--have fallen overboard?”

“Well,” said Mr. Powers thoughtfully, “three of them together would make quite a splash. I imagine some one would have noticed it.”

“I’ve read about people falling down into holds,” said Miss Smith. “Do you think--”

“I shouldn’t count on that,” said Mr. Powers. “No--it seems pretty clear to me that they changed their minds at the last moment, for some reason, and remained ashore.”

Mr. Patterson change his mind at the last moment? That was the most impossible solution of all.

“It can’t be that,” said Miss Smith, shaking her head. “No! Something has happened!”

Mr. Powers looked down at her in silence for a moment.

“Is it--serious?” he asked. “I mean, does it make very much difference to you, your friends not being here?”

“Difference!” cried Miss Smith. “Why, it--” She stopped short. “You see,” she went on, in an altered tone, “I’m their governess.”

She looked steadily at the stranger as she said this, because she knew that to some persons a governess would be quite a different creature from an independent traveler. If it made a difference to this young man, she thought she would like to know it. As far as she could judge, it did not. He returned her glance in the same friendly, quiet fashion.

“I see!” he said.

Miss Smith was quite sure, however, that he did not see, or even imagine. If he had, he wouldn’t have suggested her sending a radio message to the Pattersons’ house.

“I--no, thanks,” said Miss Smith. “It really wouldn’t do any good. I’m here, and I’ve got to go on. I’ll come back on the same ship.”

For she had her return ticket and nothing else--absolutely nothing else except two quarters, which she found in her coat pocket. When she made her mad dash for the forgotten ticket, she had had a bill clutched in her hand, and the two coins were the change that the driver had given her. She knew that she had had her purse with her on the pier, just before that, but what had become of it she could not tell. Had she dropped it on the pier? Had she intrusted it to the Pattersons? Had she left it in the taxi, or in the house? Anyhow, it was gone. The Pattersons were gone. Her trunk was gone. Here she was, sailing over the Atlantic, with two quarters and a suit case.

She wasn’t going to allow this strange young man to pay for a radio message for her. Besides, what could she say? “Where are you?” “What shall I do?” Impossible! Something had happened--something mysterious, inexplicable. All that she could do now was to go on to Bermuda, come back as fast as possible, and present herself before the Pattersons. Then she would be informed; and she felt pretty sure that she had lost not only her purse but her nice, safe position as well.

The Pattersons had been disgusted with her for forgetting her ticket, and, in their anger, they had set her adrift. Perhaps she would never find them again. She would never get another position, if she couldn’t get a reference from the Pattersons. Her trunk was lost, with almost all her clothes. Things were as bad as they could be.

As she considered this appalling situation, a strange thing happened to Miss Smith. Instead of feeling utterly crushed, a curious sort of elation came over her. She suddenly felt very happy, very light, as if her worldly possessions and prospects had been so many heavy burdens, which had now fallen from her shoulders and left her free.

“We might as well have our tea,” she remarked cheerfully.

There were little fancy cakes on the table, and she liked little fancy cakes. The tea was good, too. It was the most refreshing, invigorating tea she had ever tasted. She had two cups of it. Then she went up on the promenade deck with Mr. Powers, and they walked. It was dark now, and chilly and windy, but she liked that strong, salt wind.

“Where’s your deck chair?” asked Mr. Powers.

“Oh, I don’t know!” said she. “I never asked.”

“I’ll find it for you,” said he, and settled her comfortably in his, with his rug wrapped about her, while he went off.

She watched him going. Then she watched every one else who passed by; and it could not be denied that of all the men whom Miss Smith saw not one was so handsome, so distinguished, so interesting as Mr. Powers.