In a Steamer Chair, and Other Stories

"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."

"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.