VII
Miss Smith had done the obvious thing. She could not set off with her suit case and walk home, so she had taken the next best course. She had gone quietly out of the back door, through the garden, and down the road in the direction of the ship, which was, after all, a sort of bridge to home.
It was a long walk, and she had to ask her way, but in the course of time she got there. A young officer was standing under the shed, superintending the unloading of the cargo, and she went up to him.
“You’re one of the officers, aren’t you?” she asked.
He took off his cap and smiled at her. It was such a nice smile that she was able to go on, in a brisk, sensible way:
“I was one of the passengers, you know.”
“Yes,” said he. “I saw you on board.”
“And I want to go back,” said Miss Smith. “I want to go on the ship now, and stay there until it sails.”
He couldn’t help looking astonished.
“But I’m afraid—” he began.
“Well, I’ve got to!” cried Miss Smith, and he saw, with dismay, that there were tears in her eyes. “I’ve g-got to! I have some money in the savings bank in New York, and I can pay whatever it costs as soon as we get back.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” he said politely; “but I’m afraid—”
He was silent for a moment, thinking of some tactful way of offering his assistance to this young person with tears in her eyes. No one could have felt more sympathetic than he; but Miss Smith, weary and sick at heart, firmly believed that he, too, thought her an adventuress.
“I’m a governess,” she said, in an unexpectedly loud and severe tone. “The family I was coming with somehow missed the ship, and—”
“What?” he cried. “A governess! But wait—look here!”
“Yes, I am!” said she. “I am!”
“Yes, but look here! I was at the gangway, you know, and just before we sailed a young chap came dashing up and gave me a purse—a long brown purse—”
“My purse!”
“‘It’s for Miss—can’t remember the name,’ he said. ‘It’s for Miss What’s-Her-Name, the governess,’ and then he dashed off again.”
“That’s me!” cried Miss Smith, pardonably ungrammatical in her emotion.
“Look here! I’m most awfully sorry!” said the young officer earnestly. “It’s all my fault. I turned it over to the purser and told him that Miss What’s-Her-Name would probably come and ask for it. You see, I never thought you could be a governess, you know. I am sorry!”
“But is it there? Can I get it?”
“Rather!” said he. “Purser’s on board now, getting ready to go ashore. I’ll fetch him.”
Off he went, and was back in no time with the purser and Miss Smith’s pocketbook. There was a note inside it.
My dear Miss Smith:
At the moment of embarkation I have received a message that my father in Chicago is danger[Pg 244]ously ill, and wishes his family with him. I find we have just time to catch the next train. As it is too late to cancel our tickets, it seems advisable that you at least should continue with the trip, so that the entire outlay will not be wasted. You will, I am sure, have an instructive and entertaining account of your experience for Gladys when you rejoin us in New York. You will find your trunk and suit case in your stateroom.
As I do not know what money you may have in hand, I inclose an express money order, to cover whatever expenses may arise.
Wishing you a pleasant and profitable trip, I remain,
Very truly yours,
Henry Patterson.
“You see!” cried Miss Smith. “You see, I am—”
But she could not go on. The purser and the second officer—the latter had come up just then—decided that she ought to have a cup of tea, to quiet her nerves, so they all went over to a little tea room in the town.
It was there that Powers found her sitting at the table with two young men, all of them very jolly and cheerful. For a moment she was glad that he should see her like that—no longer forlorn and dejected, but a real human girl. Hat in hand, he stood beside her. He, too, tried to look jolly and cheerful, but he failed; and, looking up at him, Miss Smith felt a sudden sharp stab of regret. The adventure was over.
She introduced him to the two young men, and explained to him about the recovery of her purse.
“Good!” said he. “Then everything’s all right now?”
Of course everything was all right now, and yet—and yet somehow it wasn’t. Something seemed to be wrong. The two young men from the ship seemed to know this. They said they had better be getting along, and, after cordial farewells, they did go along.
Mr. Powers still stood where he was, still trying to look pleased, and still failing to do so; and in a flash Miss Smith understood just how he felt. He had wanted to be the one to make everything come out right, and it was cruel that he had not been. It was their adventure—his and hers. Nobody else had any business to get into it. It was coming out wrong!
Now Miss Smith knew very well that heroines in adventures rarely take a very active part, and that things just happen to them; but she was not quite accustomed to adventures yet, and she was in the habit of doing things for herself. Moreover, Darcy Powers was playing his part very poorly, simply standing there and not suggesting their talking it over.
“I’d like to go back and see Mrs. Mount,” she said firmly.
His face brightened remarkably.
“I didn’t think you’d ever—” he began.
“I’d like to show her that letter and explain—”
“See here!” he interrupted. “It’s not for you to make explanations!”
She liked the way he said that!
“Still,” she said, “I’d rather.”
So they got into a carriage and drove off along that same road; but it was all very different now. The sun had gone down, leaving a soft, dark violet sky. The bright colors were dimmed. It was, she thought, a subdued and rather melancholy world. The adventure was over.
Mr. Powers remarked again how glad he was that everything had come out all right; but, as Miss Smith said nothing in response to this, he was discouraged and fell silent for a time.
“I never thought you’d come back there,” he said at last. “I thought—perhaps you had overheard what my aunt said, and—”
“Yes, I did overhear it,” said Miss Smith, in a calm and reasonable tone; “but, after all, she knew nothing about me. Why should she?”
“Anybody would know that you were—” he began, and stopped.
Miss Smith waited in vain to hear what she was. Turning a corner, they entered a road where the trees arched overhead and the low white walls gleamed ghostlike. A faint breeze rustled the leaves, and the little whistling frogs had set up their music. The lights of Mrs. Mount’s cottage were visible at the end of the road.
A strange pain seized Miss Smith. The lights of that little house, shining out steadily into the tranquil dusk, put her in mind of another cottage—her home, so long ago—and of the mother and father who had lived in it. She thought of the careless laughter, the hope, the courage, the great love, that had made their whole life a delightful adventure. Foolish? Romantic? Unpractical?
“They were the wisest, most wonderful people who ever lived,” she said to herself, with a stifled sob; “and the bravest. They weren’t afraid of life, like me![Pg 245]”
“I wonder what happened to your trunk!” said Mr. Powers.
So that was all he could think of to say!
“I don’t know,” she answered; “and I don’t care, either. I suppose it must have been taken away by mistake with the Pattersons’ luggage.”
“I hope you’ll recover it,” said he.
Another silence, very long.
“I did tell Mrs. Mount one thing that wasn’t quite true,” said Miss Smith.
“What was that?” asked Darcy Powers, and she knew by his voice that he thought whatever she had said was right.
“I told her my first name was Nina—and it isn’t.”
“What is it, then?” he asked.
The carriage had stopped before the gate. He got out and helped her down, and they both stood there until the sound of the horse’s hoofs had died away.
“What is your name?” he asked again.
“It’s a very silly name,” she said. “I never tell it to any one.”
Her hand was on the gate, to open it. His hand closed over hers.
“Please!” he said. “I know you’re going away. I think you’ve begun to go already. Can’t you just let me know that, so that I can think of you by your own dear name?”
“No!” said Miss Smith.
She was really frightened. She knew that if she told him her name, here in this enchanted garden, in the twilight, it would be fatal. The adventure was becoming too much for her. Her own heart was getting too much for her, filled with emotions she could not bear. She was Miss Smith, the governess—the brisk, sensible, unromantic Miss Smith—she tried valiantly to remember that.
“No!” she said again, and pulled away her hand.
Just then the door of the cottage opened, and Mrs. Mount appeared in the lighted doorway.
“Darcy!” she called. “And—oh, Miss Smith! Oh, come in, my dear!”
Her voice had warmth in it, and kindliness. It reminded Miss Smith of her mother, who used to stand in a lighted doorway like that, and call her in from her play. She thought of herself going back to New York to be a governess again. She thought of Mr. Powers—Darcy—left alone in that garden, thinking of her. Was he, after all his kindness, to be left thinking of her as “Miss Smith”?
She turned toward him.
“My name’s really Mavourneen,” she said. “You see, I was the only child, and father and mother—”
“Mavourneen!” said he, and somehow, as he said it, the name was not a silly one at all. “That means—”
“Yes, I know,” she interrupted hastily, and walked quickly up the path toward Mrs. Mount.
Somewhat to the young man’s surprise, Mrs. Mount held out her arms, and Miss Smith went into them; and after all, it was not the end of the adventure, but only the beginning.[Pg 246]
MUNSEY’S
MAGAZINE
SEPTEMBER, 1925
Vol. LXXXV NUMBER 4
The Wonderful Little Woman
MRS. FREMBY DEMONSTRATES HER ENERGY, COURAGE, AND EFFICIENCY, WITH SOMEWHAT UNEXPECTED RESULTS
By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding
THE clock struck midnight, but Mrs. Fremby did not even glance up from her work. She had an old skirt, stretched over the transom, so that the landlady could not see that the light was still on. The door was locked. She was safe, and very snug.
Outside, a preposterous storm raged. It was almost the beginning of April, yet it snowed, and the wind howled. Let it! Mrs. Fremby had a forbidden electric heater glowing richly before her. It could not warm the vast and dingy front parlor that she inhabited, but it could and did keep her feet warm. The flame of righteous indignation in her heart helped, too, as she wrote:
At last the American woman has definitely rebelled. She refuses any longer to accept unquestioned the dictates of Paris as to what she shall or shall not wear. This season it is plain to any impartial observer that the influence of the French capital is distinctly on the wane.
Heavens, how she hated Paris! For years and years she had been fighting its insidious influence upon American modes. Even when, in order to earn her daily bread, she was obliged to describe what milady had worn at the Longchamp races, she always managed to get in some clever bit of propaganda—something like this, for instance:
A certain American woman of unimpeachable social standing attracted considerable attention by her costume of this and that, made in New York, and showing in every line a skillful adaptation to the American type.
What if this independent American woman of unimpeachable standing was an invention of Mrs. Fremby’s? Never having been within thousands of miles of Longchamp, she was obliged to invent a little, and this mythical creature was very real to her, and dear. She could absolutely see that “American type,” tall, proud, and beautiful, completely dominating all the Parisiennes.
Mrs. Fremby herself was small. That was her misfortune; but she made the most of herself. Even now, in an old and faded dressing gown, she was a mighty smart, trim little woman, and, if she was not pretty, she had the wit to know it, and to behave accordingly. Her good points were her miniature figure, which was excellent, and her crown of glittering, wiry red hair, which she arranged with much skill. The very foundation of style, she often said, was individuality, and she had it.
“The modes of this season will be marked by—” she was writing, when there was a knock at the door.
Mrs. Fremby got up. Swiftly and noiselessly she detached the heater and thrust it, still red-hot, into a cupboard under the washstand. Then, with a lofty expression of annoyance, she went to open the door; but it was not the landlady—it was Judith Cane.
“My dear!” cried Mrs. Fremby. “Come in!”
Judith came in. Snowflakes were melting upon her furs, her eyelashes were damp, and there was a fine color in her cheeks. She was indeed a superb creature, tall, dark, and beautiful, the physical embodiment of that “American type” who should have attracted considerable attention at[Pg 248] Longchamp. Unfortunately, however, she lacked a certain vital quality—animation, Mrs. Fremby would have said, but in the office of the Daily Citizen they called it “bean.” They said in that office that Judith was beautiful but dumb.
Mrs. Fremby, however, was not one to pick flaws in her friends. She was loyal, even to the point of prejudice. She was devoted to Judith, and she acknowledged no faults in her.
“Sit down, my dear child,” she said.
As Judith did so, she locked the door again, and hastened about, making hospitable preparations. She connected the heater again, and also a small electric grill. The light grew perilously dim.
“They ought to put in a larger meter,” observed Mrs. Fremby, with the air of an electrical expert. “I can’t make coffee, my dear. It smells; but we’ll have tea and rolls, and some perfectly delicious Bologna. Isn’t it wretched weather?”
“Yes,” said Judith. “And there I sat, rewriting and rewriting that article about smoking accessories for Mr. Tolley, and in the end he killed it!”
“Beast!” said Mrs. Fremby.
She remembered how Mr. Tolley had once described Judith.
“She is,” he had said, “a space writer—which means that she fills blank space in a blank manner.”
“Never mind!” she went on. “I’ve got a thing here that ought to run to a column, if you pad it a little. We’ll fix it up, and you can turn it in to-morrow. Now, my dear, do tell me!”
“I’ve lost,” said Judith.
“I knew it!” cried Mrs. Fremby. “I felt it all along! What an outrage!”
It was a question here of an orphan child. The child’s mother had been Judith’s sister, and upon the sister’s decease Judith had put in a claim for the custody of the infant. According to all the laws of justice and humanity—as interpreted by Mrs. Fremby—Judith should have got the infant, but another woman, a sister of the mere father, had likewise put in a claim; and as this woman had a very wealthy husband, and a home, and other things which surrogates deem advantageous for infants, and Judith had none of these, the other claimant had triumphed.
“It’s an outrage!” Mrs. Fremby repeated. “You’ll fight it, of course?”
Judith shed a few melancholy tears.
“I don’t know, Evelyn,” she said.
“Don’t know! You must!”
“It’s so expensive, Evelyn. Even if I got the poor little thing, I don’t know what I could do with her. I only made twelve dollars last week.”
Mrs. Fremby recognized in her friend a mood which exasperated her—a large, vague despair and resignation.
“You ought to know that I’ll always help you till you get on your feet,” she said sternly.
“I do know,” said Judith, shedding more tears; “but it seems to take me so long to get on my feet! All I do is—to get on your feet.”
“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Fremby.
She had, in her heart, no very great illusions about Judith’s ability to earn money, but what did that matter? Judith wanted her niece, and what Judith wanted she ought to have. That was nothing more than justice.
“Judith, I’m going to handle this,” she announced.
“Don’t do anything—awful,” said Judith. “You know, Evelyn, you’re so—”
Mrs. Fremby smiled as if she had received a compliment.
“Leave it to me,” she said. “Just drink your tea, my dear child, and don’t worry.”
So Judith, with a sigh, let slip the burden from her magnificent shoulders.