SHE CALLS HIM JOHN NOW.
When the news of the battle is known in Algiers, great excitement abounds. There are many sympathizers of Bab Azoun among the native population, and in some quarters their ugly teeth are shown; but France has too secure a hold of Algeria not to be ready for such an emergency, and her troops parade the streets, armed for battle.
Consequently no demonstration on the part of the natives is attempted. Among the foreigners, and in the better circles of merchants and traders, there is great rejoicing over the victory, for it has long been dangerous to travel in the region of the coast because of the bold forays of this same Bab Azoun. They hope his power will now be broken, and that perhaps the outlaw himself may be dead.
In the morning our friends gather for breakfast. John alone is absent, nor do they know what has become of him, for the clerk of the hotel informs them that the Chicagoan was early astir.
He comes in before they are done eating, but volunteers no information concerning his wanderings, so that they of course conclude he has only been for a walk.
Sir Lionel seems rather shy. Most men upon making such a dismal failure on two separate occasions, would probably be willing to give up the game, but there is something of the bull-dog about Sir Lionel. He will hold on until the end.
He fears John Craig has penetrated his schemes, and this makes him assume a dogged air. Evidently he still clings to hope of ultimate success.
As for Craig, he is undecided whether to call Sir Lionel a fool or a knave, and is rapidly drifting to a belief that the Briton may be a composite of both.
They have much to see in Algiers. Mosques, bazaars, and the remarkable features that cluster about this famous resort. A thousand and one things unite to charm a traveler who strikes Algiers in the winter time, and they usually go hence with many regrets, and memories that will never fade.
John watches his chance to speak to the girl at his side. He feels that the time has come when he must tell her what he has in his heart—that he loves her.
If she gives him his conge, he will go his way and try to forget; but he has hopes of a different answer; eye speaks to eye, and there is a language of the heart that needs not lips to proclaim it, a secret telegraphy that brings together those who love. The touch of a hand thrills as no other touch can, and the sound of a voice heard unexpectedly causes the heart to almost cease beating.
At length he makes an opportunity, as only a bold and determined lover can. They have gone in the street-cars to the terraced heights of Mustapha Superieur, to visit a house which most tourists see—a house with a remarkable history—and in departing, John and Lady Ruth somehow are separated from the rest. The fault lies with him, because at the last moment he proposed a final view of the wonderful scene spread out below, to which Lady Ruth consented, and as the others boarded the tram-car that would take them back to the city, John called out their intention, and that they would join them later.
There is nothing singular about this, and yet Lady Ruth's cheeks turn rosy as she hears Aunt Gwen's laugh, and stealing a glance over her shoulder discovers that quaint individual shaking her finger out of the car-window.
Upon a rustic seat the two rest. The grand panorama spread before them charms the eye, and they feast upon the glorious scene. How blue the sea appears, and the numerous sails are like splashes of white against the deep background.
There lies Algiers in all her glory, modern structures almost side by side with Mohammedan mosques, whose domes shine like great balls of gold and whose minarets guard the sacred edifice like sentries thrown out in the nature of defenses.
Who could gaze upon such a vision and not feel his heart stirred, must indeed be dead to everything that appeals to the better senses.
John Craig, M.D., might ordinarily be set down as an enthusiastic lover of nature, and such a scene when he first gazed upon it aroused the deepest emotions in his artist heart; but strange to say he pays little heed to what is before him now. It is what occupies the rustic seat in common with John Craig that takes his whole attention.
How shall he say it. What words can he frame into an animated expression of his feelings? It was all mapped out before, but the words have utterly slipped his memory, as is always the case in such events.
He turns to Lady Ruth. Her hand is in her lap. He boldly reaches out and takes it. There is only a feeble resistance. Their eyes meet, "Lady Ruth, will you give me this hand?"
"You—I—what could you do with it?" she asks, turning rosy red.
"Well, to begin with—this," and he presses it passionately to his lips.
"Oh! Doctor Craig, what if some one should see you!" now struggling to free her hand, which he holds firmly.
He laughs recklessly, this hitherto shy young man. Once in the affair, he cares little for prying eyes, and indeed there is small chance of any one noticing them in this retired spot, as there are no other sight-seers around.
"I don't care who sees me. I've got to tell you what I'm sure you already know, that I love you—I love you."
He leans forward and looks in her face, which is downcast. She has ceased to struggle now, and her hand lies fluttering in his.
Such scenes as these the novelist has no business to linger over. The emotions that are brought out at such a time should be sacred from the public gaze.
John does not wait long for his answer, as Lady Ruth is a sensible girl, and really cares a great deal more for this young man than she has been ready to admit even to herself.
So she tells him that she is afraid she does take an uncommon interest in his welfare, and that perhaps it would be as well for her to later on assume such a position as will give her the right to watch over him.
So it is nicely settled, and John feels supremely happy, just as all sincere and successful wooers have done from time immemorial.
After a short time John remembers that he meant to introduce a certain subject, and putting aside his feelings of new-found joy—there will be plenty of time for all that—he speaks of Sir Lionel.
"Now that you know I am not at all jealous, I want to talk about another. Sir Lionel Blunt."
Her face lights up with a smile.
"Perhaps I can guess what you would say."
"It is about the affair last night."
"Poor Sir Lionel is rather quiet to-day. He is not so young as he was, and I imagine that his severe exertions last night have caused him many twinges to-day."
"Perhaps. It was the most remarkable affair I ever witnessed."
"You saw it all?"
"Yes. Mustapha and myself were in hiding not far away. We were astounded at the easy way those fellows died."
At this Lady Ruth gives a merry peal of laughter.
"It was really ridiculous."
"Did you guess it at the time?"
"Well, certain things looked very strange to me. I was amazed as we were leaving to see a man whom I was positive had twice fallen as if dead, raise his head and look after us with a smile on his ugly face.
"Whatever I thought, I was so glad to get away on any terms that I said nothing, and when the next engagement took place I found Sir Lionel very much in earnest.
"On this account, although feeling sure that he was the cause of all the trouble, I have been disposed to forgive him. You know the poor fellow professes to be in love with me, though I have had some reason to believe it is my fortune he is after as well, for my father unfortunately left me an heiress."
"Well, I'm in a position to be generous, and though I condemn his methods, I can easily see how, in his despair he might forget his honor. I have good reason to believe this is not the first time he has tried to play the hero."
Lady Ruth looks surprised.
"How is that?" she asks.
Thereupon John narrates what the boatman said to him off Malta, concerning a broken plank in the bottom of the little craft, which of course astonishes the young girl.
She shows some indignation at the thought of his imperiling her life.
"The joke of the whole thing lies in the fact that it was you who saved the would-be hero of the occasion," remarks John, and this fact induces both of them to laugh.
On the whole they feel so happy that it is hard to bear a grudge even against the veteran who has been baffled by fate.
Lady Ruth cannot forget that Sir Lionel gave many evidences of being in love with her, and a woman is apt to forgive even a fault in a man who professes to have sinned for her, to have even given up honor in the hope of winning her favor.
"I have arranged a little scheme whereby I hope to pay Sir Lionel back in his own coin," says the young Chicagoan, grimly.
"Why, John, I thought you said just now that you could forgive him. Now you pretend to be quite blood-thirsty."
"Oh, no; not that. I'm looking out for the poor fellow. He's gone it alone quite long enough, and I want to see him caught."
"Caught? Explain, please. Perhaps I'm a little obtuse, but really, under the circumstances—"
"Yes, I know. It's all excusable, my dear girl. In plain English I want to see the veteran married."
"Married?"
"And I shall take upon myself the task of selecting the girl who will rule him hereafter."
"John, what do you mean? Surely—oh, that is nonsense. Tell me who she is?"
"Pauline Potter," calmly.
"Why, that's the actress."
"True."
"The actress who professed to be so madly in love with one Doctor John Craig."
"And as the said Craig is already taken, she is left out in the cold. Now you behold my little scheme. We are happy—why should not these two people be the same?"
"Why, indeed?"
"Their greatest fault lies in loving not wisely but too well. This has caused them to sin. Now, in order to prevent any future plots that may give us trouble, I purpose to so arrange it that Sir Lionel shall have a wife and Pauline a husband."
"A clever idea."
"I may want your assistance."
"You can have it at any time."
"We must protect ourselves, and the easiest way to do this will be to disarm our foes."
"Really, Doctor Chicago, I didn't give you credit for so much shrewdness. Tell me if you have any plans arranged."
"Well, only the skeleton of one as yet, but I'll tell you all about it as far as I have gone."
They sit upon that bench for a full hour. Time is not taken into account when love rules the occasion.
It is Lady Ruth who finally jumps up with a cry of consternation. She has heard a clock upon a tower in new Algiers strike the hour.
"What will they think of us, John?" she says.
"Little I care, for I mean to announce our engagement to Aunt Gwen on sight, and she is the only one who has any business to complain," returns the successful wooer, firmly.
"Oh! it is so sudden; perhaps we'd better wait a little while."
"With your permission, not an hour. You belong to me, now—see, let me put this solitaire diamond on your finger. It was my mother's ring. By that token I simply desire to warn all men 'hands off.' Tell me, am I right, Ruth?"
"Yes; I can offer no objection. Do as you think best, doctor."
This is a beautiful beginning. Clouds will be rare in their future if they keep on in this way.
So they once more go back to the hotel, and find Aunt Gwen on the lookout, her kindly face wearing an anxious expression that becomes a quizzical one when she sees John smile.
"Your blessing, Aunt Gwen," he says.
"My what?"
"Oh! it's all settled. Ruth has promised to be my wife," continues John, looking very happy.
"The dickens she has!" and Philander pushes into view from behind the voluminous skirts of his better half. "What business has she to accept any one without consulting her doting—"
"Philander!"
"—Aunt? Don't take me seriously, my boy. Accept my congratulations, wish you joy, and thank Heaven it isn't that pompous baronet."
"Amen!" says John, warmly.
"Now that you allow me a chance, Philander, I want to say just this: it suits me to a dot. I'm delighted—enchanted. Of course you'll live in Chicago. That's another blow against John Bull. We'll be mistress of the seas yet. Here, let me kiss you both, my children, and take the blessing of a woman who has not lived fifty years for nothing."