David Harum / A Story of American Life

by Edward Noyes Westcott

"I hope you didn't think I was speaking in earnest," he said.

"No," she replied, "I did not think you really intended to unpack your wares, but, speaking seriously—and at the risk, I fear, that you may think me rather 'cheeky,' if I may be allowed that expression—I know a good many men in America, and I think that without an exception they are professional men or business men, or, being neither—and I know but few such—have a competence or more; and I was wondering just now after what you told me what a man like you would or could do if he were thrown upon his own resources. I'm afraid that is rather frank for the acquaintance of a day, isn't it?" she asked with a slight flush, "but it really is not so personal as it may sound to you."

"My dear Miss Blake," he replied, "our acquaintance goes back at least ten years. Please let that fact count for something in your mind. The truth is, I have done some wondering along that same line myself without coming to any satisfactory conclusion. I devoutly hope I may not be so thrown absolutely, for the truth is I haven't a marketable commodity. 'A little Latin, and less Greek,' German and French enough to read and understand and talk—on the surface of things—and what mathematics, history, et cetera, I have not forgotten. I know the piano well enough to read and play an accompaniment after a fashion, and I have had some good teaching for the voice, and some experience in singing, at home and abroad. In fact, I come nearer to a market there, I think, than in any other direction perhaps. I have given some time to fencing in various schools, and before I left home Billy Williams would sometimes speak encouragingly of my progress with the gloves. There! That is my list, and not a dollar in it from beginning to end, I'm afraid."

"Who is Billy Williams?" she asked.

"Billy," said John, "is the very mild-mannered and gentlemanlike 'bouncer' at the Altman House, an ex-prize-fighter, and about the most accomplished member of his profession of his day and weight, who is employed to keep order and, if necessary, to thrust out the riotous who would disturb the contemplations of the lovers of art that frequent the bar of that hotel." It was to be seen that Miss Blake was not particularly impressed by this description of Billy and his functions, upon which she made no comment.

"You have not included in your list," she remarked, "what you acquired in the down-town office you told me of."

"No, upon my word I had forgotten that, and it's about the only thing of use in the whole category," he answered. "If I were put to it, and could find a place, I think I might earn fifty dollars a month as a clerk or messenger, or something. Hullo! here are your people."

He went forward with his companion and greeted Mrs. Carling and her husband, who returned his "Good morning" with a feeble smile, and submitted to his ministrations in the matter of chair and rugs with an air of unresisting invalidism, which was almost too obvious, he thought. But after luncheon John managed to induce him to walk for a while, to smoke a cigarette, and finally to brave the perils of a sherry and bitters before dinner. The ladies had the afternoon to themselves. John had no chance of a further visit with Mary during the day, a loss only partially made good to him by a very approving smile and a remark which she made to him at dinner, that he must be a lineal descendant of the Samaritan. Mr. Carling submitted himself to him for the evening. Indeed, it came about that for the rest of the voyage he had rather more of the company of that gentleman, who fairly attached himself to him, than, under all the circumstances, he cared for; but the gratitude of the ladies was so cordial that he felt paid for some sacrifices of his inclinations. And there was an hour or so every morning—for the fine weather lasted through—which he spent with Mary Blake, with increasing interest and pleasure, and he found himself inwardly rejoicing over a mishap to the engine which, though of no very great magnitude, would retard the passage by a couple of days.

There can hardly be any conditions more favorable to the forming of acquaintanceships, friendships, and even more tender relations than are afforded by the life on board ship. There is opportunity, propinquity, and the community of interest which breaks down the barriers of ordinary reserve. These relations, to be sure, are not always of the most lasting character, and not infrequently are practically ended before the parties thereto are out of the custom-house officer's hands and fade into nameless oblivion, unless one happens to run across the passenger list among one's souvenirs. But there are exceptions. If at this time the question had been asked our friend, even by himself, whether, to put it plainly, he were in love with Mary Blake, he would, no doubt, have strenuously denied it; but it is certain that if any one had said or intimated that any feature or characteristic of hers was faulty or susceptible of any change for the better, he would have secretly disliked that person, and entertained the meanest opinion of that person's mental and moral attributes. He would have liked the voyage prolonged indefinitely, or, at any rate, as long as the provisions held out.

It has been remarked by some one that all mundane things come to an end sooner or later, and, so far as my experience goes, it bears out that statement. The engines were successfully repaired, and the ship eventually came to anchor outside the harbor about eleven o'clock on the night of the last day. Mary and John were standing together at the forward rail. There had been but little talk between them, and only of a desultory and impersonal character. As the anchor chains rattled in the hawse-pipes, John said, "Well, that ends it."