Second day out. A good deal of weather of one kind and another. Might be called a what-next sort of day. I think I am going to like this old ocean pretty well. ~ Smith's Log
Where beauty is not, constancy is not. This perspicuous proverb from thePersian (which I made up myself for the occasion) is cited in mitigationof the Tyro's regrettable fickleness, he--to his shame be itchronicled--having practically forgotten the woe-begone damsel's veryexistence within eighteen short hours after his adventure inknight-errantry. Her tear-ravaged and untidy plainness had, in thatbrief time, been exorcised from memory by a more potent interest, thatof Beauty on her imperial throne. Setting forth the facts in their dueorder, it befell in this wise:--
At or about one bell, to be quite nautical, the Tyro awoke from asomewhat agitated sleep.
"Hold on a minute!" protested he, addressing whatever Powers might bewithin hearing. "Stop the swing. I want to get out!"
He lifted his head and the wall leaned over and bumped it back upon thepillow. Incidentally it bumped him awake.
"Must be morning," he yawned. A pocket-knife and two keys rolled off thestand almost into the yawn. "Some weather," deduced the Tyro. "Now, ifI'm ever going to be seasick I suppose this is the time to begin." Hegave the matter one minute's fair and honorable consideration. "I thinkI'll be breakfasting," he decided, and dismissed it.
Having satisfied an admirable appetite in an extensive area of solitude,he weaved and wobbled up the broad stairs and emerged into the open,where he stood looking out upon a sea of flecked green and a sky ofmottled gray. Alderson bore down upon him, triangulating the deck like asurveyor.
"Trying out my sea-legs," he explained. "How does this strike you as ananti-breakfast roll?"
"Hasn't struck me that way at all," said the Tyro. "I feel fine."
"Welcome to the Society of Seaworthy Salts! These are the times that trymen's stomachs, if not their souls. Come along."
The pair marched back and forth past a row of sparsely inhabiteddeck-chairs, meeting in their promenade a sprinkling of the hardierspirits of the ship community.
"Have you seen Miss Melancholia this morning?" asked Alderson.
"No, thank Heaven! I didn't dare go in to breakfast till I'd peekedaround the corner to make sure she wasn't there."
"Wait. She'll cross your bows early and often."
"Don't! You make me nervous. What a beast she must think me!"
"Here comes a girl now," said his friend maliciously. "Prepare toemulate the startled fawn."
The Tyro turned hastily. "Oh, that's all right," he said, reassured."She's wholly surrounded by a masculine bodyguard. No fear of its beingLittle Miss Grouch."
A sudden roll of the ship opened up the phalanx, and there stood,poised, a Wondrous Vision; a spectacle of delight for gods and men, andparticularly for the Tyro, who then and there forgot Little Miss Grouch,forgot Alderson, forgot his family, his home, his altars and his fires,and particularly his manners, and, staring until his eyes protruded,offered up an audible and fervent prayer to Neptune that the ClanMacgregor might break down in mid-ocean and not get to port for sixmonths.
"Hello!" said Alderson. "Why this sudden passion for a life on the oceanwave?"
"Did you see her?"
"See whom? Oh!" he added, in enlightenment, as the escort surged pastthem. "That's it, is it, my impressionable young friend? Well, if you'replanning to enter those lists you won't be without competition."
The Tyro closed his eyes to recall that flashing vision of youth andloveliness. He saw again the deliciously modeled face tinted to warmestpink, a figure blent of curves and gracious contours, a mouth ofdelicate mirth, and eyes, wide, eager, soft, and slanted quaintly at anangle to madden the heart of man.
"Is there such an angel as the Angel of Laughter?" asked the Tyro.
"Not in any hierarchy that I know," replied Alderson.
"Then there ought to be. Do you know her?"
"Who? The Angel of--"
"Don't guy me, Dr. Alderson. This is serious."
"Oh, these sudden seizures are seldom fatal."
"Do you know her?" persisted the Tyro.
"No."
The Tyro sighed. Meantime there progressed the ceremony of enthroningthe queen in one of the most desirable chairs on the deck, while thebodyguard fussed eagerly about, tucking in rugs, handing out candy,flowers, and magazines, and generally making monkeys of itself. (I quotethe Tyro's regrettable characterization of these acts of simplecourtesy.)
"But I know some of her admirers," continued the other. "The lop-earedyouth on the right is young Sperry, son of the famous millionairephilanthropist and tax-dodger, Diedrick Sperry. He'll be worth tenmillions one of these days."
"Slug!" said the Tyro viciously.
"That huge youngster at her feet is Journay, guard on last year'sPrinceton team. He's another gilded youth."
"Unfledged cub," growled the Tyro.
"Very nice boy, on the contrary. The bristly-haired specimen who isostentatiously making a sketch of her is Castleton Flaunt, theillustrator."
"Poseur!"
"The languid, brown man with the mustache is Lord Guenn, thepolo-player."
"Cheap sport!"
"You don't seem favorably impressed with the lady's friends."
"Hang her friends! I want to know who she is."
"That also might be done. Do you see the tall man coming down the deck?"
"The old farmer with the wispy hair?"
"Precisely. That 'farmer' is the ablest honest lawyer in New York. Also,he knows everybody. Oh, Judge Enderby," he hailed.
"Howdy, Alderson," responded the iron-gray one. "Glad to see you. Now weshall have some whist."
"Good! Judge, do you know the pretty girl over yonder, in that chair?"
The judge put up an eyeglass. "Yes," he said.
"Tell my young friend here who she is, will you?"
"No."
"Why not?"
A cavernous chuckle issued from between the lawyer's rigid whiskers."Because I like his looks."
"Well, I like hers, sir," said the Tyro na飗ely.
"Very likely, young man. Very likely. So I'm helping to keep you out oftrouble. That child is pretty enough to give even an old, dried-up heartlike mine the faint echo of a stir. Think of the devastation to a youngone like yours. Steer clear, young man! Steer clear!"
And the iron-gray one, himself an inveterate sentimentalist, passed on,chuckling over his time-worn device for quickening romance in the heartof the young by the judicious interposition of obstacles. He strolledover to the center of attraction, where he was warmly greeted. To theWondrous Vision he said something which caused her to glance over at theTyro. That anxious youth interpreted the look as embodying something ofsurprise, and--could it be?--a glint of mischief.
"Never mind," said Alderson, "I dare say we can find some way, some timeto-day or to-morrow."
"To-morrow!" broke in the Tyro fretfully. "Do you realize that thisvoyage is only a five-day run?"
"Oh, Youth! Youth!" laughed the older man. "Are you often taken thisway, Sandy?"
The Tyro turned upon him the candor of an appealing smile. "Never in mylife before," he said. "I give you my word of honor."
"In that case," said his friend, with mock seriousness, "the life-savingexpedition will try to get a rescue-line to the craft in distress."
With obvious hope the Tyro's frank eyes interrogated Judge Enderby as hereturned from his interview.
"Still of the same mind, young man?"
"Yes, sir."
"Want to know her?"
"I do, indeed!"
"Very well. You have your wish."
"You're going to present me?"
"I? No, indeed."
"Then--"
"You say you wish to know her. Well, you do know her. At least, she saysshe knows you. Not all of us attain our heart's desire so simply."
"Know her!" cried the amazed Tyro. "I swear I don't. Why, I could nomore forget that face--"
"Don't tell her that or she'll catch you up on it since she knows youhave forgotten."
"What is her name?"
"Ah, that I'm forbidden to tell. 'If he has forgotten me so easily,'said she--and she seemed really hurt--'I think I can dispense with hisfurther acquaintance.'"
"If I should break through that piffling bodyguard now--"
"If you want some rather high-priced advice for nothing," said the oldand mischievous lawyer, "don't do it. You might not be well received."
"Are you in the secret, then?"
"Secret? Is there any secret? A very charming girl who says she knowsyou finds herself forgotten by you. And you've been maladroit enough tobetray the fact. Naturally she is not pleased. Nothing very mysteriousin that."
Thereupon the pestered youth retired in distress and dudgeon to hiscabin to formulate a campaign.
Progress, however, seemed slow. It was a very discontented Tyro who,after luncheon, betook himself to the spray-soaked weather rail andstrove to assuage his impatience by a thoughtful contemplation of themany leagues of ocean still remaining to be traversed. From thisconsideration he was roused by a clear, low-pitched, and extraordinarilysilvery voice at his elbow.
"Aren't you going to speak to me?" it said.
The Tyro whirled. For a moment he thought that his heart had struck workpermanently, so long did it remain inert in his throat. A sense of thedecent formalities of the occasion impelled him to make a hasty catch athis cap. As he removed it, an impish windgust snatched it away from hisnerveless grasp and presented it to a large and hungry billow, whichstraightway swallowed it and retired with a hiss of acknowledgment likea bowing Jap.
The Tyro paid not the slightest heed to his loss. With his eyes fixedfirmly upon the bewitching face before him,--these apparitions vanishunless held under determined regard,--he cautiously reached around andpinched himself. The Vision interpreted his action, and signalized herappreciation of it by a sort of beatified chuckle.
"Oh, yes; you're awake," she assured him, "and I'm real."
"Wishes do come true," he said with the profoundest conviction.
Up went the Vision's quaintly slanted brows in dainty inquiry, withfurther disastrous results to the young man's cardiac mechanism.
"Have yours come true?"
"You have," he averred.
"Then you're glad to see me again?"
Again? Again? Here it behooved him to go cautiously. Inwardly hecursed the reticence of Judge Enderby with a fervor which would havecaused that aged jurist the keenest delight. Then he made one moredespairing call upon the reserve forces of memory. In vain. Still, hemustn't let her see that. Play up and trust to happy chance!
"Glad!" he repeated. "Don't you hear a sound of inner music? That's myheart singing the Doxology."
"Very pretty," the girl approved. "How is the poor foot?"
"Much better, thank you. Did you see that murderous assault?"
"See it? I?" The Vision opened wide eyes of astonishment.
"Yes. I didn't notice you in the crowd."
She gave him a long look of mock-pathetic reproach from under droopedlids. "Oh, false and faithless cavalier. You've forgotten me. Already!"
"Once seeing you, I couldn't forget you in ten thousand years," hecried. "There's some mistake. I don't know you."
Her laughter rippled about him like the play of sunlight made audible.
"Oh, antidote to vanity, look at me," she commanded.
"It's the very easiest task ever man was set to," he asserted with suchearnestness that the color rose in her cheeks.
"Before I vanish forever, I'll give you your chance. Come! Who am I?One--two--thuh-ree-ee."
"Wait! You're Titania. You're an Undine of the Atlantic. You're theWhite Hope, becomingly tinged with pink, of American Womanhood. You'rethe Queen of Hearts and all the rest of the trumps in the deck. You arealso Cleopatra, and, and--Helen of Troy. But above all, of course, to meyou are the Sphinx."
"And you," she remarked, "are a Perfect Pig. 'The pig is a praiseworthycharacter. The pig suffereth--'"
"Little Miss Grouch!" The words burst from him with the propulsiveenergy of total amazement. The next instant he was submerged in shame.
"I never saw anyone's ears turn scarlet before," she observed, withdelicate and malicious appreciation of the phenomenon.
"It's a symptom of the last decay of the mind. But are you reallythe--the runaway girl?"
"I really am, thanks to your help."
"But you look so totally different."
"Well," she reminded him. "You said you probably wouldn't recognize mewhen you saw me again."
"I don't wholly believe in you yet. How did you work the miracle?"
"Not a miracle at all. I just took the advice of a chance acquaintanceand cheered up."
"Then please stay cheered up and keep this shape. I like it awfully."
"It's very hard to be cheerful when one is forgotten overnight," shecomplained.
"There's some excuse for me. You didn't have on this--this angel-clothdress; and you looked so--"
"Dowdy," she put in promptly. "So you said--quite loud."
"Be merciful! I never did really get a good look at you, you know. Justthe tip of your nose--"
"Red."
"Help! And a glimpse of your face through a mess of veils--"
"Such a mess of a face."
"Spare my life! How can I apologize properly when you--"
"You're beyond all apology. Couldn't you at least recognize my voice?I'm supposed, in spite of my facial defects, to have rather a pleasantvoice."
"But, you see, you didn't do anything but whisper--"
"And blubber. It isn't a pretty word, but I have it on good authority."
"I'll commit suicide by any method you select."
She regarded thoughtfully her downcast victim, and found him good tolook at. "So you prefer me in this form, do you?" she taunted.
"Infinitely. It couldn't be improved on. So if you've any more lightningchanges up your sleeve, don't spring 'em. What does this particularmanifestation of your personality call itself?"
"Little Miss Grouch."
"Don't be vengeful."
"Niobe, then."
"That was the changeling."
"At any rate, it isn't Amy, short for amiability. To you I shallcontinue to be Little Miss Grouch until further notice."
"Is that my punishment?"
"Part of it."
"Well, I can stand it if you can," he declared recklessly. "What's therest?"
"I think," she said, after deliberating with herself, "that I shallsentence you to slavery. You are to be at my beck and call until you'veattained a proper pitch of repentance and are ready to admit that I'mnot as hopelessly homely as you told your friend."
"Homely!" cried the harassed youth. "I think you're the most wond--hum!"He broke off, catching himself just in time. "You say this slaverybusiness is to last until I make my recantation?" he inquired cunningly.
"At least."
He assumed a judicial pose. "Calls for consideration. Would you mindtilting the face a little to the left?"
"Gracious! Another artist? Mr. Flaunt has been plaguing me all themorning to sit to him."
"No, I'm not an artist. Simply a connoisseur. Now that I look moreclosely, your eyebrows are slanted a full degree too much to the north."
"My nurse was a Jap. Do you think Oriental influence could account forit?" she asked anxiously.
"And at the corner of your mouth there is a most reprehensible dimple.Dimples like that simply ought not to be allowed. As for your nose--"
"Never mind my nose," said she with dignity. "It minds its ownbusiness."
"No," he continued, with the air of one who sums up to a conclusion. "Icannot approve the tout ensemble. It's interesting. And peculiar. Andsuggestive. But too post-impressionistic."
"That is quite enough about me. Suppose you change the subject now andaccount for yourself."
"I? Oh, I came along to frustrate the plots of a wicked father."
"He isn't a wicked father! And I didn't ask you why you're here. I wantto know who you are!"
"I'm the Perfect Pig."
Little Miss Grouch stamped her little French heel. As it landed theyoung man was six feet away, having retired with the graceful agility ofa trained boxer.
"You're very light on your feet," said she.
"Therein lies my only hope of self-preservation. You were not verylight on my foot yesterday, you know."
"Has it recovered enough to take me for a walk?"
"Quite!"
"Still," she added, ruminating, "ought I to go walking with a man whosevery name I don't know?"
"My name? Do you think that's fair, when you won't tell me yours?Besides, I don't believe you'd care about it, anyway."
"Why shouldn't I?"
"Well, it isn't very impressive. People have even been known to jeer atit."
"You're ashamed of it?"
"No-o-o-o," said the Tyro artfully.
"You are! I'd be ashamed to be ashamed of my name--even if it wereSmith."
"Hello! What's the matter with Smith?" demanded the young man, startledat this unexpected turn.
"Oh, nothing," said she loftily, "except that it's so awfully common.Why, there are thousands of Smiths!"
"Common? Well, I'll be jig--" At this point, resentment spurred theingenuity of the Tyro to a prompt and lofty flight. "If you don't likeSmith," he said, "I wonder what you'll think when you hear the awfultruth."
"Try me."
"Very well," he sighed. "I suppose it's foolish to have any feelingabout it. But perhaps you'd be sensitive, too, if you'd been born to thename of Daddleskink."
"What!"
"Daddleskink," said the Tyro firmly. "Sanders Daddleskink. Suppose youwere Mrs. Sanders Daddleskink."
"I shan't suppose any such thing," she retorted indignantly.
"I warned you that you wouldn't like it."
"Like it? I don't even believe it. There ain't no such animile as aDaddleskink."
"Madame," said the Tyro, drawing himself up to his full height, "I wouldhave you understand that, uneuphonious as the name may seem, theDaddleskinks sat in the seats of the mighty when our best-known Americanfamilies of to-day, such as the Murphys, the Cohens, the Browns,Joneses, and Robinsons, were mere nebulous films of protoplasmic mud."
"Oo-ooh!" said Little Miss Grouch, making a little red rosebud of hermouth. "What magnificent language you use."
"Genealogists claim," continued the young man, warming to his subject,"that the family came from Provence and was originally De Dalesquinc,and that the name became corrupted into its present form. My friendsoften call me Smith for short," he concluded, in sudden inspiration.
"Very tactful of them," she murmured.
"Yes. You might have had the privilege, yourself, if you hadn't deridedthe name of Smith. Now, aren't you sorry?"
"I shall not call you Smith," declared the girl. "I shall call you byyour own name, Mr. Sanders Daddle--Oh, it simply can't be true!" shewailed.
Chance sent Alderson along the deck at this moment. "Hello, Dr.Alderson," called the Tyro.
"Hello, Sandy!" said the other.
"You see," said the Tyro in dismal triumph.
Scant enough it was, as corroboration for so outrageous a facture as thecognomen Daddleskink, but it served to convince the doubter.
"At least, you have the satisfaction of being unusual," she consoledhim.
"If you regard it as a satisfaction. Can you blame me for denouncing myfate? How will you like introducing such a name to your friends?"
"I'm not going to introduce you to my friends. I'm going to keep you formyself. Solitary confinement."
"Solitude ?deux? That's a mitigation. Oh, beautiful--I mean to sayplain but worthy incognita, suppose I ferret out the mystery of youridentity for myself?"
"I put you on honor. You're to ask no questions of any one. You're noteven to listen when anyone speaks to me. Do you promise?"
"May my eyes be blasted out and my hopes wrecked by never seeing youagain, if I be not faithful," he said.
But Fate arranges these matters to suit its more subtle purposes.
The Wondrous Vision had dismissed her slave, giving him rendezvous forthe next morning,--he had pleaded in vain for that evening,--and he wascomposing himself to a thoughtful promenade, and to the building ofair-castles of which the other occupant was Little Miss Grouch, when hebecame aware of a prospective head-on collision. He side-stepped. Theapproaching individual did the same. He sheered off to port. The otherfollowed. In desperation he made a plunge to starboard and was checkedat the rail by the pursuer.
"I wish to speak to you," announced a cold and lofty voice.
The Tyro emerged from his glorious abstraction, to find himselfconfronted by a middle-aged lady with violent pretensions to youth,mainly artificial. Some practitioners of the toilet-table paint in themanner of Sargent; others follow the school of Cecilia Beaux; but thislady's color-scheme was unmistakably that of Turner in his mostexpansive mood of sunset, burning ships, and volcanic eruptions.
By way of compensation, she wore an air of curdled virtue, and carriedher nose at such an angle that one expected to see her at any moment setthe handle of her lorgnette on the tip thereof, and oblige the companywith a few unparalleled feats of balancing.
Surprise held the Tyro's tongue in leash for the moment. Then he cameto. Here was another unexpected lady evidently relying upon that trickymemory of his. Very well: this time it should not betray him!
"How do you do?" he said, seizing her hand and shaking it warmly. "I'mso glad to see you again."
She withdrew the captured member indignantly. "Again? Where have youever seen me before?" she demanded.
"Just what I was trying to think," murmured the Tyro. "Where have Iseen you?"
The colorful lady lifted her glasses and her nose at one and the samemoment. "I am Mrs. Denyse," she informed him. "Mrs. Charlton Denyse. Youmay know the name."
"I may," admitted the Tyro, unfavorably impressed by the manner in whichshe was lorgnetting him, "but I don't at the moment recall it."
Exasperation flashed in Mrs. Denyse's cold eyes. She had spent much timeand trouble and no small amount of money advertising that name sociallyin New York, and to find it unknown was a reflection upon theintelligence of her investment. "Where on earth do you come from, then?"she inquired acidly.
"Oh, all over the place," he answered with a vague gesture. "Mainly theWest."
"So one would suppose. It doesn't matter. I wish you to read this." Shethrust a folded newspaper page into his hand, adding: "It is only fairto you to say that I speak with the authority permissible to kinship."
"Kinship? Do you mean that you're related to me?"
"Certainly not! Be good enough to look at the paper and you willunderstand."
The Tyro was good enough to look, but, he reflected with regret, hewasn't clever enough to understand.
The first column was given up to a particularly atrocious murder inHarlem. The second was mainly political conjecture. In the center of thepage was a totally faceless "Portrait of Cecily Wayne, Spoiled Darlingof New York and Newport, whose engagement to Remsen Van Dam has JustBeen Announced." Beyond, there was a dispatch about the collapse of thenewest airship, and, on the far border, an interview with the owner ofthe paper, in which he personally declared war on most of CentralAmerica and half of Europe because a bandit who had once worked on aranch of his had been quite properly tried and hanged for severalcold-blooded killings.
"You will gain nothing by delay," said the lady impatiently.
"I give it up," confessed the Tyro, returning the paper. "You'll have totell me."
"Even the most impenetrable stupidity could not overlook theannouncement of Remsen Van Dam's engagement."
"Oh, yes; I saw that. But as I don't know Mr. Van Dam personally, itdidn't interest me."
"Still, possibly you're not so extremely Western as not to know who heis. He's the sole surviving representative of one of the oldest housesin New York."
"Barns, not houses," corrected the other gently. "His father was the VanDam coachman. He made his pile in some sort of liniment, and helpedhimself to the Van Dam name when it died out."
For Mrs. Denyse to redden visibly was manifestly impossible. But herplump cheeks swelled. "How dare you rake up that wretched scandal!" shedemanded.
"Scandal? Not at all," replied the Tyro mildly. "You see, I happen toknow. My grandmother was a Miss Van Dam."
"It must have been of some other family," said the lady haughtily. "Ibeg to inform you that Remsen Van Dam is my cousin."
"Really! I'm awfully sorry. Still--you know,--I dare say he's all right.His father--the real name was Doody--was an excellent coachman. I'veoften heard Grandma Van say so."
Mrs. Denyse after a time recovered speech by a powerful effort, and herfirst use of it was to make some observations upon the jealousy of poorrelations.
"But this is profitless," she said. "You will now appreciate thedesirability of guarding your conduct."
"In what respect?"
Mrs. Denyse pointed majestically to the pictorial blur in the paper."Perhaps you don't recognize that," she said.
"I don't. Nobody could."
"That's true; they couldn't," she granted reluctantly. "But there's thename beneath, Cecily Wayne. I suppose you can read."
"I can. Who is Cecily Wayne?"
"Of all the impudence!" cried the enraged lady. "As you've been makingyourself and her conspicuous all the afternoon--"
"Oh!" exclaimed the Tyro, a great light breaking in upon him. "So that'sCecily Wayne. It's a pretty name."
"It's a name that half of the most eligible men in New York have triedtheir best to change," said the other with emphasis. "Remsen Van Dam isnot the only one, I assure you."
"Then the apostle of St. Vitus on the dock was Remsen Van Dam! Well,that's all right. She isn't engaged to him. The paper's wrong."
"Pray, how can you know that?"
"A little bird--No; they don't have little birds at sea, do they? Awell-informed fish told me."
"Then I tell you the opposite. Now I trust that you will appreciate thatyour attentions to Miss Wayne are offensive."
"They don't seem to have offended her."
"Where did you know her? Who are you, anyway?" snapped his inquisitress,her temper quite gone.
The Tyro leaned forward and fixed his gaze midway of the lady's adequatecorsage.
"If you want to know," said he, "you're carrying my favor above yourheart, or near it, this minute. Look on the under side of your necktie."
The indignant one turned the scarf and read with a baleful eye:"Smitholder: Pat. April 10, 1912." "What does Smitholder mean?" shedemanded.
"A holder for neckwear, the merits of which modesty forbids me todescant upon, invented by its namesake, Smith."
"Ah," said she, with a great contempt. "Then your name, I infer, isSmith."
He bowed. "Smith's as good a trade name as any other."
"Very well, Mr. Smith. Take my advice and keep your distance from MissWayne. Otherwise--"
"Well, otherwise?" encouraged the Tyro as she paused.
"I shall send a wireless to my cousin. And to Mr. Wayne. I suppose youknow, at least, who Hurry-up Wayne of Wall Street is."
"Never heard of him," said the Tyro cheerfully.
"You're a fool!" said Mrs. Charlton Denyse, and marched away, with theguerdon of Smith heaving above her outraged and ample bosom.