University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

When Kate Beaumont came to breakfast
on the morning after that unexpected
and astonishing offer of marriage, our friend
McAlister saw, by the pallor of her face
and the bluish circles around her eyes, that
she had not slept.

A smaller-souled man might have been
proud of accomplishing at least thus much
ravage in a woman's spirit, especially after
she had not deigned to accept that offer
which is the greatest of all man's offers,
and had not even deigned to notice it. But
this young fellow, we must understand once
for all, had nothing petty about his soul
any more than about his physique. A gentleman,
a kind-hearted gentleman, full of
respect for the girl whom he had terrified,
and even to a certain extent loving her, he
looked with humiliation and remorse upon
his work.

“No sleep?” he gasped in his heart
“Was it I who kept her awake? I might
have known it; shame on me for not having
foreseen it! — a man who has looked into
medicine, as well as other science! But
have I not done for the best, in the end?
Was it not incumbent upon me that I
should say all that I did say? After insulting
her — under the circumstances it was
an insult — by forcing my forbidden company
upon her incognito, could I do less
than place my whole self at her feet, to be
spurned if she chose? Certainly not; I
must be right there; every gentleman
would say so.”

So he saw it; looked at it, you observe,
through the most chivalrous of spectacles;
through spectacles, too, which, unawares to

him, were colored by more or less of love's
glamour. A young man who has been a
little smitten is not to be trusted with reasoning
about the lady who has moved him.
He has fallen among the most amiable delusions,
and is plundered of his wits without
being aware of it. He is as much at
the mercy of this one subject as a country
greenhorn is at the mercy of a professional
gambler. But we will not now judge the
wisdom of Mr. McAlister's plan; we shall
see in the course of time how it turned out.

No more walks and talks alone with
Kate Beaumont. In lieu of her, Mrs. Chester;
ocean being quiet again, that Venus
rises from the depths; and finds plenty of
chances to attract McAlister, or rather to
grab him. It was, “Steward, please say to
Mr. McMaster that we are making up a
party of whist”; or, “Captain Brien, if you
are going on deck, have the kindness to tell
Mr. McMaster that we ladies are quite
alone in the cabin”; or, “Tom, you walk
so unsteadily that I should really be obliged
if you would get Mr. McMaster to relieve
you.”

Velvet glove, though hand of iron, you
see; a domineering soul, but gracious language.
Indeed, if must not be guessed from
any light-minded remarks of ours that Mrs.
Chester was either vulgar or stupid. On the
contrary, she was a woman whom most of
us, if we should meet her in society, would
treat with profound respect. What with
some force of character, considerable experience
in the ways of the world, and a
high and mighty family position, she was a
figure of no little dignity. Only men of a
seared character laughed at her, and they
only when by themselves. The laughter was
mainly about her fancy for young fellows.
It was almost a mania with her; it had
grown upon her during her married life
with a husband twenty years her senior;
and now that she was a somewhat elderly
widow, she was fairly possessed by it.
There was always a youngster dangling at
her apron-strings, held there by Heaven
knows what mature female magic, and making
both himself and her more ridiculous
than should be.

But our friend Mr. McAlister did not
love to dangle. He was not of the dangling
sort; modestly but intelligently conscious
of his own value; tolerably well aware, too,
that he could not dangle gracefully; for
one thing, much too tall for it. Moreover,
although his liking for Kate Beaumont was
sufficient to make him try to like every one
who belonged to her, he could not fancy
Mrs. Chester. He discovered in the lady,
as he thought, a certain amount of hardness
and falseness; and, gentle, sincere, frank
almost to bluntness, he could not yearn
after such a person. Besides, he was sore-
hearted, anxious about the result of his late
great step, and fearful lest his incognito
might yet work mischief, so that he was not
in spirits to bear the first woman who chose
to take his arm. Accordingly he went
heavily laden with Mrs. Chester, and, quite
unintentionally, he gave her cause to suspect
it. There was a slowness about joining
her; there was a troubled absent-mindedness
while convoying her; at times he excused
himself from the whist parties on very
slight grounds; at other times he was so
busy with his books (scientific stuff) that
he did not look up when she passed.

The annoyed Mrs. Chester, just like a
conceited old flirt, suspected a rival. She
watched the gentleman, noted his expression
when his eyes fell upon her niece, and
guessed the cause of his indifference to herself.
Then followed some sly pumping of
Kate: “A very handsome man, this Mr.
McMaster.”

“Do you think so, aunt?” replies the
girl, who really had not fixed opinions as to
the man's beauty, so little was her heart
touched. “He is so very tall! Too tall.”

Mrs. Chester, a veteran trickster, could
not see through one thing, and that was
feminine sincerity. She inferred at once
that, because Kate had questioned the gentleman's
handsomeness, therefore she did
think him handsome. A good deal afraid of
such a fresh rival, and also remembering
her chaperonic duty towards her niece, she
immediately uttered the warning cluck, “I
wish we knew better who he is.”

Kate, who did know who he was, and
who had been thinking about the offer of
marriage and the family feud, was by this
time coloring sumptuously. New alarm on
the part of Mrs. Chester; the girl already
in love with this stranger, it may be; there
must be an avalanche of chaperonic discouragement.

“We have n't the least knowledge of
him,” she broke out, almost spitefully, for
her temper was quick and not easily held
in rein. “He is the most singularly uncommunicative
and even evasive person!
I am half suspicious at times that we have
done wrong in encouraging his advances.”
(Poor McAlister! he had made none.) “We
may find that we have a — what do you
call it in English? — a commis voyageur on
our hands. Of course travelling companions
can be got rid of. That is why I have
allowed him to play whist with us, and so
on. But even in travelling companions one
wants a little less mystery.”

“I thought you liked the mystery, aunt,”
remonstrated Kate, who, for some reason,
perhaps only an emotion, had not been
quite pleased to hear Mr. McAlister called
a bagman.

“O, I have been interested by it a little,”

admitted Mrs. Chester, who had indeed
been greatly interested by it, having gone
so far as to suspect the youngster of being a
German baron, and all because he read
High Dutch scientific books. “Yes, the
mystery has been amusing. Anything to
pass the time at sea. But we must be careful
about him.”

After a moment's meditation, she added
with sincere eagerness: “I really wish we
knew something. Tom gets nothing out of
him; does n't try, I suppose. Has he never
dropped a word to you, Kate, by which
you could guess him out.”

Mrs. Chester's eyes suddenly became
very sharp, and under them Kate colored
again. The girl was grievously burdened
with her secret; not accustomed to have
an idea of such magnitude about her; acquiring
womanliness under the pressure,
but acquiring it painfully.

“Why should he tell me anything?”
she asked, fairly driven into a hateful
equivocation by her relative's reconnoissance.

Mrs. Chester was more or less informed
and infuriated. Evidently, as she decided,
this man had told Kate something about
himself. If he had done that, if he had felt
free or felt obliged to open his history to
the girl, it was because he was in a state to
open his heart to her. Engaged in love-skirmishes
since her earliest teens, Mrs.
Chester was always on the alert for love-skirmishes.
Although she kept her self-possession
under her discovery, she in the
depths of her soul bounded with excitement.
There were no more words on the
matter; frankness was almost impossible
with this woman, except in overpowering
anger; but she resolved to keep a constant
eye on Kate, and to ferret out Mr. McMaster.

An hour later, sitting on deck alone (a
spider prefers to watch in solitude), she observed
Messrs. Duffy and Wilkins engaged
in muttered conversation, and discovered by
Duffy's nods and jerks of the elbow that the
talk referred to her man of mystery. That
blathering Duffy! just the person to pump
successfully! She knew him well by sight
as a “store-keeper” in Hartland; why had
she been so awkwardly haughty as not to
recognize him heretofore? With the detective
instinct of woman, she fixed at once
upon Duffy as a subject for her catechism,
rather than upon the diplomatic-faced Wilkins.

After a while her predestined victim
dropped away from his comrade, and sauntered
up and down the deck alone, hands in
pocket, fingering his small change, and calculating
his profits. The second time that
he passed her, Mrs. Chester leaned suddenly
forward in her chair, as if she had that
instant remembered him, and called, “Mr.
Duffy!”

He halted, his flat, doughy face coloring
up to the eyes, and all his veins thrilling
with excitement, under the honor of being
addressed by Mrs. Chester.

“I am right, am I not?” asked the lady.
“It is Mr. Duffy of Hartland?”

“Why, Mrs. Chester!” stammered the
simple, modest man. “Just so, Mr. Duffy
of Hartland. Had the pleasure of selling
you goods now and then, ma'am,” he
added, not being above his business and
wishing to show an agreeable humility.
“How have you enjoyed your voyage, Mrs.
Chester?”

Before continuing the conversation, the
lady signed to him to take a chair beside
her, sweetening and enforcing the invitation
with a smile. Lifting his hat and feeling as
if he ought to remove the shoes from off his
feet, Duffy seated himself.

“The voyage has been fairly pleasant,”
resumed Mrs. Chester. “A little lonely, I
must say, — such a small company! I should
have claimed your acquaintance before, Mr.
Duffy, if I had recognized you. Why did n't
you speak to me? Hartland people ought
not to be strangers, especially when they
meet away from home.”

“Beg pardon,” smirked Duffy, quite
abashed at his error. “Did n't feel exactly
sure you would recall me. You see, Mrs.
Chester, I never had the pleasure of speaking
to you except across the counter, and
that ain't always a claim.”

“Ah, yes! we live so far from the town!”
said the lady, in sidelong apology for not
having invited the shopkeeper to the Beaumont
mansion. But Duffy needed no such
apology; he had never expected to be asked
into that “old-time” society; he felt himself
more than well treated in being spoken to
once a year by Mrs. Chester. Still, he was
so far encouraged by this graciousness,
that he ventured to cross his legs and thus
put himself more at ease on the small of his
back.

“Been on the Continent, Mrs. Chester,”
he proceeded, slightly rubbing his
hands.

“Ah, indeed? And how did you like the
Continent?”

“No. I have n't been there. Beg your
pardon. I meant your party.”

“O yes. A delightful tour. And have
you only seen England? Really, Mr. Duffy,
you should have given a month or two to
the Continent.”

“Could n't, Mrs. Chester. That 's the
way with a business man; he has to go
where he has to; always on his muscle — I
mean business. I went over to look into
importing, and it took up every snip of time
that I could spare from home.”

“I am so sorry. However, I ought not
to regret it, except for your sake. Your
business is of the greatest consequence to
Hartland. You men of enterprise are our
— our main-stay. I hope, Mr. Duffy, that
you met others of our townsmen abroad, engaged
in profiting by the new line.”

“None that I know of. O, yes; Mr.
Wilkins here; but we went together.”

“And how few Hartland people we have
on the steamer,” added Mrs. Chester, by
way of closing this preliminary prattle and
gliding on to the subject of her man of
mystery. “Only you two gentlemen and
my party.”

“N-no, — y-yes,” stammered Duffy,
glancing uneasily at McAlister, just then
pacing the midships, his lofty blond head
plainly visible. Mrs. Chester had also seen
the young man there, and she now noted
the merchant's singular glance towards
him.

“Do you know that gentleman?” she
asked, as quick as lightning and with telling
directness.

“N-no. Ah, yes. That is. Let me see.
What is his name?” was the blundering response
of the entangled Duffy.

Mrs. Chester would not help him; she
might have suggested that the name was
McMaster, but she was too sly to do it; she
had guessed that Duffy knew something
about the youngster, and she was resolved
to make him tell it; if he would not, he
must do his own lying, without assistance
from her.

“I see,” she added. “To tell the truth,
I have had my suspicions all along. Can't
you put me out of doubt? It would be quite
a favor.”

Duffy was scarlet; he looked about for
Wilkins; did n't see him and drew a long
breath.

“That, Mrs. Chester,” he began, leaning
forward and speaking in a whisper. “Well,
I 've been wondering all the while you did n't
recognize him. Thought perhaps you did.
Could n't tell what to make of it. Why,
it 's Frank, the youngest. Been in Europe
eight years. Changed as much as ever I
saw a feller.”

“Oh!” responded Mrs. Chester, who was
still quite in the dark, not knowing much
of the McAlisters. “So it's the youngest?
Frank?”

“Yes. And they do say he 's the best
of the lot,” continued the pacificatory Duffy,
anxious to prevent a “muss.” “I do suppose,
if there 's a decent fellow on that hill,
a fellow who don't want to make trouble for
nobody, it 's this same Frank McAlister.”

At the word “McAlister” Mrs. Chester
came very near bursting out with an amazed
and excited “Oh!” It cost her all her
strength as a social gymnast to enable her
to catch her breath, bend her eyes to the
deck with an expression of remembrance,
and say in a quiet tone, “So it is Frank
McAlister. He has been called, I understand,
Mr. McMaster,” she presently added.

“Well, yes — McMaster — McAlister
— some mistake perhaps,” suggested the
gentle-minded Duffy. “May be, too, that
he let it go so, not wishing to be unpleasant
to you. Beg pardon. You know the old
difficulty. Excuse me for mentioning it.
I forgot myself, Mrs. Chester.”

“No offence, Mr. Duffy,” replied the
lady, proud of the feud as of a family heirloom,
unmistakably aristocratic. “The
thing is a matter of public notoriety, I believe.”

She changed the conversation; there was
some talk about the fine sights of London;
presently Duffy perceived that he had stayed
long enough and went.

“I 'll bet you one thing,” whispered the
scoffing Wilkins when they were alone together.
“You 've been letting out everything
to Mrs. Chester.”

“No, sir,” weakly replied the conscience-stricken
and abashed Duffy. “Hang me, if
I tell her anything of that,” he tried to bluster.
Then, under pretence of wanting a
cigar, he went below in great bitterness of
spirit to get a drink, mentally cursing himself,
Wilkins, Mrs. Chester, and women
generally. “Bla-ast the women!” groaned
the humble telltale. “They always will
bore things out of a feller.”

But Duffy is of no account, and we must
lay him aside like a sucked orange, just observing
that the secret was worth nothing
in his bosom, while now it is where it may
bear fruit. It makes a difference with a coal
of fire whether it is in a potato-bin or a
powder-magazine.

The nature and history of the quarrel between
the Beaumonts and the McAlisters
will be told in due season. Just here it is
only necessary to say that Mrs. Chester,
notwithstanding her twenty years of marriage,
was what she called “Beaumont all
through,” keeping up family prejudices and
grudges with the family loyalty of a woman,
and, for instance, abominating the McAlisters
as her father had abominated them before
her. A sly and spiteful breed she
thought them; people whose strength it
was to strike when you were not looking;
people always ready to take a mean advantage
of the noble Beaumonts. What could
such a woman think when she learned that
Frank McAlister, son of that old fox (as she
called him) Donald McAlister, had been
palming himself upon her as a stranger,
accepting her pettings under a feigned name,
allowing her to pinch his arm (if she did
pinch it), and — well, and so on? A trick,
she decided; a mean and dastardly trick;

perhaps a piece of espionage; perhaps a
studied insult. One or the other; it was
some one of these things; and whichever it
was, it was an outrage.

“I 'll teach him!” she muttered, as she
remembered pretty phrases which she had
murmured to the young man, and suspected
him of having laughed at them in his sleeve.
“Playing his jokes on a lazy!” gurgled
this vain, excitable, easily angered, and not
so easily pacified woman. “An insult to
our whole race!” was another stinging reflection,
envenomed by a family pride as
strong as corrosive sublimate. People of
average unsuspiciousness and mild temper
will find it hard to imagine how entirely this
elderly baby looked at the offensive side of
the discovered deceit, and how suddenly
furious she had become over it. Not a supposition
crossed her mind that McAlister
had meant no harm, or had meant only
good. She instantaneously imputed hostility
to him, and in return she was instantaneously
hostile.

Well, what to do about it? Cut the man,
of course; but that was not enough for good
old Beaumont hate, inflamed by a new
wrong; he must be visited with a more efficacious
punishment. Revenge, however,
was easier to wish for than to devise, even
with spiteful Marian Beaumont Chester, the
cause heretofore of more than one quarrel
between man and man. To be sure, if she
should tell her harum-scarum nephew what
had happened, he was just the youngster
to take a pint of whiskey aboard, break
out copiously in profane language, make
a scandal at all events, and pick a fight,
perhaps. But Tom, adroit and audacious
as he was in squabbles, did not seem to
her a match for this cool-headed giant.
Furthermore, Mrs. Chester remembered that
all the responsibility of an immediate disagreement
would rest upon her, and did not
find herself quite willing to shoulder it alone.
Had the whole family been here, had there
been some weighty soul at hand to set her
on, or even to hold her back, how promptly
and loudly would her voice have been raised
for war!” As it was, responsibility, man's
special burden, how should she shoulder it?

Not a word did she whisper to her niece,
nor had she a thought of consulting her.
So simply and single-mindedly angry was
she, that she had actually forgotten her suspicion
that Kate knew or guessed who this
man was, as well as her other suspicion that
there was some small matter of heart intelligence
between the two. She merely remembered
the girl as a child, quite incapable
of feeling or deciding properly concerning
such a grave situation as this, and no
more to be consulted as to the family honor
than if she were still a denizen of cradles
and trundle-beds. It is generally difficult
for old heads to conceive that young heads
have lost their pulpiness, until the junior
craniums knock it into the senior ones by
dint of well-directed and vigorous butting.

Late in the evening (no whist after tea
that day) Mrs. Chester's load of wrath became
so intolerable that she manfully resolved
to bear it alone no longer. She sent
for Tom to her state-room, saying to herself
that here was business for masculine muscle,
and that it was high time for her nephew to
show himself a chip of the old Beaumont
timber.

But the McAlister firebrand, notwithstanding
that it had dropped into Mrs.
Chester's powder-magazine of a temper, was
prevented from producing an immediate explosion
by a deluge of still more tremendous
intelligence.

When the nephew presented himself, he
looked surprisingly sober for the time of day,
and evidently had something very serious
on his mind.

“Tom, come in and shut the door,” began
Mrs. Chester. “I have something very important
to tell you.”

“Yes, and, by Jove, and I 've got something
to tell you, and, by Jove, I may as
well tell it,” responded the youngster.

“What is it?” asked the lady, suspecting
that her secret was out, and half disappointed
at not being the first to publish it.

“The ship is on fire,” said Tom. “Yes,
by Jove, on fire, as sure as you 're born.
Yes, it is.”