A Woman Intervenes | Page 6

alone
in the dark.'
'Oh, thank you very much,' replied Miss Brewster, with effusion. 'It is
kind of you, I am sure; and if you promise not to let me rob you of the
pleasure of your after-dinner cigar, I shall be most happy to have you
accompany me. I will meet you at the top of the stairway in five
minutes.'
'You are getting on,' said Kenyon, as the young woman disappeared.
'What's the use of being on board ship,' said Wentworth, 'If you don't
take advantage of the opportunity for making shipboard acquaintances?
There is an unconventionality about life on a steamer that is not without
its charm, as perhaps you will find out before the voyage is over, John.'
'You are merely trying to ease your conscience because of your
heartless desertion of me.'

George Wentworth had waited at the top of the companion-way a little
more than five minutes when Miss Brewster appeared, wrapped in a
cloak edged with fur, which lent an additional charm to her complexion,
set off as it was by a jaunty steamer cap. They stepped out on the deck,
and found it not at all so dark as they had expected. Little globes of
electric light were placed at regular intervals on the walls of the deck
building. Overhead was stretched a sort of canvas roof, against which
the sleety rain pattered. One of the sailors, with a rubber mop, was
pushing into the gutter by the side of the ship the moisture from the
deck. All around the boat the night was as black as ink, except here and
there where the white curl of a wave showed luminous for a moment in
the darkness.
Miss Brewster insisted that Wentworth should light his cigar, which,
after some persuasion, he did. Then he tucked her hand snugly under
his arm, and she adjusted her step to suit his. They had the promenade
all to themselves. The rainy winter night was not so inviting to most of
the passengers as the comfortable rooms below. Kenyon, however, and
one or two others came up, and sat on the steamer chairs that were tied
to the brass rod which ran along the deckhouse wall. He saw the glow
of Wentworth's cigar as the couple turned at the farther end of the walk,
and when they passed him he heard a low murmur of conversation, and
caught now and then a snatch of silvery laughter. It was not because
Wentworth had deserted him that Kenyon felt so uncomfortable and
depressed. He could not tell just what it was, but there had settled on
his mind a strange, uneasy foreboding. After a time he went down into
the saloon and tried to read, but could not, and so wandered along the
seemingly endless narrow passage to his room (which was Wentworth's
as well), and, in nautical phrase, 'turned in.' It was late when his
companion came.
'Asleep, Kenyon?' asked the latter.
'No,' was the answer.
'By George! John, she is one of the most charming girls I ever met.
Wonderfully clever, too; makes a man feel like a fool beside her. She
has read nearly everything. Has opinions on all our authors, a great

many of whom I've never heard of I wish, for your sake, John, she had
a sister on board.'
'Thanks, old man; awfully good of you, I'm sure,' said Kenyon. 'Don't
you think it's about time to stop raving, get into your bunk, and turn out
that confounded light?'
'All right, growler, I will.'
Meanwhile, in her own state-room, Miss Jennie Brewster was looking
at her reflection in the glass. As she shook, out her long hair until it
rippled down her back, she smiled sweetly, and said to herself:
'Poor Mr. Wentworth! Only the first night out, and he told me his name
was George.'

CHAPTER III.
The second day out was a pleasant surprise for all on board who had
made up their minds to a disagreeable winter passage. The air was clear,
the sky blue as if it were spring-time, instead, of midwinter. They were
in the Gulf Stream. The sun shone brightly and the temperature was
mild. Nevertheless, it was an uncomfortable day for those who were
poor sailors. Although there did not seem, to the casual observer, to be
much of a sea running, the ship rolled atrociously. Those who had
made heroic resolutions on the subject were sitting in silent misery in
their deck-chairs, which had been lashed to firm stanchions. Few were
walking the clean bright deck, because walking that morning was a
gymnastic feat. Three or four who evidently wished to show they had
crossed before, and knew all about it, managed to make their way along
the deck. Those recumbent in the steamer-chairs watched