A STRUGGLE ON THE BALCONY.

It was something to be free at last from Wesson. While I had nothing definite that I could bring against the man, he was in my way. I wanted to be alone with Marjorie. Not literally alone, for wherever we went there were people near by, of course; but alone as far as any one who had ever known us was concerned. As we approached St. Croix, my mercurial spirits began to rise again. When we were once more on shore, and domiciled in the second class hostelry to which we were shown, I could have danced with glee. I could hardly refrain from giving vent to my feelings in a yell that would no doubt have astonished the quiet town as if a cannon had been discharged.

All through this part of the world the native population speak in tones so low that a foreigner has to listen intently to know what is being said. It is charming after you get used to it; one wonders how Northerners got into a habit of screaming when discussing the common events of the day. A negro or colored person (colored is only used here for people of mixed race) will address another a hundred feet away in as low a tone as the ordinary American would use at as many inches. I got partially into the same habit before I left the Islands. I only wish I had retained it and could persuade my friends to do likewise.

"What is there to do here?" asked Marjorie, as we sat in the evening on the balcony that projected from the house.

"Nothing whatever," I replied. "Unless it be to make love, and that, you will remember, is forbidden by our agreement."

She bit her lips, acted as if she were going to say something, and suppressed it, whatever it was.

"If you wish the stipulation removed," I continued, gaily, "there is no better opportunity than this. I believe I could make love, after my long abstinence, in a way that would do me credit."

She turned and surveyed my face for some seconds.

"In the same way you have often made love before, I presume," she said, finally; "and with the same degree of sincerity."

"No," I said, growing sober. "I have never loved a woman till recently. The others were idle fancies. They lasted, on the average, a week, while this—"

"Might last a month?" she interrupted.

"Or an eternity."

"I think we had best talk of something else," she said, uneasily. "In the morning we must begin our work, bright and early. I suppose there will be no beach bathing here, and we can commence before coffee if you wish. I want to be of all possible use while we are together."

"You will never leave me, Marjorie," I answered, "if I am allowed to set the time of your departure. Don't think, I beg, that I would say these things if I did not mean them. I want you for my true and loving wife—understand, that is what I mean—wife; and something tells me that, when you think it over, you will grant my wish."

She flushed until her neck was as rosy as her cheek. Several very long breaths came and went to stir her matchless bosom. She seemed as if strangling for an instant and recovered her equanimity with difficulty.

"Mr. Camwell—" she began.

"'Don,'" I corrected.

"No, not at this moment," she answered. "Do you recollect to whom you are speaking? I am a nearly friendless girl—who has trusted herself to your manhood and honor. I am far from my home, if indeed I can truly claim to have one; you know nothing about me. It is madness if you mean what you say. It is villainy of the deepest dye if you do not mean it."

"We shall have to call it madness, then," I replied, smiling at the thought that I knew her heart in spite of all her efforts to conceal its true pulsations. "I might fall at your feet, declaim my story after the manner of a stage hero, all that sort of thing. I believe it best to tell you what I have to say in the plain, sincere tone that a matter of great moment should be spoken. I love you, Marjorie! I have loved you since the minute my eyes rested on your face. I shall love no other woman while life remains to me. I offer you my hand in sincere and honest affection, and may God—"

She half rose from her chair and lifted a hand deprecatingly.

"Don't say that!" she interpolated, with distress in her tone. "I will believe you without the oath. But, I cannot listen. It is impossible. You must not—you must not—"

"My darling," I said, leaning toward her, and speaking lower than any native of St. Croix, "I know I have surprised you, by coming to the point in such an unconventional and sudden fashion. We will say no more about it—to-night."

"Neither to-night, nor ever," she replied, earnestly. "Oh, why have you done this? We were such good friends; and now, it never can be the same again!"

There were tears in her eyes, and at sight of them my resolution to remain cool took wings. Rising, I clasped the shrinking form in my arms, and poured into her ears the love that was consuming me. I said the only answer I would ever listen to from her was "Yes." I would wait, if need be, but I must have it. Never, never, should she separate from me. The love I had to offer was that of a lifetime.

"I am not a poor man, either," I added, trying to weight my proposition with all the things that would count. "I can give you a home of comfort, even luxury. The days for you to toil in disagreeable offices are ended. The time when you will count your money to see if you can afford the necessaries of life is past. We will go on long journeys, to interesting lands. Your existence shall be, as far as I can make it so, a dream of happiness. Marjorie, believe me! I want to hear your sweet lips say the word that will make this world a heaven—now!"

Instead of being influenced by my passionate flow of language, she seemed only to shrink further and further away. I saw at last that, in some manner I could not understand, I was actually frightening her. Alarmed at her appearance I quickly released my hold and stood there, a very confused figure, panting with the excess of my emotions.

Marjorie seemed fainting and in my alarm I begged her to let me go and summon assistance.

"No," she whispered. "But you will stop—you will say no more? You may, if you will be so kind, get me—a—glass—of water. I shall be better—presently."

It took a long time to get the simple thing she wanted. There are no bells in the house, to begin with. The principal ambition of West India servants is to keep out of sight and hearing, lest they might be asked to do something. When one was at last found he could produce nothing colder than water that had stood in a jug since dinner. This would not do and, by the time he had found the ice, at least ten minutes must have passed.

Bringing the glass of water with all speed to the balcony, great was my disgust to find that a man had reached there before me and was even then engaged in conversation with my late companion. He had come upon the balcony from the public sitting room and was trying to persuade the lady to let him fetch something from his own chamber that he promised would speedily restore her. When he turned to meet me I was filled with positive rage. For the man was none other than my old fellow passenger, Edgerly!

"Where the devil did you come from?" I demanded, hotly.

"I hope I have done no harm," he answered, in an apologetic voice that made me feel as if I ought to punch my own head instead of his, which was my original intention. "I happened to step out on this balcony and seeing that the lady was ill offered to assist her. That is all."

He was always offering to assist her, it seemed to me, as I recalled the time when he flew to the companionway of the steamer with the same end in view.

"I think I will go in now, if you don't mind," said Marjorie, wearily, after she had sipped the water I brought. "I was overcome by—by the heat—I think, but I am much better."

Thinking that Edgerly might wish to "assist her" again I made haste to offer her my arm; but she declined it with a faint smile, saying she had no need of help. Her window was open and she left the balcony as she had entered it, closing the glass doors after her.

"You were not very polite to me, a moment ago," said Edgerly, in clear, cutting tones. "I thought it the part of a gentleman not to notice it while the lady was present, but now I am obliged to express my opinion of you; which is," he paused a moment, looking me squarely in the eye, "that you are a cur!"

I grappled with him almost before the words were out of his mouth. We went down together in a heap, his hand at my throat, mine at his. I would have thrown him over the railing, or he would have thrown me, in an instant more.

A voice interrupted us—the voice of Miss May, through her window.

"Mr. Camwell, will you kindly call a chambermaid," she said.

It was like the sudden appearance of a flag of truce in the midst of a battle. Edgerly muttered something about seeing me at another time, and released his hold. I did the same, remarking that I was at his service whenever he pleased. We both rose. Edgerly entered the sitting room, lifting his hat ironically as he vanished. I entered my own chamber, reaching the hall in that way. Finding the woman, I sent her to Miss May, telling her to knock at my door when she had executed the lady's requests. Then I threw myself into a chair, and realized for the first time how inadequate my weakened physical strength was to cope with a well man like Edgerly.

Had not that voice separated us, I would now have been lying, either dead or mangled, on the stone pavement, twelve feet below!

When I thought the matter over, I could see I had been in the wrong. The fellow had done nothing that deserved my abuse, in the first place, and the epithet he had hurled at me was in a measure justified by my conduct. It was now too late, however, to consider the origin of the quarrel. Blows had been exchanged, threats had been passed, we had agreed to settle the matter later. It was not in my disposition to crave the pardon of a man under those circumstances. If he carried out his evident purpose of trying to trash me, I would have to meet him. The fact that I was still in effect an invalid—that I was not in condition for such a game—was no excuse, nor did I intend to avail myself of it. I felt pretty certain that, within a given number of hours, I would be very lucky if I knew myself in the glass.

The chambermaid came to say that "Miss Carney" would like to see me after a short time had passed. I therefore made myself as presentable as possible, bathing my heated face, brushing my hair and arranging a necktie that had got sadly out of place. When twenty minutes had elapsed, I went to Marjorie's door and knocked softly. She came and opened it just enough to see who was there, but instead of asking me to enter said she had found, on reflection, that she did not need anything and believed the best course for her was to retire. She evidently either knew or suspected what had occurred and wanted to see if I bore evidence of having been injured.

"Very well; good-night," I said, in answer to her suggestion.

"Good-night," she answered. And, "God bless you!" she added, fervently.

"My love!" I murmured, hoping she would relent and give me a longer interview, but she shook her head with a sad smile and closed the door. I heard the key turn in the lock and, realizing that it was useless to remain longer, re-entered my own chamber and prepared for sleep.

In the midst of a sound slumber, for the events of the evening did not much disturb my rest, I suddenly came to consciousness. A figure, distinct enough, stood between me and the window. The bright night of the tropics made the principal objects in the room look almost as clear as day. Half doubting whether I were really awake I sprang up, when a low voice made me pause.

"Hush! Not a sound," said the voice. "It is only I."

The window was wide open, showing where she had entered, for it was Marjorie that spoke.

"I was nervous, and could not sleep, and on going upon the balcony I found your window unfastened."

The wonder that she had entered overpowered every other sentiment. How could it be true that this girl, who had nearly fainted with fear when I merely put an arm around her, had come in the night within my bedroom, clad, as I plainly saw, in the garments of slumber.

I stretched my arms toward her, but she moved away. What an incomprehensible creature she was!

"Do not stir," she continued, earnestly, and with a trembling tongue. "I tried to make you hear me, without entering, but you slept too soundly. It is not well—it is not safe—to sleep with your window unfastened. I thought you ought to know. That is all. Good-night."

She was moving toward the exit and I called after her softly.

"Marjorie!" I said. "Come here a little while before you leave."

She turned her white face—whiter in the pale moonlight than I had ever seen it—toward me, still moving slowly away.

"And you," she whispered, "are the man who told me, only a few hours ago, that you wanted me for your wife!"

"I do, my darling!" I replied, with all the fervor I could put into the words. "I mean no more than I say when I ask to touch your cheek with my lips, your hand even, the hem of your gown."

She was gone; and as I sat there I reflected for the second time that evening what an ass I had been. Marjorie had taken what I thought a harmless request and turned it into an insult. I cursed anew the damnable training I had had in the field of love-making. It had me as unfit to win the heart of a pure and virtuous maiden as a brigand.

The worst was, she had gone to her chamber with the thought still on her mind that I was a liar of the meanest stripe. After professing a pure love I had, at the first opportunity, she imagined, showed the emptiness of my pretence, the falseness of my heart.

Sleep fled this time from my eyes, and no wonder. I propped my head high with pillows and resigned myself to wakefulness and moody thoughts till daybreak.

As soon as it was light I took stationery from my trunk and wrote an impassioned letter to my beloved, that she might see, before we met again, how terribly she had misjudged me. I told her the story as it really was—my sudden awakening, the longing that possessed me for some recognition from the being to whom all my life's love had been pledged. I detailed the sickness of heart with which I realized how woefully my object was misapprehended. I touched on the absence of sleep that followed my error, and in closing begged her to write me just a word to say that I was forgiven, before I underwent the agony of meeting her unjustly accusing eyes. This I signed, "Your husband that is to be—that must be—with all respect and love."

It was almost as great a shock as if she had refused to read my note when the maid whom I summoned to deliver it, brought me a tiny sheet of paper bearing these words:

From some remarks that I heard below stairs I gathered that Edgerly had left the house, taking his baggage with him, before the early breakfast was served. A little later I learned that he had gone to a town on the opposite side of the island where the capital is located. I therefore came to the conclusion that he had decided not to push his intention of mauling me at present. Probably, I reflected, he did not realize how easy a victim I was likely to be in the present condition of my health.

We passed the rest of the time while at St. Croix in morning work, midday siestas, evening drives and after dinner talks. Marjorie succeeded in keeping the conversation away from the delicate ground of the former occasion, but she did not succeed in eliminating the subject from my mind. Knowing from the letter I had read at Eggert's, that she cared much for me, I was not to be dissuaded from my intention of taking her home, either as my actual or my promised bride. The security I felt gave me willingness to wait. What I needed now was to strengthen the affection she had admitted until it was too strong for her to resist longer.

No shadow came between us during the week that remained before the coming of the Pretoria, on which we were to embark for another voyage. We heard the boat had arrived on the morning of the 8th of February, and would leave late in the evening. I engaged a carriage to drive us to a distant point, so that we might go on board too late to meet any of the Americans with whom the steamer was sure to be filled. That day was one of unalloyed happiness.

Alas! that so soon my troubles were to break out afresh!

I had arranged with the local agent to secure me the requisite berths and he brought the tickets to the hotel at night when we returned. There was only one unpleasant feature about them—he had not been able to secure a place for the lady very near me—but we had no right to expect anything else, and Marjorie seemed disposed to make the best of it.

At eleven o'clock we were rowed out with our baggage and shown to our rooms.

Reaching mine, I turned up the electric light and started as I saw the face of Mr. Wesson in that lower berth.

"The devil!" I could not help exclaiming, aloud.

It seemed to partially waken him, for he turned over and muttered something indistinguishable, immediately relapsing again into sound sleep.

I said to myself that this was decidedly too much. I would be d—d if I would sleep there. When I had donned my pajamas, therefore, I went up to the deck above and passed the night on the cushions of the music room, of which I was the only tenant.