A Young Man in a Hurry, and Other Short Stories

“So that was a white tornado! I’ve heard of them – but – good God!” He turned a bloodless visage to Haltren, who, dripping, bareheaded and silent, stood with eyes closed leaning heavily against the wheel.

“Are you hurt?”

Haltren shook his head. Darrow regarded him stupidly.

“How did you happen to be in this part of the world?”

Haltren opened his eyes. “Oh, I’m likely to be anywhere,” he said, vaguely, passing a shaking hand across his face. There was a moment’s silence; then he said:

“Darrow, is my wife aboard this boat?”

“Yes,” said Darrow, under his breath. “Isn’t that the limit?”

Through the silence the cardinal sang steadily.

“Isn’t that the limit?” repeated Darrow. “We came on the yacht – that was Brent’s yacht, the Dione, you saw at sea. You know the people aboard. Brent, Mrs. Castle, your wife, and I left the others and took the launch to explore the lagoons… And here we are. Isn’t it funny?” he added, with a nerveless laugh.

Haltren stood there slowly passing his hand over his face.

“It is funnier than you know, Darrow,” he said. “Kathleen and I – this is our wedding-day.”

“Well, that is the limit,” muttered Darrow, as Haltren turned a stunned face to the sunshine where the little cardinal sang with might and main.

“Come below,” he added. “You are going to speak to her, of course?”

“If she cared to have me – ”

“Speak to her anyway. Haltren; I” – he hesitated – “I never knew why you and Kathleen separated. I only knew what everybody knows. You and she are four years older now; and if there’s a ghost of a chance – Do you understand?”

Haltren nodded.

“Then we’ll go below,” began Darrow. But Major Brent appeared at that moment, apoplectic eyes popping from his purple face as he waddled forward to survey the dismantled launch.

Without noticing either Haltren or Darrow, he tested the slippery angle of the deck, almost slid off into the lagoon, clutched the rail with both pudgy hands, and glared at the water.

“I suppose,” he said, peevishly, “that there are alligators in that water. I know there are!”

He turned his inflamed eyes on Haltren, but made no sign of recognition.

“Major,” said Darrow, sharply, “you remember Dick Haltren – ”

“Eh?” snapped the major. “Where the deuce did you come from, Haltren?”

“He was the man who hailed us. He took the wheel,” said Darrow, meaningly.

“Nice mess you made of it between you,” retorted the major, scowling his acknowledgments at Haltren.

Darrow, disgusted, turned on his heel; Haltren laughed. The sound of his own laugh amused him, and he laughed again.

“I don’t see the humor,” said the major. “The Dione is blown half-way to the Bermudas by this time.” He added, with a tragic gesture of his fat arms; “Are you aware that Mrs. Jack Onderdonk is aboard?”

The possible fate of Manhattan’s queen regent so horrified Major Brent that his congested features assumed the expression of an alarmed tadpole.

But Haltren, the unaccustomed taste of mirth in his throat once more, stood there, dripping, dishevelled, and laughing. For four years he had missed the life he had been bred to; he had missed even what he despised in it, and his life at moments had become a hell of isolation. Time dulled the edges of his loneliness; solitude, if it hurts, sometimes cures too. But he was not yet cured of longing for that self-forbidden city in the North. He desired it – he desired the arid wilderness of its treeless streets, its incessant sounds, its restless energy; he desired its pleasures, its frivolous days and nights, its satiated security, its ennui. Its life had been his life, its people his people, and he longed for it with a desire that racked him.

“What the devil are you laughing at, Haltren?” asked the major, tartly.

“Was I laughing?” said the young man. “Well – now I will say good-bye, Major Brent. Your yacht will steam in before night and send a boat for you; and I shall have my lagoons to myself again… I have been here a long time… I don’t know why I laughed just now. There was, indeed, no reason.” He turned and looked at the cabin skylights. “It’s hard to realize that you and Darrow and – others – are here, and that there’s a whole yacht-load of fellow-creatures – and Mrs. Van Onderdonk – wobbling about the Atlantic near by. Fashionable people have never before come here – even intelligent people rarely penetrate this wilderness… I – I have a plantation a few miles below – oranges and things, you know.” He hesitated, almost wistfully. “I don’t suppose you and your guests would care to stop there for a few hours, if your yacht is late.”

“No,” said the major, “we don’t care to.”

“Perhaps Haltren will stay aboard the wreck with us until the Dione comes in,” suggested Darrow.

“I dare say you have a camp hereabouts,” said the major, staring at Haltren; “no doubt you’d be more comfortable there.”

“Thanks,” said Haltren, pleasantly; “I have my camp a mile below.” He offered his hand to Darrow, who, too angry to speak, nodded violently towards the cabin.

“How can I?” asked Haltren. “Good-bye. And I’ll say good-bye to you, major – ”

“Good-bye,” muttered the major, attempting to clasp his fat little hands behind his back.

Haltren, who had no idea of offering his hand, stood still a moment, glancing at the cabin skylights; then, with a final nod to Darrow, he deliberately slid over-board and waded away, knee-deep, towards the palm-fringed shore.

Darrow could not contain himself. “Major Brent,” he said, “I suppose you don’t realize that Haltren saved the lives of every soul aboard this launch.”

The major’s inflamed eyes popped out.

“Eh? What’s that?”

“More than that,” said Darrow, “he came back from safety to risk his life. As it was he lost his boat and his gun – ”

“Damnation!” broke out the major; “you don’t expect me to ask him to stay and meet the wife he deserted four years ago!”

And he waddled off to the engine-room, where the engineer and his assistant were tinkering at the wrecked engine.

Darrow went down into the sloppy cabin, where, on a couch, Mrs. Castle lay, ill from the shock of the recent catastrophe; and beside her stood an attractive girl stirring sweet spirits of ammonia in a tumbler.

Her eyes were fixed on the open port-hole. Through that port-hole the lagoon was visible; so was Haltren, wading shoreward, a solitary figure against the fringed rampart of the wilderness.

“Is Mrs. Castle better?” asked Darrow.

“I think so; I think she is asleep,” said the girl, calmly.

There was a pause; then Darrow took the tumbler and stirred the contents.

“Do you know who it was that got us out of that pickle?”

“Yes,” she said; “my husband.”