OU'VE heard about the ship that went down in sight of port?” observed Clyde Maxwell. “Well, for sheer bad luck, I've got that ship looking like a golden argosy of joy. And this I am sure I can show you.”
“Is it a matter of life and death?” asked the purser.
“Life and death? Worse!”
“I wish I could help you out,” said the purser, watching the tall, ulster-clad man with a new interest. “Is it—is it anything you'd care to tell me about? Not that I've got any authority to help you out,” he added as a cautious afterthought. “I've explained that to you already.”
“You certainly have. So has the captain. So has the health officer. So has everybody in sight. You're an exception to the rest, in one way—you're the only soul on the ship who has shown the faintest interest in my possible reasons for wanting to get ashore. The rest all—”
“You say it's 'worse than a matter of life and death,'” explained the purser; “so I suppose it's something with a story to it. That's why I asked. That and because you and I have been good friends since the old business college days. But if you'd rather not tell—”
“It's a relief to jabber it to some one. Here goes. I told you I was engaged. Well, I'm on my way home to my wedding. The date set for it is March 1st—day after to-morrow. I had to make this European trip for the firm. The ship was scheduled to dock at New York on February 25th—two days ago. I figured out that I'd have fully three days' leeway. Then came the broken shaft that delayed us two days, and, now that we've struck quarantine, comes this diphtheria scare. And we're all held up, by law, for two days longer, till they find out whether there'll be any more cases to—”
“I get the idea. You're liable to be late for your wedding. Hard luck! But you can send the girl word by wireless, can't you? She'll surely understand. In two days you'll be able to land. Let's see. This is February 27th. Twenty-eight days in February, aren't there? Two days after this will—will bring it up to March 2d. The wedding need be put off only one day. And—”
“You don't understand,” cried Maxwell.
“That has nothing to do with it. Here's the idea. Miss Sylvia Tennant—the girl I'm going to marry—is my third cousin. I've known her since she was a child. We've always been in love with each other. Our families always favored the match—especially her grandfather. He died last year, leaving six hundred and twenty thousand dollars. According to his will, the money was to be divided equally between Sylvia and myself—”
“Good old grandpa!” put in the purser.
“On condition,” resumed Clyde, “that we marry each other on or before her twenty-first birthday. A fool sort of a will, wasn't it? But his heart was set on the match. And he didn't believe in long engagements.”
“Nobody would believe in them,” chuckled the purser, “if there was six hundred and twenty thousand dollars waiting at their end. You're a lucky chap, Maxwell. For a struggling young lawyer to come into three hundred and ten thousand dollars, and to marry a girl with the same amount of wealth, seems almost too good to be true.”
“It is too good to be true,” groaned Clyde. “That's the trouble. I might have known it could never happen. I'm the original Jonah from Jonahopolis.”
“Hasn't thrown you over, has she?”
“No, but—”
“She won't be silly enough to break the engagement, just because you're held up a couple days on a quarantined boat?”
“No, no! But her twenty-first birthday; falls on the 1st of March. That's all. Now, do you, see?”
The purser whistled long and reflectively.
“I understand!” he exclaimed. “You are in bad, for a fact. The wedding scheduled for March 1st, a fortune depending on it, and you booked to get to town one day late. Say! I've got an idea. Why not send for Miss. Tennant to come down here and marry you on shipboard? That would—”
“That would be fine!” scoffed Maxwell. “Only, you seem to forget no one but health officers are allowed to board the ship or to leave it. I believe the law even forbids any private boats to come within a hundred feet of us. So there we are.”
“But, can't the will be set aside, or—”
“No. We all agreed to it, and it has been probated. Unless Sylvia and I are married day after to-morrow, the six hundred and twenty thousand dollars reverts to the Something-or-Other Charitable Gild. The old chap wasn't really so much of a crank, though, as you might think.
“He knew Sylvia and I were in love with each other. He knew I was too hard up to marry. He knew I would be too proud, as a poor man, to marry an heiress. So he divided the money between us, and made that little proviso against a long engagement. It all seemed for the best.