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Updated: May 4, 2025
It came over him with an insistence that he, too, would like to roam the world, and see strange places and old marble palaces with steps descending into the blue sea water, and islands with precipices and beaches and palm trees. Almost awed at his own presumption he sat down and wrote to Miss Fenacre. It was a short note, formally addressed, begging her for a position in the engine-room staff.
Frank Rignold had never been the favoured suitor, not at least so far as anything definite was concerned; but he had always been welcome at the little house on Commonwealth Street, and amongst the neighbours his name and that of Florence Fenacre were coupled as a matter of course and every old lady within a radius of three miles regarded the match as good as settled.
"That's the Minnehaha," said the second mate. "She belongs to the beautiful heiress, Miss Fenacre!" "Ready for a Mediterranean cruise," said the purser, who had been reading one of the newspapers the pilot had brought aboard. Frank heard these two remarks in silence. The sun, to him, seemed to stop shining. The morning that had been so bright and pleasant all at once overcame him with disgust.
Not of course that kings and princes predominate, but the same spirit prevailed with those who on shore held their heads very high and practised a jealous exclusiveness. Amongst them all Florence Fenacre was a favourite of favourites.
It was a constant wonder to him that such conditions had been able to produce a woman like Florence Fenacre. "You are the flower of ze prairie," he would say, "an atavism of type, harking back a dozen generations to aristocratic progenitors, having nothing in common with the Pathfinder your Papa!" "He wasn't a pathfinder," said Florence, "he was a whaler captain."
"We needn't begin now, Frank," she exclaimed, almost with annoyance. "Am I in your service?" he asked. "From to-day," she answered, "and I will give you a note to Captain Landry." "Then you will be Miss Fenacre to me from now on," he said. "You must say good-bye to Florence first," she said, smiling. "You may kiss my hand," she said, as she gave it to him.
It was becoming their only claim to consideration that they knew Florence Fenacre. Her dazzling life reflected a sort of glory upon themselves, and their letters ran endlessly on the same theme. It was all a modern fairy tale, and they fairly bubbled with satisfaction to think that they knew the fairy princess! Frank read it all with exasperation.
"I shall treat you precisely as I would any owner of any ship I sailed on," he said. "That is, with respect and always preserving my distance. I will never address you first except to say good- morning and good-evening, and will show no concern if you do not speak to me for days on end." "Oh, Frank, you are an angel!" she cried. "No," he returned, "only as far as I can a gentleman, Miss Fenacre."
Won't you break your heart just like I am breaking mine, I that would sell the clothes off my back for you and follow you all over the world!" Frank protested that she was mistaken; that it wasn't Miss Fenacre at all; that it was absurd to even think of such a thing. "Oh, Frank, it's bad enough as it is without your lying to me," she said, quite unconvinced.
Frank did not think it was enough, but he was not without intuition and willing to accept the little offered him and be grateful rather than risk all, and almost certainly lose all, by too exigent a suit. For Florence Fenacre was the acknowledged beauty of the town, with a dozen eligible men at her feet, and was more courted and sought after than any girl in the place.
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