# The Luck of the Irish/Chapter 14
### CHAPTER XIV

THE unmarried woman must have something to satisfy her instincts of motherhood; thus we find the spinster coddling the cat or cooing to the canary. A single man has so many diversions that he need be lonely only during his meals, and not always then. He has no mother instincts; he cannot boast of father instincts before the fact.
Ruth, having finished her breakfast of toast and chocolate, sat cross-legged among the tumbled bed-clothes and analyzed an astonishing discovery. She had found an outlet to the mother instinct by establishing a protectorate over William Grogan. Since the death of her father she had been without any practical objective in life. She loved children, but it was impossible to mother the wild little animals under her tutelage. She never could get very close to them sentimentally, for the reason that teachers are looked upon by pupils as natural enemies. If some little girl made her the gift of a bouquet or some little boy left an apple on her desk, she readily understood the impulse behind the act—a plea for immunity from punishment the next time punishment was due. But to get them snuggling in her arms was nigh impossible.
The majority of them had all the mothering ​they wanted at home. They could put up with it there because they had to; but at school they considered any such advances as an encroachment upon their prerogatives. True, they would come running to her fast enough when they were hurt; but this was in quest of justice or sympathy, and teachers were the only grown-ups at hand.
So she awoke with the discovery that for several weeks, in fact since the landing at Naples, she had been mothering William Grogan, rescuing him from greedy shopkeepers, suppressing his careless generosity in the matter of tips, seeing to it that he never left anything on trains, warning him against sea-food in inland towns, teaching him by degrees what she knew of art and literature despite the fact that most of it went into one ear and out of the other.
Ruth gathered up her brush and comb from the little stand at the side of the bed and began brushing and combing her hair, which was golden-brown like the nest of a ripe chestnut. Her skin was fine and firmly padded, with a hint of gold in the soft, curving shadows. Her cambric night-gown, short in sleeve and loose at the shoulders, revealed vaguely the lovely contours of her young body. But as in William, her chief attraction lay in her eyes, deep gray, flecked with the variegated browns of an October leaf.
Mothering William Grogan with his shock of red hair, his amazing blue eyes, his irrepressible good humor, his irresponsible generosity! She laughed and rocked her body. It was so funny. Argu​ing with him what he should and should not spend, ordering him to do this or that, certain that he would always obey her, which he always did. Accustomed as she was to ruling children, it fell to her easily to dominate this Hercules who was only a child grown up. It never occurred to her to peer behind the curtain of this apparent docility. Besides, the experience had all the thrilling exhilaration of stroking a purring tiger; for while she might in time completely forget that morning in Venice, she would never forget the cold, murderous fire in William's eyes.
Eight o'clock! She sprang off the bed, lively and eager. They would be leaving for Port Said at nine-thirty, and she hadn't a bit of packing done. She ran to the window—sunshine, always sunshine. What a wonderful world it was! She began humming the spinning-song from "The Flying Dutchman," and turned to her suit-cases. It was an actual fact that these cases were visibly shrinking or else her clothes were growing. Soon she would be forced to buy a third case.
When everything was snugly packed away and not so much as a hairpin forgotten, she picked up William's little bag of gold and dropped it into the pocket of her skirt, pinning the aperture. Not only his mother, but his banker, too! She laughed. The bag was heavy and clumsy, but, once aboard, she could turn it over to William or the purser.
At eight-thirty she was in the lobby, searching for William. He was nowhere in sight, and she considered this rather unusual. So she found a ​chair in the midst of the confusion and sat down to wait. Her fellow-tourists began to depart in groups. Ten minutes to nine she became worried. Not belonging to that class of women who cannot do anything but wait, she went to the desk to learn if William had left word. He had not.
"Perhaps he has overslept," she suggested.
The clerk looked over the key-rack. "Here is his key, miss."
She thought for a moment. "It might be well to send some one up, at least to see if his luggage has been brought down. It is getting late."
"Very well, miss."
Five minutes later Ruth was informed that Mr. Grogan had not been in his room. His clothes lay about; nothing had been packed. Ruth was now alarmed.
"Give me the key and summon a maid for me," she said, resolutely. She did not care what people said.
She and the maid packed William's grips and carried them down-stairs. It was now ten minutes past nine. She could wait five minutes longer. What had happened? It was certain that he had not returned to the hotel last night. Promptness was one of William's virtues. Never before had she missed him in the morning. A dread thought, thrust it aside as she might, persisted. It did not matter that he was very strong, quick, and resourceful. Each time she shut her eyes she saw a man stealing treacherously up behind him.
At nine-fifteen she was forced to go to her car​riage. She dared not wait any longer. There was a possible chance of his arriving at the station the last moment. But there was no William Grogan on the train that left for Port Said that morning.
Her luggage and William's were stacked together in the corridor; and the Calcutta missioner eyed the pyramid gloomily as he passed the compartment.
Ruth imagined all sorts of calamities. William had been run over. He had been set upon and robbed. He was lying in a hospital, and was badly hurt, unable to tell who he was. And he might be dead. She kept up pluckily under the strain. For five and a half hours she sat in her corner stiffly, paying no heed to the calls for luncheon, not daring to close her eyes for fear of the pictures she would see behind the lids, replying absently to such questions as were put to her by the other ladies. What really gave her this fictitious strength was the hope that at Port Said there would be a telegram.
He was so strong that his strength would probably react against him. His assailants would be forced to beat him cruelly in order to plunder him safely. He had promised to return to the hotel immediately after the boxing-match, and no doubt the old craving to prowl had been his undoing.
She wished now that she had remained in Cairo. She could have searched the hospitals, notified the police and the consul. Moreover, she could have taken a late train to Suez and joined the Ajax ​there. An explanatory telegram would have held up the ship for an hour or so.
At Port Said there was no telegram awaiting Ruth.
Camden was one of the last to come on board. Ruth rushed up to him.
"Where is Mr. Grogan?"
"Grogan? Why, isn't he on board?"
"No. He didn't come back to the hotel last night."
"Good lord! Why, I left him at the door of the theater. Only a few turns, and he was at his hotel. But I shouldn't worry, Miss Jones." For Ruth was still "Miss Jones" to every one but William. "I say, I'll run down and send some wires, one to the police and one to the hotel. He may not think to take the night express to Suez."
"I'll be very grateful to you. I'm dreadfully worried. He hasn't the least idea what caution is."
"We've half an hour. I'll bring you the receipts for the telegrams." Camden made off.
When the Ajax began her slow voyage down the narrow canal, Ruth stood watch until Port Said became an indistinct blur to the north. At midnight she saw the lights of Ismailia approach and pass. The captain, having been apprised of the situation, watched for a signal "passenger to board"; but none came. It was then Ruth went below, but not to sleep, merely to rest her weary body.
At dawn the slithering of the anchor chains ​startled her from a doze. She hastily put on her kimono and went on deck. Suez lay off to starboard. The harbor lights were still shining, though they grew perceptibly dimmer and dimmer as the yellow pallor of dawn changed swiftly into bright gold. A string of coal-lighters were swinging around to port, and hundreds of Arabs swarmed over the dull black heaps of coal. There was in the air the promise of a very hot day.
The Ajax had dropped her anchor just outside the basin of Port Ibrahim. In the basin itself was a forest of masts and funnels; and from out the spaces between these hulls came dozens of small boats laden with fruit. Ruth strained her eyes in vain to discover a familiar head. What with the pall of coal-dust, the sharpening yellow haze, and the many heads dully red from the stains of henna, William's aureola would not have shone with any degree of conspicuity.
All hope died within her. If he was not dead he had at least passed out of her life for many months, if not forever. She bent her forehead to the teak rail, cool with dew. If she did not weep it was because her eyes were too dry for tears.
One of her hands lay inertly on the rail. Down upon this hand suddenly fell another, big and warm and firm. It was dirty, variously scratched, and streaked with blood. She looked up swiftly. The object of her fascinated gaze was literally in tatters. His collar was gone, likewise his hat. There was a hideous bump over the left ear, and all the way down the side of the head and neck ​was a broad streak of coagulated blood and coal-dust. The face was as black as a stoker's. Out of this murk appeared two rows of white teeth. She would have known that grin anywhere.
"William Grogan!" she gasped.
"Ye-ah; what's left," jauntily.