Miss Mcmillan

"Miss McMillan" by Robert Barr is a humorous and engaging novella that follows the charming and adventurous life of its titular character, Miss McMillan. Set against a backdrop of Victorian society, the story explores themes of romance, social expectations, and individuality. Miss McMillan, an unconventional heroine, navigates the challenges of love and societal norms with wit and determination, making her way through a series of comedic situations and misunderstandings. Barr's witty writing and lively characters bring to life the struggles and triumphs of a woman seeking to define her own path in a restrictive world.

• Travel

								
“Come hop, come skip, fair children all,
Old Father Time is in the hall.
He’ll take you on his knee, and stroke
Your golden hair to silver bright,
Your rosy cheeks to wrinkles white”

In the saloon of the fine Transatlantic liner the Climatus, two long
tables extend from the piano at one end to the bookcase at the other
end of the ample dining-room.

On each side of this main saloon are four small tables intended to
accommodate six or seven persons. At one of these tables sat a pleasant
party of four ladies and three gentlemen. Three ladies were from
Detroit, and one from Kent, in England. At the head of the table sat
Mr. Blair, the frosts of many American winters in his hair and beard,
while the lines of care in his ragged, cheerful Scottish face told of a
life of business crowned with generous success.

Mr. Waters, a younger merchant, had all the alert vivacity of the
pushing American. He had the distinguished honour of sitting opposite
me at the small table. Blair and Waters occupied the same room, No. 27.
The one had crossed the Atlantic more than fifty times, the other
nearly thirty. Those figures show the relative proportion of their
business experience.

The presence of Mr. Blair gave to our table a sort of patriarchal
dignity that we all appreciated. If a louder burst of laughter than
usual came from where we sat and the other passengers looked
inquiringly our way the sedate and self-possessed face of Mr. Blair
kept us in countenance, and we, who had given way to undue levity, felt
ourselves enshrouded by an atmosphere of genial seriousness. This
prevented our table from getting the reputation of being funny or
frivolous.

Some remark that Blair made brought forth the following extraordinary
statement from Waters, who told it with the air of a man exposing the
pretensions of a whited sepulchre.

“Now, before this voyage goes any further,” he began, “I have a serious
duty to perform which I can shirk no longer, unpleasant though it be.
Mr. Blair and myself occupy the same state-room. Into that state-room
has been sent a most lovely basket of flowers. It is not an ordinary
basket of flowers, I assure you, ladies. There is a beautiful floral
arch over a bed of colour, and I believe there is some tender sentiment
connected with the display;—Bon Voyage, Auf Wiedersehen, or some such
motto marked out in red buds. Now those flowers are not for me. I
think, therefore, that Mr. Blair owes it to this company, which has so
unanimously placed him at the head of the table, to explain how it
comes that an elderly gentleman gets such a handsome floral tribute
sent him from some unknown person in New York.”

We all looked at Mr. Blair, who gazed with imperturbability at Waters.

“If you had all crossed with Waters as often as I have you would know
that he is subject to attacks like that. He means well, but
occasionally he gives way in the deplorable manner you have just
witnessed. Now all there is of it consists in this—a basket of flowers
has been sent (no doubt by mistake) to our state-room. There is nothing
but a card on it which says ‘Room 27.’ Steward,” he cried, “would you
go to room 27, bring that basket of flowers, and set it on this table.
We may as well all have the benefit of them.”

The steward soon returned with a large and lovely basket of flowers,
which he set on the table, shoving the caster and other things aside to
make room for it.

We all admired it very much, and the handsome young lady on my left
asked Mr. Blair’s permission to take one of the roses for her own.
“Now, mind you,” said Blair, “I cannot grant a flower from the basket,
for you see it is as much the property of Waters as of myself, for all
of his virtuous indignation. It was sent to the room, and he is one of
the occupants. The flowers have evidently been misdirected.”

The lady referred to took it upon herself to purloin the flower she
wanted. As she did so a card came in view with the words written in a
masculine hand—

To
    Miss McMillan,
          With the loving regards of
                    Edwin J—

“Miss McMillan!” cried the lady; “I wonder if she is on board? I’d give
anything to know.”

“We’ll have a glance at the passenger list,” said Waters.

Down among the M’s on the long list of cabin passengers appeared the
name “Miss McMillan.”

“Now,” said I, “it seems to me that the duty devolves on both Blair and
Waters to spare no pains in delicately returning those flowers to their
proper owner. I think that both have been very remiss in not doing so
long ago. They should apologise publicly to the young lady for having
deprived her of the offering for a day and a half, and then I think
they owe an apology to this table for the mere pretence that any sane
person in New York or elsewhere would go to the trouble of sending
either of them a single flower.”

“There will be no apology from me,” said Waters. “If I do not receive
the thanks of Miss McMillan, it will be because good deeds are rarely
recognised in this world. I think it must be evident, even to the
limited intelligence of my journalistic friend across the table, that
Mr. Blair intended to keep those flowers in his state-room, and—of
course I make no direct charges—the concealment of that card certainly
looks bad. It may have been concealed by the sender of the flowers, but
to me it looks bad.”

“Of course,” said Blair dryly, “to you it looks bad. To the pure, etc.”

“Now,” said the sentimental lady on my left, “while you gentlemen are
wasting the time in useless talk the lady is without her roses. There
is one thing that you all seem to miss. It is not the mere value of the
bouquet. There is a subtle perfume about an offering like this more
delicate than that which Nature gave the flowers—”

“Hear, hear,” broke in Waters.

“I told you,” said Blair aside, “the kind of fellow Waters is. He
thinks nothing of interrupting a lady.”

“Order, both of you!” I cried, rapping on the table; “the lady from
England has the floor.”

“What I was going to say—”

“When Waters interrupted you.”

“When Mr. Waters interrupted me I was going to say that there seems to
me a romantic tinge to this incident that you old married men cannot be
expected to appreciate.”

I looked with surprise at Waters, while he sank back in his seat with
the resigned air of a man in the hands of his enemies. We had both been
carefully concealing the fact that we were married men, and the blunt
announcement of the lady was a painful shock. Waters gave a side nod at
Blair, as much as to say, “He’s given it away.” I looked reproachfully
at my old friend at the head of the table, but he seemed to be absorbed
in what our sentimental lady was saying.

“It is this,” she continued. “Here is a young lady. Her lover sends her
a basket. There may be some hidden meaning that she alone will
understand in the very flowers chosen, or in the arrangement of them.
The flowers, let us suppose, never reach their destination. The message
is unspoken, or, rather, spoken, but unheard. The young lady grieves at

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