Woven with the Ship: A Novel of 1865
by Cyrus Townsend Brady · English · Gutenberg #39097 · 514,978 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Woven with the Ship: A Novel of 1865
Author: Cyrus Townsend Brady
Illustrator: Howard Chandler Christy
Will Crawford
William J. Glackens
Frank X. Leyendecker
Release date: March 10, 2012 [eBook #39097]
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WOVEN WITH THE SHIP: A NOVEL OF 1865 ***
Produced by Darleen Dove and the Online Distributed
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WOVEN WITH THE SHIP
_By the Same Author_
WHEN BLADES ARE OUT AND LOVE'S AFIELD
Buff buckram, eight illustrations by E. Plaisted Abbott, with colored
border decorations and head-pieces by Edward Stratton Holloway, $1.50
Mr. Brady's novel is full of fighting, gallant deeds and the surprises
and alluring uncertainties of love-making. It has the vivid setting of
Virginia and Carolina in 1781
"As a romance it is delightful."--_Boston Transcript_
"A perfect gem of a volume. One of the daintiest that ever came to the
_World's_ table."--_New York World_
[Illustration: "Oh, Captain Barry, you must do something!"
See page 35]
WOVEN WITH THE SHIP
A NOVEL OF 1865
TOGETHER WITH CERTAIN OTHER VERACIOUS TALES OF VARIOUS SORTS
BY
CYRUS TOWNSEND BRADY, LL.D.
Author of "When Blades are Out and Love's Afield," "For the Freedom
of the Sea," "Hohenzollern," "The Quiberon Touch," "Border Fights
and Fighters," etc.
WITH MANY ILLUSTRATIONS BY
HOWARD CHANDLER CHRISTY, FRANK
X. LEYENDECKER, W. GLACKENS, WILL
CRAWFORD, AND H. L. V. PARKHURST
PHILADELPHIA & LONDON
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
1902
Copyright, 1902, by
THE CROWELL & KIRKPATRICK COMPANY
Copyright, 1902, by
THE CROWELL PUBLISHING COMPANY
Copyright, 1902, by
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
_Published October, 1902_
_Electrotyped and Printed by
J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, U.S.A._
Lovingly Dedicated
to
Margaret and Katharine
Whose chief pleasure during one seashore
summer lay in listening to their
father while this romance was
"WOVEN WITH THE SHIP"
PREFACE
Prefaces remind me of a certain text of Scripture,--_i.e._, "the
last shall be first,"--for they are things written after which go
before! Whether or not they serve a useful purpose is hard to say. I
have several thousands of them in my library, most of which I have
read, and perhaps the fact that I am a reader of prefaces may mark me
as unique. And the mark may be accentuated to the gentle reader--if
this preface should have any--when I say that I am also one of the few
remaining authors who write them. Only one of my books is without a
preface,--though some of them are disguised as notes, or forewords, or
afterwords,--and I hereby apologize for the acephalous condition of
that volume.
I am determined that this book shall be amply provided, and though I
write the preface while I am sending back the proof galleys, yet I will
begin at the beginning. Beginnings are sometimes interesting, although
the interest of a beginning largely depends on the ending thereof. I
shall hope that this book in the end may commend itself sufficiently to
my indulgent readers to make the story of the beginning worth while.
"The years are many, the years are long," since a happy young sailor,
fresh from his graduation at the United States Naval Academy, spent
some of the pleasantest days of his life in the shadow of the old ship;
for there was a ship, just such a one as I have described, and in just
such a condition. There was a white house on the hill, too, and a very
old naval officer, who took a great interest in the opening career of
the young aspirant who passed so many hours lying on the grass amid the
mouldering ways, with the huge bulk of the ship looming over his head
and the sparkling waters of the bay breaking at his feet.
There were girls, too, and a sailor, and soldiers galore across the
harbor in the barracks, and back of all the sleepy, dreamy, idle,
quaint, and ancient little town. The story, of course, is only a
romance; but the setting at least is actual, and there is this touch of
realism in the tale: when the old ship was torn down to be made into
kindling-wood, a part of it fell upon one of the destroyers and crushed
the life out of him,--stern protest against an ignoble ending!
The idea of the story came to me twenty years ago. Indeed, in a brief,
disconnected way I set it down on paper and forgot it until I chanced
to resurrect it last year, when I threw aside the old notes and wrote
the story _de novo_.
I intend it as a character sketch of the old admiral, the veteran
sailor, the young officer, the innocent woman they all loved, and--dare
I say it?--the mighty ship. Here are contrasts, surely.
When I wrote "Hohenzollern," I thought it would be perfectly plain to
every one that it was not an historical novel. Vain hope! Yet I am not
discouraged by the lack of perception on the part of the critics.
Therefore I put this novel forth with a stronger confidence that it
will not be considered in that category. Save for what I have admitted,
there is not one word of history in it. Indeed, I have deliberately,
and because it was my fancy, chosen to appropriate the name of Admiral
Charles Stewart, "Old Ironsides,"--who did indeed live well into the
Civil War period, but who died under very different circumstances,--for
the name of the ancient captain in the white house on the hill. I
apologize to his _manes_, his descendants, and his friends for the
liberty.
Now, I do not write this because I wish to make any apology for the
historical novel. Not at all. The thing is slightly overdone at
present, but that is proof of its goodness. So far as I am concerned I
will stand by my guns. I love to read historic romances when they are
good, and I love to write them--even when they are as my own. I expect
to write more of them, too; but this really is not one. It is a war
story without any war, a sea story without any sea; yet it exhibits a
great struggle and rings with a great victory. The reader may
characterize it further at pleasure.
As for the second part of the volume I have called it Veracious Tales
advisedly, for all of these stories are founded upon facts in one way
or another. Some of them have been suggested to me by incidents with
which I am familiar because in them I bore a small part. The substance
of one of them came from a young English traveller who told a romantic
incident at a delightful dinner at the New York University Club. A real
diary suggested another. An historical mystery as to what became of a
certain cargo of slaves captured by Decatur in the Mediterranean evoked
a third. Neglected chapters in history and biography are responsible
for some of the others, as the Martinique tale, for the Diamond Rock
was once a ship! Sir Henry Irving's marvellous rendition of Matthias in
_The Bells_ so possessed me with its power that after I came home
from the theatre I could not sleep until I had written the story. All
of these tales represent real incidents, therefore, or are founded upon
them in some way.
Writing a short story, with me at least, is very different from writing
a novel. I can invent plots of novels without the slightest difficulty,
but the making of a short story is different. The making is a case of
birth! The single incident, the brief condensed plot, or the vivid
character sketch which is necessary to a proper short story has to come
to me from outside. The short story is the product of inspiration, the
long story the result of labor. Perhaps, therefore, there is more truth
in the short story than in the long--from my point of view.
At any rate, in this volume are two kinds, and the readers may decide.
If they have half as much pleasure out of the book as I had, they will
thank me for having written.
C. T. B.
THE LAKE PLACID CLUB,
ADIRONDACKS, NEW YORK,
June 16, 1902.
CONTENTS
PART I
WOVEN WITH THE SHIP
CHAPTER PAGE
I.--THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP 9
II.--HIS LAST COMMAND 16
III.--THE WOMAN AND THE MAN WHO LOVED HER 23
IV.--CAST UP BY THE SEA 28
V.--THE RESCUE 36
VI.--THE WATER-WITCH 40
VII.--THE HOME OF THE SEA-MAIDEN 50
VIII.--"OLD IRONSIDES" 57
IX.--THE SWORD OF THE CONSTITUTION 65
X.--FACING WORLD-OLD PROBLEMS 74
XI.--BLOWS AT THE HEART 80
XII.--BROKEN RESOLUTIONS 91
XIII.--LOVE HOLDS THE YOKE-LINES 103
XIV.--IN THE SHADOW OF THE SHIP 117
XV.--FORGIVENESS THE FIRST LESSON 123
XVI.--A CLOUD ON THE HORIZON 130
XVII.--FREED! 136
XVIII.--"BUT YET A WOMAN" 143
XIX.--THE USUAL COURSE 147
XX.--RIVALS MEETING 152
XXI.--A HAPPY CONSUMMATION 160
XXII.--"SAMSON AGONISTES" 168
L'ENVOI 180
PART II
VERACIOUS TALES OF VARIOUS SORTS
COUPS DE THEATRE
A VAUDEVILLE TURN 187
Comedy
THE LAST TRIBUTE TO HIS GENIUS 195
Tragedy
OUT OF THE WEST
IN OKLAHOMA 205
An Idyl of the Prairie in Three Flights
PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMAN 231
The End of a Frontier Tell
WITH GREAT GUNS AND SMALL
THE FINAL PROPOSITIONS 245
A Drama of the Civil War
THE CAPTAIN OF H. B. M. SHIP DIAMOND ROCK 259
The Tale of a Strange Ship off Martinique
"WHEN LOVELY WOMAN STOOPS TO FOLLY" 278
The Fate of a Coquette of 1815
SAVED BY HER SLIPPER 293
A Romance of the Border
"SONNY BOY'S" DIARY 315
An Incident of the War in China
EXTRAVAGANZAS
THE AMAZING YARN OF THE BO'S'N'S MATE 331
An Account of an Unusual Prize
THE DISEMBODIED SPIRIT 346
The Story of a Wandering Sensation
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
BY MR. HOWARD CHANDLER CHRISTY
"Oh, Captain Barry, you must do something!" Frontispiece
BY MR. H. L. V. PARKHURST
The girl boldly sheered the boat into the whirlpool 38
Presently the man was stretched out upon a blanket
thrown upon the floor of Emily's room 43
For the preliminary stages in the making of love there
is scarcely anything that is so delightful ... as a
boat just large enough for two 91
They were formally presented to the old admiral 152
BY MR. W. GLACKENS
"Papa! Papa!" she cried, "take me home!" 190
BY MR. HOWARD CHANDLER CHRISTY
The surprised horse bounded into the air with a sudden
access of vigor 224
"Say, you cowboy, have you been making a woman cry?" 228
BY MR. FRANK X. LEYENDECKER
"One!" said the old soldier, his voice ringing
hollow through the apartment 289
BY MR. WILL CRAWFORD
"The cap'n he chose fer Mr. Parbuckle, ... an' a mad
young officer he was, too!" 343
_Part I_
WOVEN WITH THE SHIP
CHAPTER I
THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP
Just half a century had elapsed since, cutting down the virgin forest
to make room for the ways, they laid her keel blocks in the clearing.
With the cunning brain of Henry Eckford, one of the greatest of our
shipbuilders, to plan, and the skilful hands of the New England
shipwrights to execute, with timber cut by the sturdy woodsmen from
where it stood in the forest, the giant frames rose apace, until
presently, in an incredibly short time, there stood upon Ship House
Point a mighty vessel ready for the launching.
Ship House Point--so called from the ship--was a long ridge of land
sloping gently down from a low hill and extending far out into Lake
Ontario. It helped to enclose on one side a commodious lake haven
known in that day, and ever since, as Sewell's Harbor, from old George
Sewell, a hunter, fisherman, innkeeper, and trader, who had settled
there years before.
Thither, in the busy warlike days of 1813-14, had resorted dashing
naval officers in their ruffled shirts, heavily laced blue coats, with
their huge cocked hats, skin-tight kersey pantaloons, and tasselled
half boots. In their wake rolled ancient tars in blue shirts and
flowing trousers, their mouths full of strange oaths and tales of
distant seas; some of the older veterans among them still wearing
their hair in the time-honored pigtail of an already disappearing age.
On the bluff across the harbor mouth, and just opposite to Ship House
Point, a rude log fort had been erected in 1812, a central block-house
and a surrounding stockade, mounting a few inconsiderable pieces of
artillery. From a tall staff on the parade the stars and stripes
fluttered in the wind, and nodded in amicable salute toward a similar
ensign which the patriotic builders had hoisted on the Point.
Government storehouses filled with munitions and supplies of various
kinds, both for the naval forces on the lakes and for the armies
designed for the long projected invasion of Canada likewise, stood
back of the wharves crowded with the miscellaneous shipping of the
suddenly thriving little town. Soldiers from the fort, therefore, in
blue and gray uniforms mingled with the ship-carpenters, wood-cutters,
pioneers, sailors, and traders, and the spot speedily became one of
the busiest in the then far Northwest.
Sometimes in the offing the white sails of the English or American
squadrons could be seen, and on the summer days from the distant
horizon might have been heard the dull boom of cannon telling a tale
of some spirited engagement. And more than once thereafter a
melancholy and shattered ship brought in a ghastly cargo of dead,
dying, and wounded, the care of which heavily taxed the resources of
the community; and the women of the village--for there were women
there from the beginning--had grim lessons, learned sometimes through
breaking hearts, that war was a more serious business than the gay
officers, the bright uniforms, the beautiful flags, and the brave
ships had indicated.
The town had sprung into being around Sewell's store and tavern, amid
all these activities and undertakings, almost as if by magic--quite as
the great ship had risen on the shore, in truth. Men did things in a
hurry in those days, and no one was much surprised when, some thirty
days after the keel was laid, the indefatigable Eckford informed stout
old Commodore Chauncey, the American commander on the lakes, that the
_Susquehanna_--for so the ship-of-the-line which was to establish
finally the American preponderance of force over the British on Lake
Ontario was called--was ready for launching, and great preparations
were made in the very early spring of 1815 for this important and
interesting ceremony.
A few days before the appointed time, however, there came to the
impatient commodore, the persevering builder, and the busy workmen
a messenger bearing a heartrending despatch, long delayed in
transmission, from the Secretary of the Navy. That official announced
that the war was over, that peace with England had been declared at
the close of the preceding year, and directed that the preparations
for launching and completing the vessel must be at once abandoned. It
was a sore grief to Eckford and his fellow-shipwrights, a great
disappointment to Chauncey and his brave seamen, and a terrible blow
to the thriving town. It had grown and flourished in war, and it was
to languish and die in peace--a reversal of natural law apparently!
But there was no help for it. The orders had to be obeyed. The
war-ships on the lakes were broken up, or sold, and a few were laid up
in ordinary, the officers and men were detached to the more congenial
salt-water stations, and the ship-carpenters were withdrawn to the
seaboard towns whence they had been collected. The fort was
dismantled, the garrison mustered out of the service, and the
storehouses emptied and closed.
The young ship-of-the-line, hastily housed over, was left alone with
the abandoned town. The busy place, its reasons for being gone,
speedily sank into a state of public decay. The deserted storehouses
fell into ruin; the once noisy wharves, unvisited by any save an
occasional small vessel, rotted away; the merchants and traders closed
out their stocks and departed; the hunters and pioneers moved farther
westward into the vast wilderness extending its mysterious beckoning
call to their adventurous souls; the grass grew thick in the silent
streets, and it seemed as if the death-sentence of the village had
been written.
But as years sped away some of its pristine life came back to it. The
farmer again speeded his plow and planted his corn in the clearings.
Sheep and cattle once more dotted the fields. A new order took the
place of the old. Country churches rose; little feet plodded
unwillingly toward a small red school-house, where childish laughter
and play at recess mingled with tears over puzzling lessons and
unsolvable problems. The stores were opened one by one, and a few
vessels came back to the harbor. On market days the farmers crowded
the square with their teams, the village awoke from its long sleep and
became a modestly thriving little country town again,--drowsing on
into life once more. And although the very oldest inhabitants,
remembering the busy days forever gone, were not satisfied, the
younger people were content and happy in their pretty little hamlet.
Meanwhile, what of the ship in all these changing years? Time was when
Ship House Point had been covered with a virgin forest extending even
to the water's edge. It was now bare of trees, for the massive trunks
had been wrought into the fabric of the ship, and no others had come
to take their places. There, neglected and unnoticed, she had stood
naked and gaunt for a long time, for the flimsy ship-house covering
her had been the first thing to go. Through the swift years the
burning sunshine of many summers fell upon her green, unseasoned
planks, and the unsheltered wood shrinking in the fierce heat opened
her seams widely on every hand. Upon her decks the rain descended and
the snow fell. The storms of bitter winters drove upon her in
successive and relentless attacks. The rough spring and autumn gales
tore from her huge sections of timber, leaving gaping wounds, while
the drying rot of time and neglect penetrated her very heart.
Rust consumed the bolt-heads and slowly ate up the metal that held her
together. Yet in spite of all she still stood, outwardly indifferent
alike to the attack of the storm or the kiss of the sun,--a mighty
monster towering high in the air, unfinished, incomplete, inchoate,
disintegrating, weaponless, but still typifying strength and power and
war. In spite of her decay, in spite of her age, she looked the
masterful vessel she was designed to be.
The waves broke in winter in icy assault upon the rocky shore on the
seaward side, as if defying the ship to meet them. They rippled on the
shoals, on the other hand, in summer with tender caressing voices,
wooing her to her native element, stretching out white-fingered hands
of invitation. And the air carried the message of the waters into
every hidden recess in the most secret depths of the ship.
In some strange way, to those who grew to know her, the ship seemed to
live; they imbued her with personality, and congenial spirits seemed
to recognize her yearning for a plunge into that all-embracing inland
sea. She hung poised, as it were, like a bird ready for flight, and
watchers standing within her shadow divined her longing for that mad
first rush from the ways.
The ripple of the water had never curled along that ship's massive
keel; her broad bows had never buffeted a way through the thunderous
attack of the storm-waves; she had never felt the ocean uplift; the
long pitch and toss, the unsteady roll and heave which spoke of
water-borne life had never been hers; yet, looking at the graceful
lines, the mighty frames, the most unimaginative would have said that
the old ship lusted for the sea, and, in futile and ungratified
desire, passed her shore-bound days in earth-spurning discontent.
CHAPTER II
HIS LAST COMMAND
On the hill back of the Point, embowered on three sides in the trees,
which had been cut away in front to afford a fair view of the ship,
the Point itself, and the open waters of the lake beyond, stood an old
white house facing the water, with a long covered porch, high-pillared
and lofty, extending across its entire front. Old, yet young compared
to the ship. Overlooking the ship, on a platform on the very brow of
the hill, a long, old-fashioned six-pound gun was mounted on a naval
carriage. Back of the gun rose a tall flag-staff, and from the top
fluttered night and day a small blue flag with two stars, the ensign
of a rear-admiral. There were no masts or spars upon the ship below
the hill, of course, but aft from the mouldering taffrail a staff had
been erected, and from it flew the stars and stripes, for during the
last half of her existence the ship had rejoiced in a crew and a
captain!
Some twenty-five years since a quaint old naval officer had taken
up his abode at the house on the hill. With him had come a young
sailor, who, disdaining the house, had slung his hammock aboard the
ship,--finding a place between decks which, after a few repairs, would
shelter him from the storms. When the old officer came, he hoisted at
the mast which was at once erected in the yard the broad blue pennant
of a commodore, and it was only after Farragut had made his splendid
passage up the Mississippi, and awakened the quiet shores of the
Father of Waters with the thunder of his guns, so that the title of
commodore became too small for him, that the old veteran had been
promoted with other veterans--and with Farragut himself--to the rank
of rear-admiral, recently established,--certainly a rank entirely in
consonance with his merit at least.
The old man had been practically forgotten, lost sight of, in the
glory accruing to the newer names among the Civil War heroes; yet he
had been among the foremost in that great galaxy of sailors who had
made the navy of the United States so formidable in the War of 1812.
Old men of the town, whose memories as children ran back beyond even
the life of the ship, recalled having seen, in those busy, unforgotten
days of 1814-15, many uniforms like to the quaint old dress which the
admiral sometimes wore on occasions of ceremony; and there were some
yet living who remembered the day when the news came that the mighty
_Constitution_ had added to her record the last and most brilliant of
her victories in the capture of the frigates _Cyane_ and _Levant_. The
man who had made the capture--who, when his wife had asked him to
bring her a British frigate for a present when he set forth upon the
cruise, had answered that he would bring her two, and who had done
it--was the man who had been stationed in the white house on the hill
to watch over the old ship.
The battles and storms, the trials and cares, the sorrows and troubles
of eighty-five years had beat upon that white head; and though he was
now bent and broken, though he tottered as he paced up and down the
porch after the habit of the quarter-deck, though his eye was dim
indeed and his natural force greatly abated, he was still master of
himself. When the Civil War broke out his brave old soul had yearned
to be upon a heaving deck once more, he had craved to hear the roar of
guns from the mighty batteries beneath his feet, to feel again the
kiss of the salt wind upon his tanned and weather-beaten cheek. He
had longed in the deadly struggle of '61-'65 to strike another blow
for the old flag he had done so much to make formidable and respected
on the sea; but it was not to be. Superannuated, old, laid up in
ordinary, he quietly watched over the rotting ship which was his last
command.
In some strange way, with a sailor's superstition, as the years had
passed, as he had grown feebler and the ship had grown older, he bound
up his own term of life with that of the vessel. While it stood he
should live, when it fell should come his end. He watched and waited.
When the night threatened to be wild and stormy, the report of the
evening gun with which Captain Barry invariably saluted the flag ere
he struck it would seem to him the sounding of his death-knell. When
the tempest howled around the old house, he could hear, in fancy,
above its wild screaming the crashing of the timbers of the ship
falling in shapeless ruins on the mouldering ways. In the morning,
after such a night, he would rise and creep to the door, totter out on
the porch with the aid of his cane, and peer down on the ship. Some
portion of it might have been swept away, perhaps, but if it still
stood he would feel that he had a respite for another day.
Many a tall vessel had he commanded, many a gallant frigate or great
ship-of-the-line he had driven through the tempestuous seas. Upon some
of them, as on the _Constitution_, he had won eternal fame, yet never
had he loved a vessel as his heart had gone out to the rotting mass of
this incompleted ship.
He did not dream, when he came there twenty-five years before--an old
man then--that either he or the ship would last so long; yet there
they both stood; older, weaker, feebler, more broken, and breaking
with every passing hour, but still a ship and still a captain.
During the years of their association the admiral had unconsciously
invested the ship with a personality of its own. It seemed human to
him. He dreamed about it when he slept. He was never so happy as when
awake he sat and watched it. He talked to it like a friend when they
were alone. Sometimes he reached his old trembling hand out to it in
a caressing gesture. He had long since grown too feeble to go down
to it; he could only look upon it from afar. Yet he understood its
longing, its dissatisfaction, its despair. A certain sympathy grew up
between them. He loved it as it had been a woman. He would fain have
kissed its keel.
Yet the devotion the admiral felt for the ship was scarcely greater
than that which had sprung up in the heart of the old sailor who lived
aboard it.
Old John Barry had been a quartermaster on the _Constitution_, and had
followed the fortunes of his captain from ship to ship, from shore to
shore, until he died. After that the duty of looking after the captain
devolved upon his son, young John Barry; and when the commodore had
been ordered to Ship House Point, more with the intention of providing
him with a congenial home for his declining years than for any other
purpose, young John Barry had followed him.
Young John Barry he was no longer. He was fifty years old now, and,
like the admiral, had unconsciously made the life of the ship stand
for his own life as well. The witchery of disappointment and regret,
pregnant in every timber, bore hard upon him also. He had been a gay,
dashing, buoyant, happy-go-lucky jack-tar in his day; but, living
alone on that great old ship, some of the melancholy, some of the
dissatisfaction, some of the longing, some of the futile desire which
fairly reeked from every plank had entered his own rough and rugged
soul.
The bitter wind had sung through the timbers of the ship too many
tales of might-have-been, as he lay in his hammock night after
night, not to have left its impression upon him. He became a
silent, taciturn, grave old man. Of huge bulk and massive build,
his appearance suggested the ship-of-the-line,--strength in age,
power in decay. He loved the ship in his way even as the admiral
did.
Risking his life in the process, he climbed all over it, marking with
skilful eyes and pained heart the slow process of disintegration. He
did not kiss it,--kisses were foreign to his nature, he knew nothing
of them,--but he laid his great hands caressingly upon the giant
frames, he pressed his cheek against the mighty prow, he stretched
himself with open arms upon the bleaching deck, as if he would embrace
the ship.
When the storms beat upon it in the night, he sometimes made his way
forward and stood upon the forecastle fronting the gale, and as the
wind swept over him and the ship quivered and shook and vibrated under
the tempestuous attack, he fancied that he felt the deck heave as it
might under the motion of the uptossed wave.
He dreamed that the ship quivered in the long rush of the salt seas.
Then the rain beat upon him unheeded. Wrapped in his great-coat in
winter, he even disdained the driving snow, and as he stood by the
weather cathead, from which no anchor had ever depended, and peered
out into the whirling darkness, he seemed to hear the roar of a
breaker ahead!
The ship was his own, his property. The loss of a single plank, the
giving way of a single bolt, was like the loss of a part of himself.
With it he lived, with it he would die. Alone he passed his nights in
the hollow of that echo of the past. Sometimes he felt half mad in the
rotting vessel; yet nothing could have separated him from the ship.
The little children of the adjacent village feared him, although he
had never harmed any of them, and was as gentle as a mother in his
infrequent dealings with them all; but he was so silent, so grave, so
grim, so weird in some way, that they instinctively avoided him. Their
light laughter was stifled, their childish play was quieted when
Captain Barry--so they called him--passed by. He never noticed it, or,
if he did, he gave no sign. Indeed, his heart was so wrapped up in a
few things that he marked nothing else.
The old admiral, whom he watched over and cared for with the fidelity
of a dog,--nay, I should say of a sailor,--was the earliest object of
his affections. To look after him was a duty which had become the
habit of his life. He cherished him in his heart along with the ship.
When the others had gone to their rest, he often climbed up on the
quarter-deck, if the night were still, and sat late in the evening
staring at the lights in the house on the hill until they went out,
musing in his quaint way on the situation. When the days were calm he
thought first of the admiral, in stormy times first of the ship. But
above both ship and captain in his secret heart there was another who
completed the strange quartet on Ship House Point,--a woman.
Above duty and habit there is always a woman.
CHAPTER III
THE WOMAN AND THE MAN WHO LOVED HER
The wife of the admiral, to whom he had brought the flags of the two
British ships on that memorable cruise, had long since departed this
life. Her daughter, too, who had married somewhat late in life, had
died in giving birth to a girl, and this little maiden, Emily Sanford
by name, in default of other haven or nearer relationship, had been
brought, when still an infant in arms, to the white house on the hill,
to be taken care of by the old admiral. In the hearts of both the old
men she divided affection with the ship.
With the assistance of one of the admiral's distant connections,
a faithful old woman, also passed to the enjoyment of her reward
long since, Emily Sanford had been carried through the troubles and
trials incident to early childhood. At first she had gone with other
little children to the quaint red school-house in the village. She
had been a regular attendant until she had exhausted its limited
capacity for imparting knowledge. After that the admiral, a man of
keen intelligence, of world-wide observation, and of a deeply
reflective habit of mind, had completed her education himself, upon
such old-fashioned lines as his experience suggested. She had been an
apt pupil indeed, and the results reflected great credit upon his
sound, if somewhat unusual, methods of training, or would have
reflected had there been any one to see.
In all her life Emily Sanford had never been away from her grandfather
for a single day; she had actually never left that little town, and,
except in school-time, she had not often left the Point. Although
just out of her teens, she was not old enough to have become
discontented--not yet. She was as childlike, as innocent, as unworldly
and unsophisticated a maiden as ever lived,--and beautiful as well. It
was Prospero and Miranda translated to the present. The old admiral
adored his granddaughter. If the ship was his Nemesis, Emily was his
fortune.
As for Barry the sailor,--and it were injustice to the brave old
seaman to think of him as Caliban,--he worshipped the ground the girl
walked on. He was in love with her. A rude old man of fifty in love
with a girl of twenty; a girl immeasurably above him in birth,
station, education--in everything! It was surprising! Had any one
known it, however, it would not have seemed grotesque,--only pitiful.
Barry himself did not know it. He was too humble and too ignorant for
self-examination, for subtle analysis. He loved, and he did not
comprehend the meaning of the word! Even the wisest fail to solve the
mysteries of the heart.
Although the veteran seaman was too ignorant of love rightly to
characterize his passion, it was nevertheless a true one. It was not
the feeling of a father, nor of a companion, nor yet that of a
servant, though it partook in some measure of all three. That was an
evidence of the genuineness of his feeling. Nothing noble, no feeling
that is high, self-sacrificing, devoted, is foreign to love that is
true, and love is the most comprehensive of the passions--it is a
complete obsession. Captain Barry would have given his soul for Emily
Sanford's happiness, and rejoiced in the bestowal.
He cherished no hopes, held no aspirations, dreamed no dreams
concerning any future relationship. He was just possessed with an
inexplicable feeling for her. A feeling that expected nothing, that
asked nothing, that hoped for nothing but the steady happiness of
being near her. To be in sight, in sound, in touch, that was all, that
was enough. The sea in calmer mood gives no suggestion of potential
storms. Barry's love was the acme of self-abnegation. If he had ever
reached the covetous point he would have realized that she was not for
him. He never did.
He loved her with a love beside which even his devotion to the old
admiral, the passionate affection he bore for the old ship, were
trifles. The girl had grown into his heart. Many a time he had carried
her about in his arms when she was a baby. He had played with her as a
child; she could always call a smile to his lips; he had cared for her
as a young girl, he had served her as a woman.
He, too, had been happy to contribute to her education as he had been
able. There was a full-rigged model of the _Susquehanna_ in her room
in the white house. He had made it for her. It was a perfect replica,
complete, finished in every detail; so the ship might have looked if
she had ever been put in commission. Emily knew every rope, every
sheet, line, and brace upon it. She could knot and splice, box the
compass, and every sailor's weather rhyme was familiar to her. She
could handle a sail-boat as well as he, and with her strong young arms
pulled a beautiful man-o'-war stroke. He had taught her all these
things. When study hours were over and play-time began, the two
together had explored the coast-line for miles in every direction.
So far as possible he had gratified every wish that she expressed. If
a flower grew upon the face of an inaccessible cliff and she looked at
it with a carelessly covetous glance, he got it for her, even at the
risk of his life. He followed her about, when she permitted, as a
great Newfoundland dog might have done, and was ever ready at her beck
and call. His feeling towards her was of so exalted a character that
he never ventured upon the slightest familiarity; he would have
recoiled from such an idea; yet had there been any to mark, they might
have seen him fondle the hem of her dress, lay his bronzed cheek upon
her footprint in the sands, when he could do so without her knowing
it.
There was no man in the village with whom Emily could associate on
terms of equality. The admiral had come from a proud old family, and
all its pride of birth and station was concentrated in his last
descendant. Simply as she had been reared, she could not stoop to
association with any beneath the best; it was part of her
grandfather's training. He was of a day when democratic iconoclasm was
confined to state papers, and aristocracy still ruled the land by
right divine, even though the forms of government were ostensibly
republican. There were some quaint old novels in the library, which
the girl had read and re-read, however, and, as she was a woman, she
had dreamed of love and lovers from over the sea, and waited.
Her life, too, had been bound up with the ship. Not that she feared an
end when it ended, but she often wondered what would happen to her
when it fell. What would she do when the admiral was gone? And Captain
Barry also? Who would take care of her then? What would her life be in
that great world of which she dreamed beyond that sparkling wave-lit
circle of the horizon? Who would care for her then? That lover who was
coming? Ah, well, time would bring him. Somewhere he lived, some day
he would appear. With the light-heartedness of youth she put the
future by and lived happily, if expectantly, in the present.
CHAPTER IV
CAST UP BY THE SEA
One early autumn evening in 1865 the sun sank dull and coppery behind
banks of black clouds which held ominous portent of a coming storm.
The old admiral sat in a large arm-chair on the porch leaning his chin
upon his cane, peering out toward the horizon where the distant waters
already began to crisp and curl in white froth against the blackness
beyond. Emily, a neglected book in her lap, sat on the steps of the
porch at his feet, idly gazing seaward. The sharp report of the sunset
gun on the little platform on the brow of the hill had just broken the
oppressive stillness which preceded the outburst of the tempest.
Having carefully secured the piece with the thoroughness of a seaman
to whom a loose gun is a potential engine of terrible destruction,
Barry ran rapidly down the hill, clambered up on the high poop of the
ship, and hauled down the colors. As the flag, looking unusually
bright and brave against the dark background of the cloud-shrouded
sky, came floating down, the admiral rose painfully to his feet and
bared his gray hairs in reverent salute. Emily had been trained like
the rest, and, following the admiral's example, she laid aside her
book and stood gracefully erect, buoyant, and strong by her
grandfather's side.
Old age and bright youth, the past with its history, memories, and
associations, the future with all its possibilities and dreams, alike
saluted the flag.
They made a pretty picture, thought Captain Barry, as he unbent the
flag, belayed the halliards, and gathered up the folds of bunting upon
the deck, rolling the colors into a small bundle which he placed in a
chest standing against the rail at the foot of the staff. It was a
nightly ceremony which had not been intermitted since the two came to
the Point. Sometimes the admiral was unable to be present when the
flag was formally hoisted in the morning, but it was rare indeed that
night, however inclement the weather, did not find him on the porch at
evening colors.
The smoke of the discharge and the faint acrid smell of the
powder--both pleasant to the veterans--yet lingered in the still air
as Barry came up the hill. He stopped before the foot of the porch,
stood with his legs far apart, as if balancing to the roll of a ship,
knuckled his forehead in true sailor-like fashion, and solemnly
reported that the colors were down. The admiral acknowledged the
salute and, in a voice still strong in spite of his great age,
followed it with his nightly comment and question:
"Ay, Barry, and handsomely done. How is the ship?"
"She's all right, your honor."
"Nothing more gone?"
"No, sir."
"I thought I heard a crash last night in the gale."
"Not last night, sir. Everything's all ship-shape, leastways just as
it was since that last piece of the to'gallant fo'k'sl was carried
away last week."
"That's good, Barry. I suppose she's rotting though, still rotting."
"Ay, ay, sir, she is; an' some of the timbers you can stick your
finger into."
"But she's sound at the heart, Captain Barry," broke in Emily,
cheerily.
"Sound at the heart, Miss Emily, and always will be, I trust."
"Ay, lassie," said the old admiral, "we be all sound at the heart, we
three; but when the dry rot gets into the timber, sooner or later the
heart is bound to go. Now, to-night, see yonder, the storm is
approaching. How the wind will rack the old timbers! I lie awake o'
nights and hear it howling around the corners of the house and wait
for the sound of the crashing of the old ship. I've heard the singing
of the breeze through the top-hamper many a time, and have gone to
sleep under it when a boy; but the wind here, blowing through the
trees and about the ship, gets into my very vitals. Some of it will go
to-night, and I shall be nearer the snug harbor aloft in the morning."
"Oh, don't say that, grandfather! Sound at the heart, the old ship
will brave many a tempest, and you will, as well."
"Ay, girl, but not many like yonder brewing storm. Old things are for
still days, not for tempests. What think ye of the prospect, Barry?"
"It's got an ugly look, your honor, in the nor'west. There's wind a
plenty in them black clouds. I wish we'd a good frigate under us and
plenty o' sea room. I lies on the old ship sometimes an' feels her
shiver in the gale as if she was ashamed to be on shore. That'll be a
hard blow, sir."
"Ay," said the admiral, "I remember it was just such a night as this
once when I commanded the _Columbus_. She was a ship-of-the-line,
Emily, pierced for one hundred guns, and when we came into the
Mediterranean Admiral Dacres told me that he had never seen such a
splendid ship. I was uneasy and could not sleep,--good captains sleep
lightly, child,--so I came on deck about two bells in the mid-watch.
Young Farragut, God bless him! was officer of the watch. The night was
calm and quiet but very dark. It was black as pitch off to starboard.
There was not a star to be seen. 'Mr. Farragut,' I said, 'you'd better
get the canvas off the ship.' Just then a little puff struck me in the
cheek, and there was a sort of a deep sigh in the still night. Barry,
your father, old John, was at the wheel, and a better hand at steering
a ship I never saw. 'Call all hands, sir,' I said, sharply, 'we've no
time to spare,' and by gad,--excuse me, Emily,--we'd no more than
settled away the halliards when the squall struck us. If it hadn't
been for the quick handling and ready seamanship of that youngster,
and I saw that he was master of the thing and let him have his own
way, we'd have gone down with all standing. As it was----"
The speech of the old man was interrupted by a vivid flash of
lightning, followed by a distant clap of thunder. In another moment
the black water of the lake was churned into foam, and the wind swept
upon them with the violence of a hurricane. As soon as the storm burst
forth, Barry sprang upon the porch to assist the old admiral into the
house.
"No," he said; "I'm feeling rather well this evening. Let me face the
storm awhile. Fetch me my heavy cloak. That's well. Now pull the chair
forward where I can get it full and strong. How good it feels! 'Tis
like old times, man. Ah, if there were only a touch of salt in the
gale!"
Closely wrapped in a heavy old-fashioned boat cloak which Barry
brought him, he sat down near the railing of the porch, threw up his
old head, and drank in the fresh gale with long breaths which brought
with them pleasant recollections. The sailor stood on one side of the
veteran, Emily on the other; youth and strength, man and woman, at the
service of feeble age.
"See the ship!" muttered the old man; "how she sways, yet she rides it
out! Up with the helm!" he cried, suddenly, as if she were in a seaway
with the canvas on her. "Force your head around to it, ye old witch!
Drive into it! You're good for many a storm yet. Bless me," he added,
presently, "I forgot; yet 'tis still staunch. Ha, ha! Sound at the
heart, and will weather many a tempest yet!"
"Oh, grandfather, what's that?" cried the girl; "look yonder!"
She left the side of the admiral, sprang to the edge of the porch, and
pointed far out over the lake. A little sloop, its mainsail close
reefed, was beating in toward the harbor. The twilight had so far
faded in the storm that at the distance from them the boat then was
they could scarcely distinguish more than a slight blur of white upon
the water. But, flying toward them before the storm, she was fast
rising into view.
"Where is it, child?" asked the old man, looking out into the growing
darkness.
"There! Let your eye range across the ship; there, beyond the Point.
She's running straight upon the sunken rocks."
"I sees it, Miss Emily," cried Barry, shading his eyes with his hand;
"'tis a yacht, the mains'l's close reefed. She looks like a toy.
There's a man in it. He's on the port tack, thinkin' to make the
harbor without goin' about."
"He'll never do it," cried the girl, her voice shrill with
apprehension. "He can't see the sunken ledge running out from the
Point. He's a stranger to these waters, evidently."
"I see him, too," said the admiral. "God, what a storm! How he handles
that boat! The man's a sailor, every inch of him!"
The cutter was nearer now, so near that the man could easily be seen.
She was coming in with racing speed in spite of her small spread of
canvas. The lake was roaring all about her and the wind threatened to
rip the mast out of the little boat, but the man held her up to it
with consummate skill, evidently expecting to gain an entrance to the
harbor, where safety lay, on his present tack. This he could easily
have done had it not been for a long, dangerous ledge of sunken rocks
which extended out beyond Ship House Point. Being under water, it gave
little sign of its presence to a mariner until one was right upon it.
In his excitement the admiral scrambled to his feet, stepped to the
rail of the porch, and stood leaning over it. Presently he hollowed
his hand and shouted with a voice of astonishing power for so old a
man:
"Down with your helm, boy! Hard down!"
But the stranger, of course, could not hear him, and the veteran stood
looking with a grave frown upon his face as that human life, down on
the waters beneath him, struggled for existence. It was not the first
time he had watched life trembling in the balance--no; nor seen it go
in the end. Emily's voice broke in murmurs of prayer, while Barry
stared like the admiral.
Presently the man in the boat glanced up and caught sight of the
party. He was very near now and coming on gallantly. He waved his
hand, and was astonished to see them frantically gesture back at him.
A warning! What could their movements mean?
He peered ahead into the growing darkness; the way seemed to be clear,
yet something was evidently wrong. What could it be? Ah! He could not
weather the Point. With a seaman's quick decision, he jammed the helm
over.
"Oh, grandfather!" screamed Emily in the old man's ear; "can't
something be done?"
"Nothing, child; nothing! He can't hear, he can't see, he does not
know."
"It's awful to see him rush smilingly down to certain death!"
exclaimed the girl, wringing her hands. "Captain Barry, can't you do
something?"
"There goes his helm," said the admiral; "he realizes it at last.
About he goes! Too late! too late!"
"Oh, Captain Barry, you must do something!" cried Emily.
"There's nothin' to do, Miss Emily."
"Yes, there is. We'll get the boat," she answered, springing from the
steps as she spoke and running down the hill like a young fawn. The
sailor instantly followed her, and in a moment they disappeared under
the lee of the ship.
CHAPTER V
THE RESCUE
As the practised eye of the admiral had seen, the tiny yacht was too
near the rocks to go about and escape them. She was caught in the
trough of the sea before she had gathered way on the other tack, and
flung upon the sunken ledge, broadside on. The mast snapped like a
pipe-stem. After a few violent shocks she was hurled over on her beam
ends, lodged securely on the rocks, and began to break up under the
beating of the angry sea. A few moments and she would be beaten to
pieces. The man was still there, however, the water breaking over him.
He seemed to have been hurt, but clung tenaciously to the wreck of the
boat until he recovered himself a little, and then rose slowly and
stood gazing upon the tossing waters, seething and whirling about the
wreck of his boat.
There was, during high winds, a dangerous whirlpool right in front of
the reefs and extending between them and the smooth waters of the
harbor. The water was beating over the rocks and fairly boiling before
him. A man could not swim through it; could, indeed, scarcely enter it
and live--even a boat would find it difficult, if not impossible.
Things looked black to the shipwrecked man. He stood in hopeless
hesitation, doom reaching for him on either hand. He could neither go
nor stay with safety. Yet he apparently made up his mind at last to go
and die, if need be, struggling.
"Don't try the whirlpool, boy," said the admiral softly to himself, as
he looked down upon the scene. "You could never make it in this sea.
Say a prayer, lad; 'tis all that is left you. By heaven! A noble girl,
my own child! And a brave oar, too! Steady, Barry, steady! Don't come
too near! Your skiff can't live in such a sea. Merciful God! can they
do it?" continued the veteran, as the light skiff shot out from the
lee of the Point and, with Barry at the oars and Emily at the helm,
cautiously made its way toward the whirlpool.
The instant they got out from the lee of the Point the full force of
the storm struck them, although they were still within the shelter of
the harbor. But they struggled through it, for a stronger pair of arms
never pulled oars and more skilful hands than those on that little
skiff never guided a boat. Barry's strokes were as steady and powerful
as if he had been a steam propeller, and not even the admiral himself
could have steered the boat with greater dexterity than did the girl.
The man on the wrecked cutter saw them when the admiral did. Evidently
he was a sailor, too, for he knew exactly what they intended to do.
The two on the boat brought the skiff as near the rocks where the
wreck of the cutter lay as they dared,--they were almost in the
whirlpool, in fact,--and then Emily, gathering the yoke-lines in her
left hand, with the other signalled him to jump. Nodding his head, he
leaped far out over the whirling waves toward the boat. It was his
only chance.
"A gallant lad, a brave boy!" exclaimed the admiral, as he saw the man
spring from the wreck. "I believe they'll save him yet. No, by
heavens! he's struck on one of the reefs! Is he gone? He rises! He's
in the whirlpool! He strikes out feebly; the waves go over his head!
No, he rises again! They have him! Well done, Emily; well pulled,
Barry!"
Taking a desperate chance, the girl, seeing that the man was
practically helpless, for he was swimming feebly and apparently
scarcely able to keep his head up, boldly sheered the boat into the
whirlpool and then turned her about. The man, retaining his
self-possession, seized the stern with his uninjured hand. Emily
leaned down and caught him by the coat collar, and then Barry pulled
his strongest to escape from the twisting grip of the little
maelstrom.
[Illustration: The girl boldly sheered the boat into the whirlpool]
Emily steered the boat with one hand and with the other held on to the
stranger. It was, of course, impossible to get him into the boat.
Presently he fainted and hung a dead weight on her arm. The admiral
watched them, praying fervently for their success. It was a terrible
pull for the old sailor and a terrible strain on the young woman.
Again and again she thought she would have to release the man dragging
astern. Her arm was almost jerked from her body, yet she held on with
grim determination, steering the boat as best she could with her
single hand.
Barry pulled until the sweat beaded his forehead. His muscles stood
out like whipcords. For a few moments he feared that he could not do
it; but he looked at the resolute figure in the stern-sheets, the girl
he loved, and that nerved his arms. Presently--and it seemed hours to
both--he got the boat out of the whirlpool and into the comparatively
smooth water under the lee of the Point. After a few weary strokes the
keel grated upon the shore.
The sailor stepped out, made fast the painter, waded back to where the
man lay in the water, lifted him up with the assistance of Emily, and
slowly made his way up the hill, carrying him in his arms.
CHAPTER VI
THE WATER-WITCH
We have a deeper sense of proprietorship in a thing we have earned by
hard labor or gained by the exercise of our abilities than in that
which has been given to us, has cost us nothing.
As Emily, walking close by Barry's side, giving him such assistance
as was possible, looked with mingled pity and anxiety upon the white
face of the man hanging limply back over the arms of the sailor,
she was conscious that in her soul had arisen a new and curious sense
of ownership in humanity,--the most satisfactory, yet disappointing, of
our possessions. A strange and indefinable feeling surged in her breast
as she thought hurriedly of the situation. A budding relationship--the
deep relationship of services rendered, in fact--attached her
inevitably to this stranger--if he were yet alive.
She flushed at the feeling, as if her privacy had been invaded, as she
gazed upon him. Her thoughts ran riot in her bosom, her soul turning
toward him, helpless, unconscious, water dripping from his torn,
sodden clothing. Perhaps he was dead or dying. The thought gave her a
sudden constriction of the heart. That would be untoward fate surely.
It could not be.
She had saved him. The weak woman had been strong. Her heart leaped
exultingly at that. He was hers by the divine right of service. The
strange relationship had suddenly become a fact to her. Her arm still
ached with the strain of holding him, yet she was glad of the pain. It
was the inward and spiritual evidence of her ownership in that she had
found and brought to shore. If he would only live!
As they walked she prayed.
She was not in love with him, of course,--not yet,--and yet she could
scarcely analyze--hardly comprehend--her feelings. Her mind was in a
whirl. Faint, exhausted physically, she did not yet see clearly. But
he was there. She had brought him. This human bit of flotsam was
hers--but for her he would have gone down forever in the dark waters.
If he lived, what things might be? What might come? She admitted
nothing, even to herself.
It was some distance from the landing-place to the top of the hill, and
although the man they had rescued, albeit tall, was a slender young
fellow, yet as the sailor toiled up the well-worn path he felt the
weight of the inert body growing greater with every ascending step.
Perhaps it would not have been so had he not previously exhausted
himself in the desperate pull to gain the shore; but when at last he
reached the porch, he felt that it would have been impossible for him
to have carried his burden another pace. Indeed, had it not been for
the assistance Emily had given him, he could not have managed it
without a stop or two for rest. But he had plunged blindly on,
something--an instinct of the future, perhaps--bidding him rid himself
without delay of the growing oppression of his incubus. Not Sindbad had
been more anxious to throw off his old man of the sea than he to cast
down the man.
And Barry and Emily began to play at cross-purposes from that hour.
The man saved so hardly had as yet given no sign of life. When the
three reached the porch, the sailor laid him down at the admiral's
feet and stood panting, sweat beading on his bronzed brow. The old
man, still wrapped in his cloak, stood on the steps, careless alike
of the rising wind or the rain which had begun to fall.
"Well done!" he cried, extending his hand to them, as the sailor
deposited his burden. "I never saw a boat better handled, girl! 'Twas
a gallant rescue, Barry!"
"Oh, grandfather!" cried Emily, too anxious to heed approval, even
from such a source; "is he dead, do you think?"
"I hope not; but we'll soon see. Call the servants, Emily. Barry, lift
him up again and take him into my room."
"No, mine," exclaimed Emily, as she ran to call assistance. "I won't
have you disturbed, and mine is right off the hall here."
"Very well. Lay him on the floor, Barry. And, Emily, bring me my
flask. Bear a hand, all."
[Illustration: Presently the man was stretched out upon a blanket
thrown upon the floor of Emily's room]
Presently the man was stretched out upon a blanket thrown upon the
floor of Emily's room, and the admiral knelt down by his side. He felt
over him with his practised fingers, murmuring the while:
"No bones broken apparently. I guess he'll be all right. Have you the
flask there, daughter? This will bring him around, I trust," he added,
as he poured the restoring liquid down the man's throat. "Barry, go
you for Dr. Wilcox as quick as you can. Present my compliments to him,
and ask him to come here at once. Shake a leg, man! Emily, loosen the
man's collar--your fingers are younger than mine--and give him another
swallow. He's worth a dozen dead men yet, I'm sure."
As he spoke the admiral rose to his feet and gave place to Emily. Very
gently the girl did as the old man bade her, and presently the man
extended before her opened his eyes and stared up at her vacantly,
wonderingly, for a few moments at first, and then, with a dawning
light of recognition in his eyes, he smiled faintly as he remembered.
His first words might have been considered flippant, unworthy of the
situation, but to the girl they seemed not inappropriate.
"The blue-eyed water-witch!" he murmured. "To be saved by you," he
continued, half jestingly,--it was a brave heart which could find
place for pleasantry then, she thought,--"and then to find you smiling
above me."
At these whispered words what he still lacked in color flickered into
Emily's face, and as he gazed steadily upon her, the flicker became a
flame which suffused her cheeks. He had noticed her even in those
death-fronting moments on the wreck.
"Are you better now?" she asked him in her confusion.
"Better, miss?" he answered, softly, yet not striving to rise; "I am
well again. I came down to----"
"Silence, lad, silence fore and aft! Belay all until the surgeon
comes, and you shall tell us all about it then," interrupted the
admiral. "He'll be here in a moment now, I think, if Barry have good
luck. Will you have another swallow of whiskey?"
"No, sir, thank you; I've had enough."
At that moment the sailor entered the hall, fairly dragging the fat
little doctor in his wake.
"I fell foul of him just outside of the yard, your honor," said Barry,
as he appeared in the door-way.
"'Fell foul of me!' I should think you did! You fell on me like a
storm," cried the doctor, dropping his wet cloak in the passage-way
and bustling into the room. "What is it, admiral? Are you----?"
"I'm all right, doctor."
"It's not Miss Emily?"
"No, sir; I'm all right, too; but----"
"Oho!" said the doctor, his glance at last falling to the man extended
on the floor; "this is the patient, is it? Well, young man, you look
rather damp, I am sure. What's up?"
"Nothing seems to be up, sir," answered the man, smilingly, amusedly.
"I seem to be down, though."
"I guess you're in pretty good shape, sir," said the doctor,
laughingly, "if you can joke about it; and if you are down now, we'll
soon have you up."
As he spoke, the physician knelt and examined his patient carefully.
"How did it happen, Miss Emily?" he asked, as he proceeded with his
investigations.
"Why, doctor, we picked him up out of the water."
"We?"
"Yes, sir. Captain Barry and I."
"My sloop was wrecked on the rocks beyond the old ship," said the
young man; "and when this young lady came along in a boat I jumped,
and as I am not quite recovered from a wound I got at Mobile Bay, I
suppose I lost consciousness from the shock. I'm all right now,
though."
"I think so, too," said the doctor; "we'll get these wet clothes off
you in a jiffy, and then I'll give you something, and in the morning
you'll hardly know you've been in danger."
"I shall never forget that I was in danger this time, sir," said the
young man, addressing the doctor, but looking fixedly at the young
girl.
"No, of course not; but why particularly at this time?"
"Because I was saved by----"
"Oh, that's it, is it? Faith, I'd be willing to be half drowned myself
to be saved in that way. Meanwhile, do you withdraw, Miss Emily, and
we'll get him ready for bed. Where is he to lie?"
"Here," said the girl.
"In your room?"
"Certainly."
"I protest, sir," said the man, sitting up with astonishing access of
vigor.
"Nobody protests when Miss Emily commands anything. Here you'll stay,
sir!" said Barry, gruffly, as the girl left the room.
The doctor and the sailor soon tucked him away in bed, the admiral
looking on. As they undressed him they noticed a long scar across his
breast where a shell from Fort Morgan had keeled him over. The doctor
examined it critically.
"That was a bad one," he said, touching the wound deftly with his
pudgy yet knowing finger. "That'll be the one you spoke of, I take
it?"
"Yes, sir," answered the young man; "it's been a long time in healing.
I feel the effect of it yet sometimes."
"But you'll get over it in time, young man, I'm thinking," said the
kindly little country doctor.
"I hope so, sir."
The patient was thin and pale from the effects of the wound, which, as
he said, had been a long time healing. It was evident that he had not
yet recovered his strength or his weight, either, or the burden on
Captain Barry would have been heavier than it was.
"Did you say," said the admiral, as they prepared to leave him, "that
you had been at Mobile Bay?"
"Yes, sir."
"What ship were you on?"
"The _Hartford_, sir."
"Bless me!" exclaimed the old man; "with Dave Farragut?"
"Yes, sir; I had that honor."
"Why, I knew that boy when he was a midshipman. I----"
"Now, admiral, excuse me for giving commands in your presence, but you
know there are times when the doctor rules the ship. This young man
must be left alone, and, after the excitement, I think you had better
go to bed--excuse me, I mean turn in--yourself," interposed the
physician, peremptorily.
"Hark to the storm!" said the old man, turning to the window, his
thoughts diverted for the moment from the accident and his guest--it
needed but little to turn his mind to the ship at any time or under
any circumstances. "Mark the flash of the lightning, hear the thunder,
doctor! She'll be sore racked to-night!"
He peered anxiously out into the darkness over the Point.
"Come, come, admiral."
"Nay, sir. I must wait for another flash to see whether the old ship
still stands. Ay, there she is! Well, 'twill not be long; and were it
not for Emily, I'd say, thank God! Good-night, lad. A boy with
Farragut, and he a boy with me! Well, well! Good-night; sleep well,
sir."
Long time the veteran lay awake listening to the wind and waiting for
the crash of the ship. And in the room above, where the servants had
made a bed for Emily, another kept sleepless watch, though she thought
but little of the storm; or, if she did, it was with thankfulness for
what it had brought her.
How handsome he had looked, even with that death-like pallor upon his
brown sunburnt cheek, as she had knelt beside him! Had the waves of
the tempest indeed brought the long-expected, long-dreamed-of lover to
her feet? And he was a sailor; he had been with Farragut; he had been
wounded in the service of his country--a hero! And what had he said?
"Saved by a blue-eyed water-witch!" How delightful to think on! And he
would never forget the rescue because she had done it! He jested,
surely; yet could the words be true?
How different he was from the young men of the village! Even the few
officers of the different detachments of volunteers which had
successively garrisoned the fort were not as he. How different from
Captain Barry, too--alas, poor old sailor! Her grandfather, now, might
have been like him when he was younger.
What a storm it was! How the wind howled around the corners of the
house! What had he come there for? Strangers rarely visited the quiet
little town. What business or pleasure had brought him to the village?
Was the ship braving the storm? If the ship went down, her grandfather
would go, too, and perhaps Captain Barry. Who would care for her then?
What was that young man's name? Pity he had not mentioned it. "A
blue-eyed water-witch!"
She drifted off to sleep.
Down upon the deck of the old ship, heedless of the storm, Captain
Barry paced restlessly up and down. What had he done it for? What
fool's impulse had made him obey her sharp command? 'Twas his arm that
had held the boat under iron control; 'twas his powerful stroke that
had brought it near enough to enable the man to make the leap with the
chance of safety; and he had carried him up the hill. The increasing
weight of the incumbrance but typified the growing heaviness of his
heart. The man was one of the admiral's class,--a gentleman, an
officer, a man who had been wounded in the service of his country, a
hero. How he had stared at Emily when his senses came back to him! He,
Barry, was only a common sailor, a blue-jacket, the admiral's
servitor, Miss Emily's dog, old enough to be her father,--a fool!
He stood up in the darkness and stretched out his arms to
heaven,--what voiceless, wordless prayer in his lonely old heart? The
storm beat full upon him. His mind was filled with foreboding, regret,
jealousy, anguish. Why had the man come there? Was it for Emily? What
should any man come there for if not for her?
But, stay; he was a sailor. Perhaps he had come for the ship! The war
was over, retrenchment the cry. Poor Barry had heard strange rumors.
There was no sleep for him that night.
CHAPTER VII
THE HOME OF THE SEA-MAIDEN
Mr. Richard Revere was a young lieutenant in the navy of the United
States. He came of an ancient and honorable family, possessed of
wealth and station. He had graduated from the Naval Academy in 1863,
and, by an act of daring gallantry in cutting out a blockade-runner,
had easily won a lieutenant's commission. When Farragut sailed into
Mobile Bay on that hot August morning in 1864, the young man stood on
the deck by his side. A Blakely shell from Fort Morgan had seriously
wounded him, and this wound, coupled with a long siege of fever
subsequently, had almost done for him.
Although over a year had elapsed since that eventful day, he had by no
means regained his strength, although he seemed now on the fair road
to recovery. Anxious to be on duty again after this long period of
enforced idleness, he had recently applied for orders, and had been
detailed to proceed to Lake Ontario and make arrangements for the
sale, or other disposal, of the _Susquehanna_. His mother owned a
cottage on one of the Thousand Isles, and the distance was, therefore,
inconsiderable. When the orders had reached him there, he determined
to sail down to Sewell's Harbor in a little yacht which he had
chartered for lake cruising, instead of taking the longer and more
tedious journey by land.
He had reached his destination in the way which has been told. It was
imprudent in him to have attempted to make the mouth of an unknown
harbor in such a storm, and he had nearly paid the penalty for his
folly with his life. Exhausted by his adventure, he fell speedily into
a sound and refreshing slumber, his last thought being of the radiant
face bowed over him when he had opened his eyes in the very room in
which he now sought rest.
He awoke in the morning feeling very much better. On a chair opposite
the bed lay a suit of clothes. He glanced at the garments curiously
and observed that they were the different articles of a blue-jacket's
uniform. They evidently belonged to that sailor-man who had assisted
in his rescue. They were new and spotlessly neat; certainly his best
suit. His own uniform was nowhere to be seen. It must have been badly
torn and, of course, thoroughly soaked by his adventure. His clothes,
probably, were not yet fit to put on. If he were to get up at all he
must make use of these. Well, it would not be the first time that he
had worn a seaman's clothes. They reminded him of his cadet days, and
so he arose, somewhat painfully be it known, and dressed himself,
curiously surveying the room as he did so.
It was a strange room, he thought, for a young girl, as he remembered
that it belonged to her. Her? How indefinite that was! He wished he
knew her name. He wondered whether it were beautiful enough to be
appropriate. He hoped so. The chamber was not at all like that of a
young woman. For instance, there was a deadly looking harpoon standing
in the corner. He picked up the sinister weapon and examined it.
"Queer toy, that thing, for a girl," he murmured; "quite a proper
weapon for a whaler, though."
Its barbs were as sharp and keen as a razor. On the wooden staff the
letters "J. B." were roughly carved. Were those her initials? Pshaw,
of course not! But whose? He experienced quite a thrill of--it could
not be jealousy! That was absurd.
"What's this? A model of a ship. By Jove! I believe it's the old
_Susquehanna_ herself,--the ship I am come to sell! And here's a
shark's tooth rudely carved. Oars in the other corner, too. And a
fish-net and lines! This bunch of wild flowers, though, and the
contents of this bureau mark the woman; but I'm blessed if there isn't
a boatswain's call, laniard and all! That's about the prettiest
laniard I ever saw," he continued, critically examining the knots and
strands and Turk's heads. "Have I stumbled into Master Jack's quarters
by mistake, or--oh, I see how it is. I suppose that old sailor has
loaded her with these treasures. He probably adores her--who could
help it? And the admiral, too. Now, what's this, I wonder? What a
queer-looking sword!"
He lifted up the weapon, which lay on a wooden shelf between the
windows, crossed pistols of ancient make hanging above it beneath a
fine old painting of a handsome young naval officer, in the uniform of
a captain of the 1812 period. The leather scabbard was richly and
artistically mounted in silver, but the hilt was a rough piece of
unpolished, hammered iron. He drew the weapon from the sheath. The
blade was of the most exquisite quality, beautifully chased, a rare
bit of Toledo steel, handsome enough to throw a connoisseur into
ecstasy. He tested it, cautiously at first, and then boldly; it was a
magnificent weapon, tempered to perfection. Such a blade as a king or
conqueror might have wielded,--and yet, that coarse iron hilt! What
could it mean? He thrust it back reverently into its scabbard and laid
it down, and then completed his toilet.
When he was dressed, he took a long look at himself in the little,
old-fashioned mirror swinging between two lyre-shaped standards on the
dresser, and smiled at the picture. In height he was, perhaps, as tall
as the sailor, but in bulk there was no comparison. He laughed at the
way the clothes hung about him. Yet the dashing, jaunty uniform was
not ill adapted to set off his handsome face. It was complete, even to
sheath-knife and belt. On the chair lay the flat cap, bearing on its
ribbon, in letters of gold, the name _Susquehanna_. He put the cap on
and went out on the porch.
Captain Barry was standing at the foot of the steps leading from the
porch, looking at the ship. It was early morning.
"My man," said the young officer, meaning to be entirely friendly and
cordial, as he was profoundly grateful, yet unable entirely to keep
the difference of rank and station out of his voice and manner,--a
condescension which irritated the sailor beyond expression. They were
both dressed exactly alike, and certainly physically the older was the
better man. He had lived long enough in the society of the girl and
the old man to have developed some of the finer feelings of his
nature, too. He shook himself angrily, therefore, as the other spoke.
"My man, you lay me under double obligation. You and your
golden-haired mistress presented me with my life last night, and now
you 'paint the lily'--gad, that's a good simile, isn't it?" he
chuckled to himself--"by giving me your clothes. How am I to acquit
myself of all I owe you?"
"Sir," said the old man, grimly, knuckling his forehead, with a
sea-scrape of his foot, more as a matter of habit than as a token of
respect, "you owe me nothing."
He turned abruptly, and went around the house without looking back.
"Queer duck, that," soliloquized the young man, staring after him in
amazement; "seems to be mad about something. Mad at me, perhaps. I
wonder why? Well, those old shellbacks are apt to take quaint notions.
Never mind; let him do what he likes. Where would you be, Mr. Dick
Revere, if it had not been for him and the girl? How funny I must
look, though! I wonder whether the apparel becomes the man? I flatter
myself I have given the proper hitch to the tie. It is 'a touch of
wild civility that doth bewitch me,'" he quoted. "I wish I had brought
that bo's'n's whistle out. I'd like to sound a call or two."
He drifted off into a brown study, thinking hard in this manner.
"I wonder what Josephine would say if she could see me now? Is all our
difference of rank but a matter of uniform? By Jove! I forgot all
about her. I don't believe I've thought of her since I left them; yet,
if the novels are right, I should have been thinking of her when I
stood on the deck of the yacht expecting every moment would be my
last. I was thinking of that girl in the boat, though. Wasn't she
splendid? Plucky, pretty--well! Gracious me, Richard Revere, at the
age of twenty-four you are surely not going to fall in love with the
first woman you see, especially since you have been engaged to
Josephine Remington pretty much ever since you were born,--or ever
since she was born, which was four years later. But I swear I'd give a
year of Josephine's cold, classic, beautiful regularity for a minute
of--pshaw, don't be a fool! I'll go and look at the yacht. I wonder
whether anything's left of her? Nobody would think there had been a
storm of any kind to look at the lake to-day. What a lovely morning!"
Indeed, the wind had gone down to a gentle breeze, and the surface of
the lake was tossing in thousands of merry little waves, their white
crests sparkling in the sunlight.
"The old ship is still standing," he continued, soliloquizing again,
as he walked toward the bluff. "I suppose it will come awfully hard on
the old man when he finds out that the government is going to sell
her. What did they tell me his name was? Somebody or other
distinguished; I forget who. Must have been a fine old chap in his
day. What was it he said when he looked out of the window before he
bade me good-night? This is going to be rather a tough sort of a job,
I'm afraid, and I don't half like it."
He had reached the hill by this time, and, feeling a little tired, he
sat down on the steps overlooking the sea. There, below him on the
Point, stood the ship-of-the-line. An imposing picture, indeed. He had
been too busy the night before to notice it. He stared at it with
growing interest, and a feeling of pity, for whom, for what, he could
scarcely say, slowly rose in his heart.
"Poor old ship!" he murmured.
A ragged mass of fallen timber on the lee side proclaimed that some
portion of her had been carried away during the storm of the
night,--and she had little left to spare. There, too, on the reef
beyond, were the remains of the _Josephine_, battered into a shapeless
ruin.
"Well, that was a close shave; the _Josephine_ will never carry sail
again. What melancholy pictures!" he said, thoughtfully; "poor little
boat, too! I've had many a good time on her, and now I--But I'd
cheerfully give a dozen yachts," he continued, with the reckless
hyperbole of youth, "to be rescued by----"
CHAPTER VIII
"OLD IRONSIDES"
The continuity of his thought was suddenly broken. A beautiful hand,
of exquisite touch, sunburned, but shapely, delicate, but strong, was
laid lightly on his shoulder. He glanced down at it, thrilled!
"Captain Barry," exclaimed a fresh, clear young voice, which in
perfection matched the hand, "have you looked to the comfort of our
guest? Oh, sir, I beg your pardon. I thought----" she cried in dismay,
as Revere rose to his feet and bowed low before her.
"May I answer your question? He has, as these clothes, which account
for your mistake, will witness."
"And are you well, sir? Are you none the worse for----?"
"Much the better, I should say," answered the young man, "since my
adventure has gained me the privilege of your acquaintance."
"You might have had that without risking your life, sir," she
responded, smiling.
"Not without risking my heart, I am sure," he replied, gallantly.
"What a strange way you have of addressing people!" she continued,
looking at him so frankly and so innocently that he felt ashamed of
himself. "Do you always talk in that way?"
"Well, not always," he replied, laughing; "but I jest----"
"Oh, it was only a jest, then," she interrupted, her heart sinking
faintly.
"But I jest when I should be thanking you for giving me my life," he
continued, disregarding her interruption. "You saved my life, Miss--I
do not know your name."
"I am Emily Sanford, the admiral's granddaughter."
"You saved my life, Miss Sanford."
"I don't believe I've ever been called 'Miss Sanford' in my life. How
strange it sounds!" she exclaimed, naively. "Everybody here calls me
'Miss Emily.'"
"You will not find me unwilling, I am sure, to adopt the common
practice," he exclaimed, lightly. "But, seriously, death never seemed
nearer to me than it did last night, and I have been near it before,
too. Had it not been for you----"
"And Captain Barry," she interrupted, quickly.
"Of course, for him, too, I'd not be here thanking you now."
"But it was nothing, after all; anybody could have done it."
"There I disagree with you. I am sailor enough to know that it was a
most desperate undertaking. You put your own life in hazard to save
mine. If that old man had relaxed his efforts, if you had made a
mistake with those yoke-lines,--well, there would have been three of
us to go instead of one."
"Oh, hardly that."
"But I know, Miss Emily, and I cannot allow you to disparage your
action so. 'Twas a most heroic thing, and I'm not worthy the risk and
the effort."
"But you have been with Farragut; you were at Mobile Bay in the
_Hartford_; you----"
"You did not know it then, surely?" in great surprise.
"I did not then; but since I did--as you persist in saying--save you,
I am glad to know it now. But you have not told me your name."
"My name is Richard Revere. I am a lieutenant in the United States
navy."
"How did you happen to come here?" curiously.
"I came about the ship."
"The ship?" she cried in alarm. "What of it?"
"I came to inspect it," he answered, evasively, something prompting
him that he was getting in dangerous waters.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, greatly relieved; "I thought you might have come
to destroy it, or to dispose of it. You see, it would be the death of
grandfather if anything should happen to the old ship, and it would
kill the old sailor, too; and then what would become of me?"
Her frankness delighted him. An answer trembled on the tip of his
tongue, but by a great effort he restrained his inclination and
questioned her.
"Have you no relatives, no friends?"
"No relatives at all except grandfather," she answered, freely and
frankly. "I have lived here since I was a baby with the admiral and
Captain Barry. My mother died when I was an infant, and she was the
only child of her mother. I haven't a connection in the world that I
know of. Friends? Yes, everybody in the village is a friend of mine;
but they are different, you know. I wonder sometimes what will happen
when--they can't last much longer, you know, but God will take care of
me," she continued, simply.
"And I, too," he murmured softly, in spite of himself.
"You!" she cried, surprised, turning her clear, splendid eyes toward
him and confronting him in one unabashed glance. "What do you mean?
I----"
"Never mind, Miss Emily," he answered, recovering himself again; "you
are right. God will find some way, I doubt not. I only mean to say
that if you ever need a friend, a real friend, you may count upon me
and upon my mother. She owes you a son, you know, and I am sure she
would gladly pay her debt in kindness to you."
Dangerous promises, Richard, so far as you are concerned, in spite of
Plato; and few men there be who dare assume to speak for a woman, a
mother, to a possible daughter-in-law!
His words were simple enough, but there was such intensity in the
glance that accompanied them that the girl, innocent though she was,
shrank from it,--not with fear, but from the old, old instinct of
woman that suggests flight when fain to be pursued.
"More of the ship went with the gale last night," she murmured,
pointing; "see yonder. I think every gale that comes will be the last
of her. Your boat is gone to pieces, too."
"I count it well lost," he replied, softly, "for it has brought me to
you."
"You must not say that," she answered, gravely; "and I am forgetting
my duty. Breakfast is nearly ready. I came to tell you. Will you come
into the house?"
It was not the first time that a maiden forgot her duty--even in
trifles like this--in the presence of a man she was beginning to love,
nor would it be the last.
"Did you, then, do me the honor to seek me? I am delighted."
"At the prospect of breakfast?" she asked, smiling at him merrily.
"Of course. Did you ever see a sailor-man who wasn't?"
"The only sailor-men I know are my grandfather and Captain Barry.
Grandfather cares nothing about it, but I must say that Captain
Barry----"
"Does full justice to his rations, I doubt not. He looks like it.
Well, I am only a lieutenant. I will follow the captain. May I help
you up the hill?"
She laughed lightly at him.
"Why, Mr. Revere, I run up and down that hill a dozen times a day, and
I should think, after your battering of last night, you would rather
depend upon me. Come, let us go."
They had gone but a few steps when an idea struck the lieutenant. He
stopped, pressed his hand against his side, and gazed beseechingly at
his companion.
"Oh, what is it?" she cried; "your wound? You ought not to have come
out. What shall we do?"
"I am afraid," answered this mendacious deceiver; "I am sorry to
trouble you, but I will have to be helped up the hill, after all. You
see----"
"Of course, of course. How thoughtless of me! I'll call Captain Barry
at once."
"Oh, no; that will be unnecessary. If you will give me your hand I
think I can manage."
She extended her hand to him instantly with all the freedom of her
character, and her ready offer shamed him again. His repentance of his
subterfuge did not rise to the renunciation point, for it must be
confessed that he seized the beautiful, sunburnt little hand with
avidity, and clung to it as if he really craved assistance. She helped
him religiously up the hill, and, as he showed no desire to relinquish
her hand when they reached the top, she asked him if he did not feel
able to walk alone now; and when he was forced to reply in the
affirmative, she drew it gently away.
"You see," he said, "it was so delightful, I quite forgot."
"What was delightful?"
"To have reached the top of the hill; you know it was so pleasant,
I--I--forgot--I was holding your hand."
If Emily had been a modern young woman she might have asked him how he
could ever have forgotten for a moment that he was holding her hand;
but as his glance carried his meaning home to her she flushed deeply.
The admiral's voice calling to them from the door-way put an end to a
scene which was delightful to both of them.
On seeing the old man, the young man took off his cap and bowed
respectfully.
"Sir," he said, "my name is Richard Revere."
"Are you related to Commodore Dick Revere of the old navy?"
"He was my grandfather, sir."
"I knew him well; I sailed on many a cruise with him. A gallant
fellow, a loyal friend. I'm glad to meet you, sir. You are welcome."
"I have to thank you for your hospitality, sir, even as I thank your
granddaughter for her heroic rescue of me last night."
"It was, indeed, nobly done, young sir, and I am glad that my child
should have been of service to a grandson of Dick Revere, or to a
friend of Dave Farragut. You were at Mobile, were you?"
"Yes, sir, and on the _Hartford_."
"I've seen many a battle in my day, young sir," said the old admiral,
simply. "It was old-fashioned fighting then, yard-arm to yard-arm, but
we went at it good and hard, and our hearts were in it, I doubt not,
just as yours were."
"May I know your name, sir?"
"I am called Charles Stewart," responded the other.
"What?" cried the lieutenant. "Charles Stewart of the _Constitution_?
The man who took the _Cyane_ and the _Levant_?"
"The same, sir."
"Him they call 'Old Ironsides'?"
"I believe my countrymen do apply that name to me sometimes," replied
the old man, smiling with pleasure at the hearty admiration of the
younger.
"I am proud to know you, sir, and proud to see you. We of the new navy
only hope that we may live up to the record you of the old made in the
past, sir."
"You have more than done that," said the old man, heartily; "we had no
better men than Farragut and young Porter. I sailed with old Porter,
his father, many a time. I knew him well."
"But come, grandfather," said Emily, "breakfast is ready."
"A moment, child," said the old man, forgetting for the moment,
apparently, his environment. "I must look at the ship. Good-morning,
Barry," he continued, as the sailor approached him; "is it well with
the ship?"
"A good piece of it went down last night, your honor, I'm sorry to
say. It lies off on the port side, yonder, under the lee, but nothin'
vital yet, sir."
"I did not think to see it this morning. Bit by bit it wears away.
Well, please God, there will be an end some day."
CHAPTER IX
THE SWORD OF THE CONSTITUTION
Clothed in his own uniform, but hardly in his right mind, Mr. Richard
Revere sat down late in the afternoon to consider the situation.
He had passed a delightfully idle day in the society of the admiral
and his granddaughter; principally, it must be confessed, and in so
far as he could contrive it, with the latter. Her cunning fingers had
mended the rents in his uniform, which had been dried and put into a
passably wearable condition. The versatility of her education and the
variety of her accomplishments were evidenced to him when he saw that
she wielded the needle as deftly as she steered the boat.
They had sat on the porch most of the time in the pleasant fall
weather, and the dozing old admiral offered but little check to the
freedom of their intercourse. In response to her insistent
questioning, this young Telemachus, cast up by the sea at her feet,
poured into the ear of this new Calypso stories of the naval battles
in which he had participated and whose honorable scars he bore. Like
Desdemona, she loved him for the dangers he had passed.
She was familiar with the history of the old navy, of which the
admiral had been one of the brightest stars. Many a tale had the old
man told her of storm and tempest, battle and triumph, shipwreck and
disaster, and his own adventures and distinguished career she knew by
heart. Although the great wave of the Civil War had ebbed and flowed
far to the south of them, she and her grandfather had prayerfully and
anxiously followed its mighty course, especially on the sea; yet it so
happened that this was the first time that either of them had been
brought in personal contact with its naval side. A returning
volunteer, a wounded soldier,--for the little town had done its
patriotic part with the rest,--had sometimes brought fresher news of
the battles than might be read in the papers, but no sailor had come
to tell them how Farragut had damned the torpedoes and steamed through
the pass until Revere told the thrilling story of the immortal fight.
The admiral waked up while this was being recounted, and he pressed
the young man with the keen questions of a veteran who knew well the
sound of battle and had fronted the enemy undismayed. Even the story
of the wound that disabled Revere must be told, in spite of his
reluctance to mention it, and Emily dropped the needle and listened
with bated breath to the simple and modest recital.
"Were you ever wounded, admiral?" questioned the young sailor, when he
had finished his story.
"Never, by God's providence," said the old man; "though I came near to
it once."
"And how was that, sir?"
"Well, sir, when the old _Constitution_ took the _Cyane_ and the
_Levant_, a shot from the _Cyane_ struck the hilt of my sword, carried
it away, and slewed me about so that I thought for a moment that I had
been hit in the side. It was a Spanish blade, and I prized it highly.
I was lucky enough to give some succor to a Spanish brig in distress
down in the West Indies on a certain occasion, years before, and His
Most Catholic Majesty of Spain was pleased to present me with a sword
for it, a beautiful Toledo blade, the finest sword I ever saw. It was
richly hilted and scabbarded, as became such a weapon, and I always
wore it in action. Of course, the hilt was ruined by the shot, and the
armorer of the _Constitution_ made a rude guard out of a piece of iron
he took from the _Levant_ after she struck, to replace the broken
hilt, and I've never cared to change it since."
"I saw it this morning in Miss Emily's room," said Revere. "I took the
liberty of examining it, and I was struck by the beauty of the blade
and the roughness of the hilt. I quite agree with you, sir. I should
not have it changed for anything."
"I call it the sword of the _Constitution_," said Emily.
"How comes it in your room, may I ask, Miss Emily?"
"Grandfather gave it to me. I am the only son of the house, you see,"
she continued with a melancholy sigh. "I would that I had been a man."
"That is a wish in which I cannot join you," said the young officer,
quickly.
"I think it's a pity," responded the girl, "that so great and gallant
a sailor as my grandfather should leave no one to bear his name."
"My dear young lady, his name is borne in our history and upon our
hearts," answered Revere, quickly. "The world will never forget '_Old
Ironsides_' and her last great fighting captain. The new navy is the
child of the old, and, in a certain sense, we all feel the obligations
of such distinguished ancestry. As for me, that I have been permitted
to meet you, sir," he said, turning to the admiral, "in this intimate
and familiar way, is one of the proudest moments of my life."
"Is it so?" said the old man, simply; "we only did our duty then, just
as you are doing it now. Dave Farragut, now, he was trained in our
school----"
"And we are trained in his school; so you see here is a connection.
Some day we may show what we have learned from him, as he showed what
he had learned from you."
"I doubt it not, young sir, I doubt it not; and while I have no sons
or grandsons to bear my name, yet Emily is a good child. No one could
wish for a better daughter."
"Of that I am quite sure," interrupted the lieutenant, spontaneously.
"And, perhaps," continued the admiral, simply, "in the hands of her
children the sword of the _Constitution_ may again be drawn in the
service of our beloved country. But where is Barry? The sun is just
setting. He should--Ah, there he is. Evening colors, Mr. Revere," said
the veteran, rising to his feet as the gun on the terrace boomed out
in salute, and standing still until the colors slowly and gracefully
floated down.
One of the most beautiful of sights is the fall of a flag, when it
comes down by your own hand and betokens no surrender. The declining
banner lingers in the evening air with sweet reluctance until it
finally drops into waiting hands with a touch like a caress.
"You see, we keep up the customs of the service as near as we can,
sir. How is the ship, Barry?" the admiral asked, as the old sailor
delivered his report, as he had done the evening before and on all the
evenings of their long sojourn on Ship House Point.
"I have a fond fancy, Mr. Revere," resumed the veteran, after the
termination of the customary conversation with the sailor, "that the
ship and I will sail into the final harbor together. Both of us are
old and worn out, laid up in ordinary, waiting for the end. But let us
go into the house. The night air grows chill for me. Emily shall sing
to us, and then I shall bid you good-night."
The girl's sweet, low voice, although unaccompanied, makes rare music
in the old room. The admiral sits with his eyes closed, a smile upon
his lips, beating the time upon the arm of his chair with his withered
fingers. The songs the girl sings are of the music of the past; the
words, those the admiral heard when he was a boy. Now it is a
rollicking sea-chorus which bubbles from her young lips, now it is a
sweet old ballad that his wife sang in the long ago time. His head
nods, and he says, softly, under his breath, half in time with the
rhythm,--
"Ay, just so. When I was a boy, so many years ago!"
Revere listens entranced, though possibly he had arrived at such a
state that he would have listened entranced if she had sung
badly,--which she did not. Her voice, though untrained, was
delightful. It had the naturalness of bird notes, the freshness of
youth, and the purity that charms the world. The airs were
half-forgotten things, lingering familiarly in his memory. He may have
heard them when he was a baby in his mother's arms, and she from her
mother, and so on down through the long line of ancient ancestry
maternal.
The sweetest songs, are they not the oldest? Have not the peasants of
Sicily been singing the music of "Home, Sweet Home," for a thousand
years?
And so the young man listens and loves, the old man listens and
dreams, and the girl sings as never before, for this time she knows
that a young heart beats in harmony with her voice. Alas for the old!
he has had his day. Compelling youth enters and displaces him. Emily
sings not merely for the past, but with thoughts reaching out into the
future. When she stops, fain to be persuaded, Revere entreats her to
continue, he begs for more. She knows not how to refuse, indeed does
not wish to do so, so she sings on and on.
The admiral sleeps, but what of that? Youth listens, and by and by, as
she strikes something that he knows, in a fresh, hearty tenor voice he
ventures to join with her. In the harmony of their voices they almost
see a prophecy of the future harmony of their lives.
Many a time has she sung to the admiral and the old sailor, but never
quite as to-night. And Captain Barry has not been there. The heavy
oaken chair, which he made himself from the timbers of the ship, which
stands by the door, and which, in its rude strength, its severe
plainness, somehow suggests the man, is empty. To the admiral she has
sung like a voice from the past, to Barry her music has been like that
of an angel in heaven, to Revere it is the voice of the woman he
loves. But to-night, although he hears the music, Captain Barry will
not come in. He stands on the porch, peering through the blinds.
Unskilled as he is in the reading of character, unaccustomed to the
observation of faces, there is no mistaking, even in the sailor's
mind, the look in the eyes of Revere.
The young man sits opposite Emily, listening to her, watching her,
drinking in the sweetness of the melody and the beauty of her face;
the light that is in his eye is the light of a love that has come, not
as the oak grows from the tiny seed, slowly developing through the
ages, and spreading and bourgeoning until it fills the landscape, but
the glory of a passion that has burst upon him with the suddenness of
a tempest, and one that promises to be as irresistible in its onset.
And Barry sees it all, divines, knows, feels, and in the light of
another love recognizes at last his own futile passion. The revelation
of hopelessness in the light of hope, of despair in the glow of
success.
Never had the Bostonian been brought in contact with a personality
quite like that of Emily. More beautiful girls, measured by the
canons, he had seen, possibly; wiser in the world's ways, better
trained, more accustomed to the usages of society, undoubtedly; but
never one so sweet, so innocent, so fresh, so unspoiled, so lovely,
and so lovable. As frank as she was beautiful, as brave as she was
innocent, as pure as she was strong. There was no use denying it; he
could not disguise it; he had loved her from the moment when, standing
on the wreck, he saw her steering the skiff in the storm, with her
fair hair blown out by the breeze and her face turned up toward him,
full of encouragement and entreaty.
And Barry knew it now.
As a young sailor, Revere had flirted and frolicked with many girls,
he had been staidly engaged to another for a long time, but not until
that day had he really loved any one. As for the girl, she had taken
him at his face value; and while it would hardly be just to say that
she entirely reciprocated his feeling, yet it was easy to see whither
her heart tended and what the end of the acquaintance would be unless
something checked the course of the growing interest she felt in the
young man.
Could Barry check it? He yearned to try. And all these things were
plain to the old sailor. He suddenly found himself dowered with an
unwonted ability to reason, to see, to read beneath the surface. 'Twas
love's enlightening touch; hopeless, uncoveting, yet jealous love,
that opened his eyes. Love blinds? Ay, but he enlightens, too.
Barry's glance through the window ranged from the dozing admiral to
the adoring young man, and paused over the face, exalted, of the young
woman. His breath came hard as he gazed, his heart rose in his throat
and tried to suffocate him. He clinched his hands, closed his teeth--a
dangerous man, there, under the moonlight. He cursed the gay young
lieutenant under his breath, as Adam might have cursed the serpent who
gave him, through the woman, of that tree of knowledge that opened his
eyes and turned his paradise into a hell.
CHAPTER X
FACING WORLD-OLD PROBLEMS
When the lights in the house were all out, and they had all gone to
their rest or their restlessness, to their dreams or their oblivion,
the sailor returned to his ship. Lighting his lantern, that hung in
the sheltered corner aft where he slung his hammock, he pulled from
the breast of his shirt a little bundle of water-stained papers. One
was a long, official-looking envelope, bearing the stamp of the Navy
Department, and evidently containing an order or an important
communication. Barry had often seen such envelopes addressed to the
admiral. The others, if he could judge from the outside, were private
letters, and the envelopes bore, he thought, a woman's handwriting. He
arrived at this last conclusion instinctively, for he was without
familiarity with such things; he had scarcely ever received a letter
in his fifty years of life.
He had found them that morning on the shore by the landing, where they
had fallen from the pocket of Revere's coat the night before. Instead
of handing them to the young man, he had retained them; moved by what
idea that they might be of value to him some day, who could say?
The envelopes had all been opened, and nothing prevented him from
examining the contents. He was but a rude sailor; the niceties and
refinements of other ranks of life were not for him, yet he hesitated
to read the documents. Two or three times he half drew one of the
letters from its envelope only to thrust it resolutely back. Miss
Emily would not have read them, nor the admiral either; that he knew.
Finally he gathered up the handful, put them in the locker near where
he stood, and turned the key. He would not read them, but he would not
return them, either.
Ah, Barry, 'tis not alone hesitant woman who loses!
He had won a partial advantage, the first skirmish in a battle which
was to be renewed with increasing force with every passing hour. He
would have given the world to have examined those documents and
papers. They would tell him something of the errand of the man,
perhaps; but he had not reached the breaking point,--not yet,
although, under the influence of his furious jealousy and consequent
animosity, he was not far from it. Unconsciously he contrasted Revere
with himself, and suffered keenly in the ever-growing realization of
his disadvantage. Old, common, rude, lonely, faithful, that was
all,--and it was not enough.
As for Revere, the loss of the letters, which he had discovered when
he put on his own uniform, annoyed him somewhat, although he did not
consider it serious. That afternoon he had written to the Navy
Department detailing his accident and asking that new orders be made
out for him. He had also written to his mother, lightly mentioning his
adventure and his lost baggage, and directing that other clothing be
sent him immediately by his man. In this letter he had enclosed a
short note for Josephine. In neither of them did he dwell much upon
Emily Sanford.
Of the trio in the house he was one to whom oblivion did not come
readily that night. He was facing a very serious crisis in his life.
He had been betrothed to Josephine Remington, a far-off connection of
his mother, since his graduation, and the betrothal was only the
carrying out of a plan which had long been agreed upon between the
respective families. The engagement was a matter of general notoriety,
and was an accepted fact among their many friends. In the absence of
any other affection, he had never realized that he had not loved
Josephine as he should, and never suspected, until he had felt the
touch of genuine passion, and had become thereby an authority upon the
subject, that she did not love him either.
But what was to be done was a grave question. Was it right for him to
make love to Emily Sanford, which he had certainly done, by
implication at least, and which he certainly wanted to do directly and
unequivocally, under the circumstances? or, was it right to allow
Emily Sanford to fall in love with him, which, without vanity, he felt
she might do, and which he fervently hoped with all his soul she would
do, while he was engaged to Josephine? It certainly was not right.
That was a conclusion about which there could be no other opinion.
He finally resolved that he would treat Emily Sanford with proper
reserve, and circumspectly watch his conduct toward her for the
present. Perhaps it would be best, after all, to try to put her out of
his heart and keep to his engagement his mind suggested faintly. That
was impossible he felt in his heart. It was Emily or nothing. No, he
could not and he would not. He must at once secure a release from the
one so that he could have the right to woo the other honorably and
openly.
Yet, how to be free? Could he ask Josephine to release him? What would
his mother think of such a demand, and how would his conduct in the
affair be regarded by his friends? And yet he could not carry out his
engagement. That was final. In one moment the delusion of years which
he had accepted--nay, even encouraged--with a youth's indifference had
been swept away. Love had smitten him; his eyes, too, had been opened.
Whatever betided, there was but one woman in the world for him. Yet he
must conceal his feeling and make no avowal until he was free. Poor
Richard! He did not realize that the man does not live who can conceal
from the woman he loves the fact that he loves her. It is in the very
air, and nature has a thousand ways to tell the tale, with each one of
which the most untutored woman suddenly grows familiar at the right
moment.
They were puzzling and annoying questions, but, with a conduct quite
what would be expected from so gallant a sailor, he at last made up
his mind. Of one thing he was certain,--that he loved Emily, and that
she was the only woman in the world for him. And he would be free. So
Revere, like Barry, hesitated and was lost!
Even the situation with regard to the old ship was a puzzling one.
There would be no evading the orders of the government. The ship must
be sold to the best advantage and broken up. Yet to destroy the ship
was to write the admiral's death-warrant. He had to obey his orders.
No sentimental considerations would be allowed to interfere with the
command of the department. Still, how could he do it? He did not dare
tell the news to the admiral, he could not mention it to Emily, he
would not even like to declare it to the old sailor.
The more he considered the situation the more unfortunate the position
in which he found himself. As a lover,--of Emily, that is,--he was
pledged to another woman. As a guest of the admiral, he was there to
take away the ship. And, although he entered little into his
calculations, he might have added, had he known it, that on both
counts, ship and maiden, he was about to break the heart of the man
who had saved his life. And all of this had been brought about in the
most innocent and unwitting way. He felt himself, in some strange
manner, the sport of a hard and malignant fortune.
The night was still and calm to the admiral, sleeping dreamlessly
without foreboding; but to his granddaughter--ah, she was the dreamer.
This young hero, this demigod from over the sea, how he had looked at
her, how he had listened to her, how his eyes had seemed to pierce the
very depths of her maiden soul! He had not complimented her upon her
singing; he had only asked for more and still more. And how
beautifully his voice had blended with hers! Was he, indeed, the fairy
prince come at last to awaken the sleeping beauty of her passion,--to
kiss into life the too long dormant feeling in her heart?
There are songs without words in maidens' hearts, and one of them
rippled through the innocence of her girlish soul in the still watches
of that heavenly night.
And they all forgot old Barry alone on the ship.
CHAPTER XI
BLOWS AT THE HEART
Revere spent the next morning in a thorough inspection of the ship. It
was a duty enjoined upon him in the carrying out of his orders, and he
had felt somewhat guilty in having neglected it the day before. His
Naval Academy course had included instruction in wooden
ship-building,--iron ships were only just beginning to be at that
date,--and he therefore viewed the _Susquehanna_ with the eyes of an
expert. At his own request, he had been attended in this survey by the
sailor Barry, although it is more than probable that, in any case, the
old man would have insisted upon accompanying him.
With what jealous pain the veteran seaman dogged the footsteps of the
young sailor and watched him examine his beloved ship! Nothing escaped
Revere's rigid scrutiny. Barry himself, after his years of familiarity
with the old hulk, could not have made a more exhaustive
investigation. There was but one spot which Revere did not view. That
was the private locker which the old seaman had made for himself in
the one habitable portion of the ship.
"What's this?" Revere had asked, pausing before the closed, locked
door. "Your traps, eh? Well, I guess we have no need to inspect them,"
he continued, smiling, and passing on.
Yet, had he known it, behind that closed door lay his fate, for the
lost letters and papers--which Barry had not yet read--were there.
The keen, critical examination of the old ship by the young lieutenant
enhanced the growing animosity of the sailor. His cool comments seemed
like a profanation. Barry felt as if his enemy were appraising the
virtues of his wife; as if, examining her in her old age, he were
disappointed and surprised at not finding in her the qualities and
excellencies of her youth. Every prying finger touch, crumbling the
rotting wood, was a desecration. Every blow struck upon the timbers to
test their soundness was an added insult.
Had the young man been less intent upon that task he would have seen
in the clouded brow, the closed lips, the stern expression upon his
companion's face something of the older man's exacerbated feelings;
but, engrossed by his inspection, he noticed nothing. Indeed, like
many very young naval officers of the time, he thought but little of
the sailor at best. He was a part--and a very essential part--of the
vast naval machine, of course, but otherwise nothing. When Revere grew
older he would learn to estimate the value of the man upon the
yard-arm, the man behind the gun, and to rate him more highly; but at
present his attitude was more or less one of indifference.
It was true that Barry, equally with Emily, had saved his life; but by
a perfectly natural trick of the mind--or heart, rather--all the
heroism of that splendid achievement had focussed itself about the
woman, and to Revere the man became an incident rather than a
cause,--merely a detail. Just as the captain who leads the forlorn
hope gets the mention in the despatches and enrolls his name upon the
pages of history, to the exclusion of those other men, perhaps no less
brave than he, who followed him, so Emily stood to the fore, and
Barry's part was already half forgotten. This carelessly oblivious
attitude of mind, which he divined even in the absence of any very
specific outward evidence of it, added to the exasperation of the
sailor, and he fairly hated the officer.
"There are certain categories of the mind which must be true, else
would reason reel and totter on its throne." As an illustration, we
cannot think of love without thinking of hate, and perhaps the
capacity for one may be measured by the ability for the other. The man
who loves high things, burns with corresponding hatred for the
base,--or else something is lacking in his love; and, as is the case
with all other antitheses of sentiment, both feelings find lodgment in
the normal mind.
Barry had loved through years. He had loved the admiral, he had loved
the ship, and, above all, he had loved the girl. The peaceful, quiet,
even tenor of his life had offered no lodgment for antagonisms. To
love, to serve,--that had been his happy existence. Living alone on
Ship House Point, attending to his simple duties, wrapped up in his
devotion, he had found neither cause nor reason for hatred, and when
that awful passion found a lodgment in his bosom, it came so suddenly,
so violently, that it destroyed the mental and spiritual balance of
the man. The faculty of hating had years of disuse to make up for, and
the feeling swept over him like a tidal wave, uncontrollable,
appalling. The swiftness with which it developed had but added to his
confusion. There is love at first sight, but there is antipathy as
well. He was a living illustration of the latter fact.
So perverted had become the sailor's mind, under the influence of this
rising feeling, that in his bewilderment he sometimes fancied that his
antipathy was universal,--that he hated the admiral, the ship, Emily,
himself! Yet this could not be; and in calmer moments, although
without the power of analysis, he realized dumbly that these griping
emotions were but the concomitants of his obsession.
Of all this the lieutenant was yet blithely unconscious. It is said
that but a single object can engross the mind at one time, and that
concepts of other objects, even if simultaneous therewith, are merely
auxiliary thereto. Emily filled Revere's mental horizon to the
exclusion of everything else. It was with difficulty he kept his mind
away from her when, in pursuance of his duty, he inspected the ship.
To Barry he paid but little attention, noticing him, if at all, in the
most perfunctory way. Disassociated from Emily, the sailor counted for
nothing.
To his relief and Barry's, presently the long task was over. The duty
discharged, the two men scrambled down the battens which Barry had
nailed to the side of the hulk to enable him to pass to and from the
deck, and stood on the grass in the shadow of the ship.
"Well," said Revere, "she has been a fine ship in her day, Barry."
"Ay, sir; none better."
"See how sharp she is in the lines of her bow; look at the graceful
swell forward. See how she fines down in her run aft, yonder. She
should have been a good goer. The ship was built for speed as well as
strength; and probably she was laid out by the rule-of-thumb, too," he
continued, reflectively. "We don't build better to-day, with all our
boasted science. Yes, she was a fine ship. I should like to have
commanded her; but she is worthless now."
"Worthless!" exploded the old sailor, darkly; "worthless!"
"Absolutely. There is hardly a sound plank in her. The iron bolts,
even, are rusted. I wonder how she holds together. The habit of years,
perhaps; nothing else, surely. She's a positive danger. Some day
she'll fall to pieces, and, if I were you, I'd sleep elsewhere."
"My God, sir!" exclaimed the old man, wrathfully, his face changing;
"you don't know what you're sayin'! You can't mean it! Me leave the
ship! I've slept on her for twenty-five years. You're wrong, sir!
She's good for many a year yet. Some of the planks is rottin', I grant
you, but most of the frames is good yet, an' she's sound at the heart.
She'll weather many a storm, you'll see. Sound at the heart! Leave
her! I'll leave her when she falls, and the admiral, too. He's an old
man. My father sailed with him; he was a man when I was a boy; yet
he's alive still, an' he'll live as long as she does, too."
"Nonsense, man!" said Revere; "you are dreaming! The ship ought to be
broken up. She might be worth something as stove-wood of inferior
quality," he continued, carelessly, and ruthlessly, too; "but I tell
you she's a menace to every one who comes here."
"Broken up, sir!" gasped the man, forgetting duty, courtesy,
everything, in his anger; "by heaven, I'd rather set fire to her with
my own hands an' burn her down! Burn the life out of the admiral, an'
out of me, too, than a timber on her should be touched! I tell you,
I've lived on her. I know her. I love her! Don't dare to----"
"Look here, Barry," said the young man, quickly, but with great
firmness, "you are rated a boatswain's mate in the United States navy,
I believe, and as such I will have to caution you not to address me in
this imperious way. There, man, hang it all, I oughtn't to have said
that, perhaps," he continued, as he saw the man's face working with
grief and rage. "You saved my life, you know, and the ship, I suppose,
is dear to you, and I can well understand it. We'll say no more about
it."
"I wish to God I hadn't," muttered the sailor, entirely unmollified.
"Well, now, that's rather ungracious of you; but, never mind, you did,
and I can forgive an old salt a good deal; only there is one thing I
must say: Miss Emily must not go aboard the ship any more. You can
risk your life if you want to, but I won't have her risk hers; it's
dangerous."
The old man noted the cool, proprietary note in the voice, and broke
into fury; difference of rank and station quite obliterated from his
perturbed mind.
"Mustn't, sir! Mustn't! I may be a bo's'n's mate, sir, an' you can
command me, but you've got no call to say 'mustn't' to Miss Emily."
"Of course not; but I shall speak to the admiral. There, now, that
will do. Keep cool. No harm's done. I have inspected the ship and
shall report on her."
"What are you goin' to report, sir?"
"Well, by George! If you are not the most extraordinary blue-jacket I
ever saw! What I report will be sent to the Secretary of the Navy. I
do not publish it to the ship's crew. What's the matter with you, man?
Pull yourself together. You seem to be in a dreadful state."
"What are you goin' to do with the ship?" insisted Barry, savagely.
"I'm not going to do anything with her. I have been sent here to
report on her, and I shall report."
The situation had become tense. The young officer felt that he had
humored the sailor long enough; indeed, that he had allowed him far
more freedom in his address than he would had given any one else.
Ignorant of the mainspring of the man's apparent antipathy to him,
possessing no clew to the cause of it, unable to divine Barry's mental
condition, he had been greatly surprised by his insolent and insulting
conduct. It seemed to the lieutenant that his forbearance had reached
its limit, and that something would have to give way. In another
second there would have been trouble.
The state of affairs was relieved by the cause of it, for Emily
appeared on the brow of the hill at that moment and called to the
sailor. The old man instantly turned on his heel and, without deigning
to notice the young man, walked toward her. Revere followed him
promptly, and both men arrived at the top of the hill before her at
the same moment.
By a violent effort the sailor had smoothed some of the passion out of
his face, though he still looked white and angry.
"What's the matter, Captain Barry?" she asked, noticing his altered
visage.
The man stood silent before her, not trusting himself to speak,
especially as it would have been difficult to assign a tangible cause
for his feelings, real though they were.
"I think I can tell you, Miss Emily," said Revere, pleasantly. "I have
been inspecting the ship, and the man has not liked my opinion of her,
I fancy."
"Captain Barry is very fond of the old ship, Mr. Revere," said Emily,
quietly, "and I doubt not that any inspection of her hurts him."
The sailor looked at the girl gratefully, as a dog might have done.
The young man's heart went out to her, too, for her kindly
championship of the older man. He was glad, indeed, that she had found
a way to dispel his anger, for the lieutenant was a kind-hearted young
fellow, and would have all others about him happy, especially in this
beginning of his romance.
"Well," he said, generously, "perhaps I did speak rather harshly of
the ship. You see I hardly realized how you all love the old thing,
and indeed 'tis a fine, melancholy old picture."
"It always reminds me of grandfather and Captain Barry--old on the one
hand, strong on the other," responded Emily, divining the instinct of
consideration in his heart that had prompted Revere's words, and
smiling graciously at him.
It was reward enough for him, he thought, as he returned her approving
glance with interest.
"You called me, Miss Emily," said the uncompromising Barry, speaking
at last. "Do you want me?"
"Yes; I am going over to the village, and I wish you to row me across
the harbor."
"By no means, Miss Emily," broke in Revere, promptly. "I claim that
honor for myself."
"Do you think you are quite strong enough to do it?"
"Strong enough!" he exclaimed. "Certainly I am! I should like nothing
better. Besides, I have business in the town myself: I expect answers
to some letters and my man with a portmanteau and some other clothes.
I should be delighted to row you to the village or anywhere."
"Well," said Emily, hesitating, "Captain Barry always rows me and----"
"All the more reason for giving him a rest; he is old and will be glad
of this relief. Let the duty be performed by younger hands. Come,
then, if you will allow me."
Barry stood silent during this little colloquy. His face, when Emily
glanced at it, was as impassive as if he had been a stone image. He
was putting great constraint upon himself, determined not to betray
his feeling. If she could choose Revere, the acquaintance of a moment,
and disregard him, the servant of years, let her do so. He would see.
Not by word or look would he try to influence her. If he had ever
heard of the Spartan with the wolf at his vitals, he would have
realized what the story meant then.
Now, Emily much preferred to have Revere row her; he was a much more
congenial companion than the grim, silent sailor. There was a
sympathy, already an affection, developing between them which made her
greatly enjoy his society. She would not have hesitated a moment,
therefore, but for a certain understanding of the feeling entertained
for her by the sailor. Not a sufficient comprehension, however, to
amount to an assurance, but a deep enough realization to give her
pause. What woman is there without that much comprehension? But when
she saw Barry standing before her, impassive, stern, apparently
indifferent, her hesitation left her for the moment, and, bidding the
sailor inform her grandfather of her departure, she turned and
descended the hill, followed by the lieutenant.
As the two walked away the tension on the man was released or broken.
He stood trembling, looking after them. A flower which Emily had been
wearing had fallen upon the walk. In other days he would have picked
it up and carried it carefully to the ship as a priceless treasure.
Now he ground it brutally under his heavy heel and stared at them,
almost unconscious of his action, quivering with voiceless rage.
Presently he went up to the old admiral, sitting dreaming on the
porch, and, having mastered himself somewhat again, delivered his
message.
Out in the harbor the little skiff, the same by means of which
Revere's life had been saved, danced merrily along.
"I like to see the young people together, Barry," said the old man,
gazing after them. "'Twas a fortunate gale that wrecked him at our
door. We shall be going soon, you and I and the ship, and who will
take care of Emily then? Perhaps----"
He spoke slowly and he did not finish the sentence, yet the concluding
thought was perfectly plain to the sailor.
He raged over it as he returned to the ship.
CHAPTER XII
BROKEN RESOLUTIONS
For the preliminary stages in the making of love there is scarcely
anything that is so delightful and convenient as a small boat just
large enough for two.
[Illustration: For the preliminary stages in the making of love there
is scarcely anything that is so delightful ... as a boat just large
enough for two]
Emily sat aft in the seat of honor, holding the yoke-lines and
steering the skiff. In front of, and facing, her was Revere, with the
oars, which, impelled by his powerful arms, afforded the motive power
that speeded the boat on her way. He had been well trained, of course,
and he rowed with the skill of a practised oarsman, a long, steady
man-o'-war stroke, quick on the recover, delicate in the feather, deep
and strong in the pull, which sent the boat flying over the water.
It was a sunny, delightful morning. The breeze blew soft over the
harbor, and the water, rippling, bubbling, and lipping around the
prow, made music suited indeed to words of love and beating hearts.
Yet what they said was commonplace enough, after all. They did not say
anything, in fact, for a few moments after they had pushed off from
the little wharf. Revere was quite content to drink in the exquisite
beauty of the young girl reclining in the stern-sheets before him.
He marked the freshness and sweetness of her face, the graceful curves
of her vigorous, yet lissome, young body, and her dainty feet--the
admiral was too thorough an aristocrat not to see his granddaughter
well booted--peeping out from beneath the hem of her cool, flowing
muslin skirt before him. From under her quaint, old-fashioned
bonnet--a species of poke in vogue a year or two before--her blue eyes
fearlessly and happily returned the ardent and admiring glances of his
own. Lest the silence should prove embarrassing to her, however, and
noticing, at last, that she dropped her eyes before him, he said,--
"I'd give a penny for your thoughts, Miss Emily, if I thought the coin
would prove the open sesame to your mind."
"I was only thinking how beautifully you row, and wondering----"
"Yes, wondering?"
"How soon you had recovered from your accident, and how much better
and stronger you seem than when I had to help you up the hill
yesterday morning."
He laughed at this clever thrust, rather shamefacedly, it must be
admitted, and flushed at the same time, while he answered her.
"I am afraid you will think me a great hypocrite," he admitted,
contritely, realizing that he could lose nothing by frankness;
"certainly, I am feeling very delightful--I mean, well and
comfortable, now."
"Yet you are rowing in the hot sun! Now, I do not see how you can be
comfortable at all, and I do not believe, since you feel so well now,
that you needed any assistance whatever in getting up the hill. You
deceived me. Neither my grandfather nor Captain Barry ever do that,"
she continued, gravely, at the same time looking reprovingly at him.
She leaned back in the boat, as if the matter was decided. "I wanted
to speak to you about it before, but there was always some one
around."
"Miss Emily, let me explain," he exclaimed, filled with shame,
surprised, yet pleased, to think she should take so trifling a matter
so seriously. "You see," he added, half in jest and half in earnest,
"after saving my life so gallantly the other night, I had rather a
feeling of--er--dependence upon you, you know, the next morning, and
it seemed natural and appropriate to ask you to help me up the hill. I
could have gone up myself I--I suppose----"
"I am glad you are honest now, at any rate. I must say you seemed to
acquire the feeling very lightly."
"Of honesty? Thank you!"
"I mean of dependence."
"I didn't. I never had it before. You see, it's dangerous to save a
life. The one who is saved always feels that he belongs to the one who
saves. Now, I----"
"How do you know so much about it?" she broke in, with instinctive
promptness. She would like to have him complete his sentence, and yet,
like all women, she tried to put it off; hence her interruption. "Did
you ever save any one's life?"
"Yes, once," he replied, rather reluctantly, inwardly perturbed at the
turn the conversation was taking.
"Oh, how was it?" she questioned, interestedly, dropping her tone of
banter instantly. "Was it a fellow-officer?"
"No."
"A sailor, then?" anxiously.
"No; a young lady," desperately.
"Oh, a young lady!" she exclaimed in dismay, with a note of
disappointment in her voice that she endeavored in vain to suppress,
and which he was very glad indeed to recognize.
"Yes; one summer at Cape May. She got beyond her depth in the surf,
and I swam out and brought her ashore without any great difficulty.
Not a very romantic story, is it? Not half as much as--I mean, not at
all----"
"Oh, I think it very romantic indeed," answered this child of nature,
whose notions of romance and love and other things were drawn from the
antique novels of her grandfather's library; "if I had saved any one's
life I should----"
She stopped and blushed furiously as the natural answer to her
impetuous remark sprang into her mind.
"I will finish for you," interrupted Revere, eagerly, his resolution
of reticence recorded in his determination of the previous night
growing decidedly faint in the face of the fascination she exercised
over him. "I----"
He would have gone on, but something in her glance stopped him. With
the quickness of love and intense sympathy he divined that the hour
was not yet. There was an unspoken appeal in her eyes, in her burning
cheek, her trembling hand, her heaving breast, which he could not
disregard. He had been on the brink of an avowal. Thank heaven, he had
stopped in time! For her sake and for his own he would be on his
guard. He would not transgress again. He vowed it in his soul.
"I am deeply grateful," he went on, after a pause which somehow, in
spite of him, expressed all he wished her to understand, "both to you
and the sailor, and I hope to evidence my devotion and gratitude in
some tangible way. By the way, what a strange character he seems! He
appears to have taken a dislike to me. He said this morning he wished
he had not saved me."
"How dared he speak so?" cried the girl, sitting up in the boat, her
face flushed this time with indignation. "Not save your life? Why--but
there," she went on, swiftly recovering herself, "he is a strange
creature, as you say, and moody at times. He lives alone on the ship,
and sees no one but grandfather and me. He is devoted to me. He would
do anything for me."
"Those queer things in your room,--the harpoon, the shark's tooth, the
model of the ship?"
"He put them there. They are odd things for a girl's room, are they
not? but when you realize that they express the affection of an
honest, faithful heart, they become quite fitting for any woman. Yes,
I am fond of him, and I love those things for his sake. He is devoted
to the admiral and to the ship, too."
Mr. Richard Revere was too profoundly conscious of the vast difference
between Emily Sanford and any common sailor to feel the slightest
jealousy at her ungrudging praise; indeed, he liked it.
"So I discovered," he assented, appreciatively. "Miss Emily, you go
down to that ship sometimes; often, I suppose. Please do not go any
more."
"Why not?" curiously.
"It is very insecure. I do not see how it can last much longer. Some
day it will collapse into shapeless ruin; soon, I think. And if you
were there----" He hesitated and looked at her. "Please do not go," he
continued.
"But it will break Captain Barry's heart to have me refuse. I've
always gone."
She spoke doubtfully, as if seeking a further reason.
"Better break his heart than throw away your life. Believe me, I have
made a thorough inspection of the ship. It's unsafe. It's almost gone.
I marvel that it stands now."
"Poor old ship!"
"Yes, 'tis sad indeed. But you won't go, will you?"
"Not--not--if you do not wish me,--I mean, not if it is unsafe," she
answered, softly, looking down.
He had shot the boat in toward the shore of a little island in the
harbor, and there, under the deep shadow of some overhanging trees, he
stopped rowing, as he said, to rest a moment, just keeping the boat
under control with the oars.
"Poor old ship!" continued the girl, mournfully, as she dabbled her
sunburnt but shapely hand in the water; "when it goes, grandfather
will go, Captain Barry will go, and I will be left--alone."
"No, no!" he exclaimed, softly, all his resolution gone in the face of
the powerful yet innocent appeal. "Not alone, for I----"
"That girl?" she interrupted, meaningly.
"What girl?" impatiently.
"The one you saved. Is she beautiful?"
"Some people consider her so, I believe."
"What is she like?" breathlessly.
"She is tall and rather large. She has brown hair and brown eyes. She
has been beautifully educated, and she is exquisitely bred."
"She sings, too, I suppose?"
"Yes; her voice has been very highly cultivated."
"And you have sung to her, with her?" sadly.
"Sometimes."
"That song we sang together last night?"
"Oh, no; she only sings classical music. I think she would disdain a
simple ballad."
"Oh!" said the girl, with much disappointment, and humiliation as
well; "I suppose they are simple, after all."
"I prefer them myself," answered Revere, tenderly.
The conversation was getting dangerous. She changed the subject at
once.
"Have you made many cruises?"
"Only one. As soon as I was graduated I was ordered to the _Hartford_;
but I was abroad when a lad, before I entered the Naval Academy."
"I suppose you have seen a great many beautiful and high-bred ladies
in Boston and elsewhere?"
"Yes, a great many, indeed."
"Are they all very beautiful and charming?"
"Some of them are," he answered.
"I suppose," she said at last, desperately, "there are none of them
like me?"
"No!" he replied, decisively.
"Is it so?" sadly. "Am I so different?"
"As different as day from night," joyously.
"Oh," softly, and with deep disappointment; "I have never been
anywhere but just here. I have never seen any great ladies at all. I
have never met any gentlemen except grandfather and--you. I do not
know anything about the world beyond the horizon; but I have tried to
read and learn, and I have dreamed about it, too. But I suppose one
has to go and see before one can know of the people you speak of. You
must think me so----"
"Emily," he said, his voice quivering with his feelings, "I have known
you but two days, but I think you are the loveliest, the sweetest----"
She waved her hand in deprecation; but he would not be stopped this
time. Truly he had forgotten all but his love for her.
"You do not know what the others know; I love you for that," he went
on, impetuously. "You do not do what others do; I love you for that.
You are not what the others are; I love you for that. There, it is out
now. I did not mean to tell you just yet. I do not suppose that you
can love me; at least, not yet. There is nothing in me that would win
a woman's heart in two days, I know. But there is everything in you to
win a man's heart in one glance; and I swear mine went out to you when
I saw you holding the boat on the edge of the whirlpool, with your
golden hair blown back in the wind and your blue eyes shining with
encouragement and invitation."
It was heavenly to hear him, she thought. This was better than her
dreams. She sat silent and still, her eyes persistently averted,
quaffing deep draughts from a cup eternal, besides which even the
nepenthe of the gods is evanescent.
"I won't ask you to answer me now; but will you not give me a trial?"
he continued, hurriedly, fearing lest her silence might presage a
refusal. "Let me have a chance to win your love, if I can. Let me see
if I cannot make you love me. Won't you let me try? Emily, you are not
even looking at me."
He was quite beside himself with anxiety now. She had been still so
long. What could he do or say further? A small boat has its
disadvantages for the ending of a love affair. In all his impatience
he had to sit just where he was. He could come no nearer to her.
"If I could, Emily dear," he said, humbly beseeching her, "I would get
down on my knees before you; but I can't in this little boat. Won't
you please look at me? But perhaps you can more easily give me some
hope if you don't look at me. Don't look. I'm not a very attractive
fellow, I know."
This was an adroit move on his part, and his self-depreciation won a
reply instantly.
"I--I like you very much," she said at last and very frankly. "I think
I liked you when Captain Barry carried you up the hill,--even before,
when you stood on the wreck. I wanted to help him. I don't know
whether I--love you, but--what you have said has not been displeasing
to me--on the contrary----"
"And you will try, you will wait? May I----?"
He waited breathless for her answer.
"Yes," she said at last, "you may."
"Oh, Emily!" he cried; "you have made me the happiest fellow on earth;
and if I succeed in winning your love----"
"Do not despair," she whispered, softly, flashing a glance at him, her
lips smiling, her eyes ashine with tears. "I think it has come,"
laying her hand on her heart with a sweet, unconscious movement. "I
have dreamed ever since I was a woman that the prince would come some
day from over the sea."
She stopped again. He stared at her in adoring silence. Her lips
trembled, while her heart almost ceased to beat with the joy of it
all. And her eyes were looking far away--over the sea, perhaps.
"We must not stay here longer," she said at last; "they will wonder
what has become of us."
"You are the captain," he answered, laughing buoyantly in his
happiness; "give your crew the order."
"Get under way, then," she replied, meeting his mood.
The little love scene had put strength into his arms. It seemed as if
the power of his passion, failing other vent, had worked itself into
the oar-blades, for the boat skimmed over the water like a bird, and
in a few moments he unshipped his oars at the boat-landing. Swinging
the skiff about so that the stern would be nearest the landing-place
for her convenience, he stepped ashore, fastened the painter, and gave
her his hand. Her own small palm met his great one frankly, and the
two hands clung together in a clasp,--on his part of joy unspeakable,
on hers of happy foreshadowings of the future.
Neither said anything as he helped her gravely up the steps. To kiss
her then, even had they been alone, would have seemed to him
sacrilege; there was something so holy, so innocent, so pure about the
young girl, he thought, that he would like to throw himself upon his
knees before her and kiss the steps her feet had trodden, so rapturous
was his mood. Yet again, when he broke the silence, his words were
commonplace. The noblest word would be ordinary when matched against
his feelings then!
"What a sleepy, dull, dead little town this seems!" he remarked,
looking curiously about him; "if it were a little handsomer, and
overgrown with flowers and vines, it might be the town of the Sleeping
Beauty; but the Beauty----"
"Is wide awake," she interrupted, a charming color irradiating her
cheek, which made him sorry he had been so timid. "And awake without
the prince's kiss, too!" she added, smiling archly, in that she was a
very woman.
Perhaps, he thought, ruefully, she might not have resented that kiss,
after all.
Well, the next time would see!
CHAPTER XIII
LOVE HOLDS THE YOKE-LINES
As he anticipated, Revere found his man with a well-filled portmanteau
and several letters awaiting him at the little old-fashioned country
inn of the village. The morning was far spent when Emily finished her
simple purchases, and the two lovers lunched together in the quaint
old parlor of the inn. The girl, in her innocence of the customs of
the world, was quite oblivious to the conventional necessity for a
chaperon; so, without the embarrassment of a third party, they greatly
enjoyed the wholesome and substantial meal provided for them by the
skilful hands of the innkeeper's wife with whom Emily was a great
favorite. They lingered a long time at the table in the cool
old-fashioned room, and it was somewhat late in the afternoon when
they started back to the Point, to which Revere had previously
directed his man to repair with his baggage, by the land road.
The constraint which had been put upon both of them by the necessities
of the business which had called them to the village, and the presence
of other people wherever they went, for the officious but well-meaning
landlady had frequently interrupted the privacy of the parlor even,
had been the strongest force in developing the growing passions in
their hearts.
Emily was a simple-minded maiden, with all the attributes of a very
old-fashioned age. She had no mission to reform this world, which
indeed she had found most sweet and fair, and sweeter and fairer that
day than ever before; she stood for no so-called modern idea; she had
no deep plan or mighty purpose for the amelioration of mankind,--or
womankind either; she did not aim at the achievement of great results,
the doing of mighty deeds. The complexities of her character did not
manifest themselves in these ways.
Woman's sphere for her, if she thought of it specifically at all, was
a very simple and a very old thing. To love and to be loved, to be
first a faithful, happy wife, and second, please God, a wise, devoted
mother, was the sum of her ambition.
There were no young men with whom she came in contact who could
measure up to the standard of her social and intellectual
requirements, and the chances that any would present themselves had
been exceedingly small. So she had represented in her life a hope
deferred, but without being heart-sick with the delay; she was of so
sane, so healthy, and so happy a disposition that she had been saved
all that. With the optimism of youth she had confidently expected that
some day the prince would arrive, and when he came, together hand in
hand they would go "over the hills and far away, to that new land
which is the old." And the portals of that undiscovered country were
now opening before her delighted vision.
Barely out of her teens, she had not grown impatient in her
dreaming,--life had been too sweet and pleasant for that,--but the
thoughtful and somewhat lonely years had made her ready, and it was no
wonder that at the touch she yielded. When Revere came to her out of
the deep, cast up at her feet by the waves of the sea, as it were, he
fitted into anticipation already old. He represented the realization
of her maidenly desires and her womanly hopes. That she should fall in
love with him was entirely natural and quite to be expected,
especially since he was blessed with a personality at once strong,
lovable, and charming.
The reserve and the calmness of Revere's long line of Boston ancestry
had been tempered, modified, brightened, by his sailor life and by his
intimate contact with great and heroic men in the war which was just
over. Frank, genial, generous, and not without a certain high-bred
distinction in his manner, and blessed with a sufficiency of manly
good looks, he might well have hoped to win any woman's heart.
The day had been a happy one to Emily, then; happier for her than for
Revere, in fact, for that young man's conscience troubled him deeply,
while there was no cloud on her sweet pleasure. If he had not been
engaged to Josephine he would have revelled in his love for Emily; but
he was not free. He was now bound to two women at the same time, and
not in strictly honorable relationship to either. The false position
was almost unbearable to a man of his fine sensitiveness, and that he
had made it himself did not make it less easy to endure. He firmly
resolved to extricate himself from his dilemma by informing Josephine
at the first opportunity.
No other course was left to him. Since he had seen and known Emily he
felt that it would be impossible for him to keep his previous
engagement, and yet he realized that it would have been more honorable
for him to have controlled himself as he had determined, better to
have been less precipitate and to have waited until he had gained his
release before he offered himself to Emily.
Carried away by his feelings, he had proposed to her in the boat, and
he regretted, not the fact,--never that,--but that he had been so
little master of himself, that he could not have delayed his wooing
for a few days, until, being made free, he could definitely and
properly and honorably ask her for her hand. He felt, for instance,
that he could not speak to the old admiral upon the subject until he
had secured his release. It would be impossible for him to approach
that soul of ancient honor other than free.
Yet when he looked at the girl; when the clear, sweet notes of her
fresh young voice thrilled in his ear; when walking by her side her
dress brushed against him; when by chance or design he touched her, or
her hand met his; when she looked at him out of those frank, honest
blue eyes; when he saw the color come and go in her cheek, marked the
beating of her heart, caught the unconscious affection with which her
eye dwelt upon him at times, when she thought herself unobserved, he
vowed that he stood excused in his own heart for his precipitancy.
Every moment when she did not feel and know that he loved her he, in
his turn, counted a moment lost. He could hardly wait to get back to
the house, where he determined to write to Josephine instantly and
apprise her of the situation. He felt, as a matter of course, that she
was too proud a woman to hold him to an unwilling engagement for a
single moment. Whether she loved him or not he could not say. He
thought not, he hoped not. Their engagement had been a matter-of-fact
affair, and the courtship had been rather a cool one. He was perfectly
certain that she liked him, but that was very different. He had never
once seen her breath come quicker when he approached her, the color
flush or fade in her cheek as he spoke to her. But he could not be
sure. The veneer of birth, custom, and environment had not been worn
off of her as it had been stripped from him, and her outward action
beneath all this coolness afforded no infallible guide to her
feelings.
If she loved him, that would indeed complicate the matter, but there
could be--there must be--no other issue than that the engagement
should be broken. He would be very sorry for her in that case, but
there would be nothing else to be done. He could not help it that he
had fallen in love with some one else, and the only honorable thing to
do now was to tell the truth at once and break away. A man's
reasoning, certainly!
As they approached the wharf where the boat was tied Emily noticed
that Revere looked pale and tired. The violent current of his
thoughts, the acuteness of the mental struggle in which he found
himself involved, together with his low physical condition, had worn
him out. Therefore the girl insisted upon rowing back herself.
Even in the dependence of the first love of a young maiden there is a
feeling of protection, a foreshadowing of the instinct maternal, which
is the foundation of most of the good things in this life, even of the
habit and practice of religion. Emily, while she gloried in his virile
manhood and dwelt happily upon his strength and vigor, already watched
over Revere as she might have looked after a child. And she delighted
in the opportunity of doing her lover further service. So Omphale
might have considered Hercules.
"I want to show you how beautifully I can pull an oar," she artfully
said, in answer to his expostulation, herself only half comprehending
the deep springs of action that lay in her being; "and you look so
tired. You know you are not yet strong. I ought not to have allowed
you to come."
The sense of ownership implied in her last words was delightful to
both of them.
"I am tired," he said, honestly, "but not too tired to row you back;
and I wouldn't have missed this little voyage for all the cruises of a
lifetime. Please get into the boat and take the yoke-lines."
"No," said Emily; "you said I was captain, and I mean to exercise the
privileges of my position. Take the yoke-lines yourself. I insist upon
it."
"Oh, very well," assented the young sailor, smiling at her; "I have
been under orders, it seems to me, ever since I was born. First
mother, then Josephine, and now you."
He sat down in the stern-sheets with affected resignation and gathered
up the yoke-lines.
Emily's face had changed somewhat at this last remark, but she said
nothing as she cast off the painter, stepped to the thwart, shoved off
the boat, broke out the oars, and pulled away. She rowed a pretty
stroke, quite as deft as Revere's had been, though lacking somewhat in
power. As they cleared the wharf and headed out into the bay toward
the Point she looked up at him.
"You have always been under orders, you say?"
"Yes."
"First your mother?"
"Yes."
"And then,--who did you say?" with poorly simulated indifference.
"Josephine,--Miss Josephine Remington," carelessly.
"And who is she?"
"Oh, she's an old friend of the family, a connection in a far-off way.
She has lived with us pretty much since she was a child."
"Are you fond of her?" coldly.
"Yes," with mischievous promptness.
"I suppose so," looking away.
"But not so fond of her as I am of you, Emily," tenderly.
"Is that really true?" eagerly.
"Upon my word and honor," with convincing assurance.
"And you don't love her?"
"Not a bit. I love only one person in the world, and that is you,"
passionately.
"Was she the girl you saved?" relieved, but still somewhat anxious.
"She was."
"Does she love you, I wonder?"
"I think not. She never gave me half as much evidence of caring for me
as----"
He stopped suddenly.
"As what?" she asked in swift alarm.
"As--forgive me, Emily--as you have this afternoon."
She stopped pulling instantly, her oar-blades lifted from the water in
mid-stroke, drops trickling from them.
"Have I been bold and forward?" she cried in dismay. "Oh, what must
you think of me?"
"You have been perfect," he answered, fervently; "simply perfect. I
wouldn't have you changed an iota in any way. Don't let's talk about
other people now. I'd rather talk about you. Tell me something about
yourself, about the life you have lived, what you have done, what you
have thought, what you have dreamed; tell me everything. I want to
know it all."
"Yes, but are you sure you do not love her?"
"I never was so certain of anything in my life, except it be that I
love you."
There was conviction in his voice which comforted her soul. Still, she
sought enlightenment upon another point.
"Are you sure she doesn't love you?"
"I think it is very improbable."
"Well, I don't, then!" she exclaimed, vigorously resuming her stroke.
"You saved her life, and I don't see how she could help it," she
continued.
"I didn't save your life, though, Emily."
The boat was in the shadow of the island trees, where it had been when
he had first spoken of love to her that morning. She let it drift;
again the water made sweet music lipping along the side; they would
associate it forever with these ineffable moments.
"No," she murmured, her honesty and innocence giving her courage to
say that which another might have sought to conceal, "you didn't,
but--I don't believe--I can--help it, either."
It was out now. His love had shown her her own. She was another woman;
never again would she look at life with the eyes of the girl of
yesterday. Ferdinand had come to Miranda; and Ariel had opened the
eyes of the maiden to new things on the old island more wonderful than
those revealed by Prospero's magic wand. And to Revere, too, the
complexion of the world suddenly and swiftly altered.
"Oh, Emily, you don't mean it!" he cried in exultant surprise. He had
not hoped so soon for this revelation of the woman's heart.
Her face was averted now, but she spoke distinctly enough for him to
hear every whispered word.
"Yes, I think--I believe--I do. I have thought about it a great deal
since you spoke."--Three hours ago! "And I believe I----"
She could not quite say it--yet.
"Emily, dearest, I am so happy it seems to me I can hardly breathe. I
do not dare to look at you. I love you so! Come, let us hurry back to
the shore."
"Mr. Revere----" she began, starting the boat again.
"That will not do at all," he interrupted, promptly and decisively;
"you must call me something else--now that you--oh, do you?"
"Richard," she said, bravely.
"Those who love me call me 'Dick,'" pleadingly.
"I couldn't say that--not just yet--Dick!"
He laughed in sheer pleasure.
"I never knew what a pretty name I had before, Emily."
"I think it is lovely," she said, naively.
"Thank you. Do you like my other name, too?"
"Oh, ever so much."
"I am so glad, because it will be yours. Mrs. Richard Revere."
"Hush, how can you!" she cried, blushing furiously. "I want to ask one
thing of you. Do not say anything about--to-day. That is, to
grandfather or Captain Barry,--not just yet."
"I'm not likely to say anything about it to Captain Barry now or at
any other time," he laughed; "and as for the admiral, it will do no
harm for us to wait a day or two, I fancy,--that is, if you wish it,
princess."
Her desire suited his plans admirably, for the delay would give him
time to write and get his freedom.
"I want to enjoy it first alone," she went on, dreamily. "I want to
have the knowledge that you love me all to myself, just for a day.
It's so sacred, and so solemn a thing to me, Richard; so beautiful,
that I want to keep it just here in my heart alone, for a little
while."
She laid her hand upon her heart with the sweetest gesture as she
spoke.
"It shall be so," he answered, frankly, adoring her. "Whatever you
wish shall always be, if I can bring it about."
Oh, the rash promises of lovers!
"And you will let me have my happiness to myself, then? You will not
think me foolish?"
"Not all to yourself, for, though I do not speak, I must still share
it, and I think you are perfect in everything."
"We are at the wharf," she murmured. "I must go up to the house alone.
Do not come with me. I want to think it over."
"But, dearest, I shall see you to-night?" he pleaded.
"Yes; but please do not persuade me now."
Respecting her desire, he doffed his cap and stood aside for her to
pass, bowing low before her with all the chivalry of his race, all the
ardor of his youth, all the devotion of his manhood in his look and
attitude.
The sweetness of the present reality so far transcended her sometime
imagination of it that the girl, on leaving him, walked away as if
borne by seraph's wings through the air of heaven. Yet there was a
note athwart her joy,--not exactly one of sadness or of heaviness, but
a feeling, as it were, of maidenly awe before the bright vistas of
happiness which had opened before her eyes, in her lover's presence,
in his love. Unconsciously she put her hand to her face, as if the
sight dazzled her.
A little distance away Revere, having fastened the boat, followed her
up the hill. She did not look back, but she could hear his feet upon
the steps. He was there, then. He was looking at her as he had looked
at her in the boat. He loved her. What had she done to merit this?
She stopped on the porch by the chair where her grandfather sat gazing
at the ship and dreaming as usual. She bent low and kissed him as she
had never kissed him before. He awoke from his reverie with a start,
half comprehending, and gazed from the girl entering the door to
Revere coming up the walk.
"You have been a long time, lad," he said, as the latter stopped
before him.
"Yes, sir. We took luncheon together at the old inn and rowed back
slowly. Your granddaughter--I shall have something to say to you in a
day or two, sir."
"I hope so," said the admiral, quietly. "I thought so. But don't wait
too many days. Days are as moments to the young; to the aged they are
as years."
That day Barry had not left the ship. With a long, old-fashioned glass
that was chief among his treasures, which had belonged to the admiral,
he had followed the boat across the harbor. He had divined--by what
cunning who can say?--what had been said in the pauses under the
trees. He had waited and watched for them until the lovers came back.
He knew it all. Twenty times during the period of their stay upon the
shore he had gone down to the locker and taken out the letters.
And at last he had succumbed to the temptation. The devil had won him
in the end. Hidden away in his corner of the old vessel, he opened the
bundle of letters and orders. And as he painfully deciphered them, one
by one, it all became clear to him. This cursed officer had come to
sell the ship over their heads. He had stolen Emily's heart, and yet
he was engaged to be married to another woman. The letters from
Josephine Remington puzzled him; but as he slowly blundered through
them, with their casual references to an engagement, with their quiet
assumption that all was understood between the two, Barry became
convinced that Revere was simply amusing himself with the admiral's
granddaughter.
And was he to stand idle, indifferent, impotent, while these things
were going on? Was the old ship to be sold and broken up? His ship!
His love, too! Was that sweet flower of innocence to be rifled of the
chief treasure of her womanhood and he do nothing? Was she to be
robbed of her happiness, too, while he was there? No, never!
His brain reeled under the pressure of his thoughts. What should he
do? What could he do? In what way might he compass the destruction of
this man? Save the ship and save the girl, too!
Ah! Like to one of old in his blindness, there flashed an idea into
his mind, as he stood there with the crumpled letters in his clinched
hand. At first it startled him. It was so bold; in a way it was so
terrible. But he had brooded too long to look at that idea in more
than one light. With the one thought of revenge upon the man who he
imagined intended to sell the ship, and who would gain Emily Sanford,
he brooded upon the notion until it took entire possession of him, and
then, although it involved his own destruction, he grimly prepared to
put it in practice.
CHAPTER XIV
IN THE SHADOW OF THE SHIP
The rest of the afternoon passed swiftly enough for Revere, because he
was busy. He wrote a long letter to Josephine Remington, telling her
frankly the whole situation: how he had met this girl, how he had
loved her, how he had struggled against the feeling that had sprung up
in his heart, honorably intending to keep his engagement, but each
moment convinced him of the depth and fervor of this sudden affection.
How he had come to the conclusion that it was not fair to bind her to
a man who, while he admired and respected her, while he should ever
hold her in the highest regard, did not, and could not, love her.
He had written to her thus frankly that she might break the
engagement. He could not, he said, flatter himself that she loved him,
or that it meant much to her; yet if he grieved her, he humbly begged
her pardon, and hoped that some day, when she truly loved some one,
she would find excuse for him.
It was fearfully hard to write such a letter, and as he read it over
it seemed almost brutal in its frankness. Yet he reasoned that it were
better to write it as he had than to attempt to conceal the facts;
still, it was with many misgivings and thoroughly sick at heart at the
unfortunate plight in which he had involved himself that he sealed it
up.
The other letter was to the Secretary of the Navy. Revere reported
faithfully the condition of the ship, estimated carefully what he
thought she would be worth as firewood,--for the materials in her were
fit for no other purpose,--and then frankly offered to buy her himself
for twice the value he had put upon her. In a private letter, which he
had enclosed in his official report, the secretary being an old friend
of his family, he told why he wished to purchase the ship. He told him
about the admiral, and the old sailor, and the admiral's
granddaughter. He made him see very clearly that it would kill the old
man to have the ship broken up, and, since he possessed ample means,
he wished to have the privilege of purchasing it himself and saying
nothing about it to the admiral, or to any one,--letting it stand
where it was as long as it would. As a matter of fact, it would fall
to pieces in a short time he was certain, and the admiral need never
know anything about the transaction, provided the secretary were
willing.
If there was any doubt as to the accuracy of his valuation of the
ship, he suggested that another officer could be sent to appraise her,
and he stood ready to pay twice the amount of the next appraisement
for the privileges of ownership. In fact, the matter would best be
done that way. It was a nice letter, and he felt sure his request
would be granted.
Revere felt much better when he had completed these two letters. He
felt that he could save the ship for the old admiral, and that he
could save his honor as well by his tardy action. He gave the letters
to his man, directing him to mail the one to the Secretary of the
Navy, and get a horse and ride back to his mother's summer home at
Alexandria Bay, deliver the other in person, and bring the answer to
him immediately. He could not hear too quickly from Josephine.
The admiral retired early that evening,--was it from a consideration
of past experience, thought Revere,--so the two lovers were left
alone.
"Emily," said the young lieutenant, coming over toward her as the door
closed behind the old veteran.
"No, no, not here, I beg of you!" said the girl, rising to her feet.
"Come, let us go out into the moonlight. Down to the old ship. It
should be a part--a witness--of our betrothal. I, too, have loved it.
The earliest recollections of my childhood are about it. It has been a
part of my life as well. Come, let us go."
She extended her hand to him as she spoke. He took it gravely, and the
two stepped out of the house and stood upon the porch. The moonlight
streamed across the old ship, standing lonely and still upon the Point
beneath them. The cracks and crannies, the gaping seams of the broken,
mouldering sides, the evidences of decay, were hidden in the shadows
cast by the soft splendor.
They walked down to it and stopped in its shadow. Black, solid, and
terrible in the silver light it loomed above their heads. They stood
almost beneath it, and it towered into the skies above them. A trick
of the imagination would have dowered it with spars covered with
clouds of snowy canvas, and launched it upon the sea of dreams.
The girl still held the hand of the young officer. He waited for her
pleasure, something telling him he should not wait in vain.
"I brought you here, Richard," she said, at last, very gravely, "that
the old ship might hear you say,"--the words came from her in a faint
whisper,--"that the ship might hear you say--you--loved me. Here I
have stood often, gazing out upon the water, dreaming and waiting.
Waiting for you, Richard, dreaming of you. And here you come to me and
here--I give myself to you."
She faced him as she spoke and took his other hand. He stared at her
in the shadow of the ship. The little autumn breeze swept softly over
their faces. Slowly he bent his head toward her. She awaited him,
smiling faintly, her heart beating half fearfully. It was so new and
sweet. Then his lips met her own; he kissed her, he swept her to his
breast, he gathered her in his arms. Her head lay upon his shoulder,
her face was upturned to his. Her eyes were light in the darkness to
him. The perfume of her breath enveloped him. A faint, passionate sigh
of joy and content ineffable escaped her. He drank in the white,
exquisite perfection of feature so close to him; the purity of her
soul spoke there equally with the passion of her heart. She was his,
his own; she loved him, she gave herself to him! May God deal so with
him as he dealt with her!
"I love you, I love you!" he murmured.
Pity 'tis that there is no new word for each new meeting and mating of
human hearts in this old world.
Pity 'tis that the words we say so lightly, that we use so frequently
of things of less, of little, moment, should be the only ones we have
with which to voice the deepest feeling of our being. Yet when the
hour strikes, to each heart they come with the freshness of a new
revelation, with the assurance of an eternal truth undiscovered until
that hour. Never again would Emily be so happy as in that supreme
moment of avowal and confession.
"I love you, I love you!"
It was only a whisper. She would have felt the truth had he been
voiceless.
"I love you, I love you!"
It was but a murmur that blended with the sigh of the wind, that
harmonized with the sound made by the breeze as it swept through the
cracks and crannies of the ship, yet another listened, another heard.
Profanation to the royal arcanum of their hearts!
One had marked them descending the hill, one had divined that they
would stop by the ship, one had gone down into the grim, black depths
of the monster and with his ear pressed against the riven side had
heard, and in the hearing had understood what he could not see.
So despair, heart-break, envy, jealousy, raged a few feet from love
and joy and peace ineffable.
So in life it happens. Was there not a serpent in the Garden of Eden?
As he heard the sound of lip on lip, the break of kisses, and the
murmur of caressing words, the man listening could endure no more. He
turned and stumbled blindly away. Had it been mid-day he could not
have seen where he went.
The sound of his going startled Emily.
"What is that?" she cried; "something moving on the ship!"
They listened, but Barry had gone far enough away by that time for
them not to hear him more.
"'Twas nothing, dearest," answered Revere, holding her tenderly to
him; "a piece of timber, a loosened plank, a tottering frame. The
newest and best of ships are full of strange sounds, much more these
old ones."
"Bit by bit it wears away," said the girl, sadly.
"Ay, sweet, old things go, but new ones come," answered Revere. "Life
ends, yes, but new life begins. It begins for us. Come. We have told
the ship the story. Let us go back to the hill."
"Keep thou the secret, old ship," said Emily, fancifully, yet half in
earnest; "tell it not while thou livest, and if thou must fall, let it
perish with thee."
She bent and kissed the plank. Where she kissed it Barry had listened.
The whisper of love and the oath of despair,--a few inches of
sheathing alone divided them.
CHAPTER XV
FORGIVENESS THE FIRST LESSON
"That kiss, sweetest," said Revere, gravely, as they walked up the
hill, "has made the ship immortal in my heart. It shall stand until it
falls away. I was sent here by the government to sell the ship. It was
to be destroyed."
"Oh, Richard!" she cried in sudden anxiety and alarm at his words.
"Nay, love; say nothing of it to any one. It shall not be."
"Who will prevent it?"
"I."
"You! But how?"
"I shall buy it myself and let it stand as long as it will."
"How good you are!" she exclaimed, greatly relieved. "But, Dick, are
you rich enough to buy a whole ship yourself?"
"My darling," he answered, "since you kissed me I think I have the
mines of Golconda at my command."
"Ah, but kisses won't buy ships," returned the wise maiden.
"Seriously, Richard?"
"Seriously, dearest, I suppose I am rich enough to buy anything I
want; that is, anything in reason that is buyable. No fortune could
put a price upon you, I am afraid."
"Nonsense, Dick!" said the girl. "Are you as rich as that?"
"I am of the opinion that I am," he said, somewhat reluctantly; he
could not exactly comprehend why. "Does it disappoint you?"
"No, I believe not," she answered, doubtfully. "I never dreamed of
such a thing, I'll admit. I always thought we would have a little
cottage somewhere----"
"We?" joyfully.
"Of course. We. I was waiting for you, you know."
"Well, dearest, I hope you will become accustomed to something larger
than a cottage. Money has some advantages, you know."
"I doubt not I shall if you will teach me. Oh, Dick, I am so happy! I
feel so sorry for that other girl."
"What other girl?" he asked, faintly conscience-smitten.
"Josephine, you know. The girl you saved."
Her words struck him like a blow. They brought him to himself. He had
to tell her the truth. They were by this time sitting side by side on
the gun-carriage on the little platform overlooking the brow of the
hill.
"Emily, dearest," said Revere, desperately. He hated to do it; he told
himself that he was a fool to say anything, yet her presence and her
trust compelled him. "I have something to confess to you. I cannot
allow a shadow of deceit to rest on our happiness this heavenly night,
and even though it hurts you----"
"Tell me, Dick," she said, as he lingered, reluctant to speak,
"whatever it may be. I think I have had happiness enough to last a
lifetime as it is; and you love me, don't you? It is not that you do
not?"
"Love you? I worship you!"
"Then nothing can matter much," she interrupted.
"But I must say it," he persevered; "I am--I was engaged to marry----"
"Josephine?" a note of terror in the exclamation.
"Yes," with great contrition.
There was a long silence. The girl shrank away from him. She hid her
face in her hands, but she did not weep. That would come later. Was
she not to be happy, after all?
He felt so guilty and conscience-stricken that he made no attempt to
restrain her movement of avoidance, although he longed to take her in
his arms again.
"Oh, Richard, how could you?" she said at last, the misery and
reproach in her voice cutting him to the heart.
"I could not help it."
It was the old answer that seems so weak, so futile, so foolish, and
yet the only answer that could be given; a vague reply, and yet she
comprehended.
"I've been a mean coward," he exclaimed. "But at least I love you, and
I could not help it."
"Yes, I believe that--that you love me, I mean,--but you could have
helped it," she answered, faintly.
"Well, I ought to have helped it," he admitted, in honest misery; "but
I love you, and before you it was hard to be silent."
"But you loved the other girl before?"
"No, never, I swear to you!"
"Look me in the face, Richard."
She turned him about in the moonlight and gazed at him keenly,
passionately, hungrily almost. He met her glance undaunted. The
incubus of the secret was lifted from him--he was another man, even
though still bound.
"Emily, I swear to you that my heart has never beat quicker at the
thought of her since I have known her. Believe that."
"Yes, I do believe," said the girl, trustingly, at last.
"It is true, and you may. It was an engagement entered into as a sort
of family affair, and I never cared anything about it one way or the
other. I thought it would be rather pleasant----"
"Is that all?"
"Yes, on my honor, until I met you; and then I knew it could never
be."
"You said you _were_ engaged to her, Richard. What do you mean by
that?"
"As soon as I could after I had spoken to you this afternoon I wrote
to her, telling her the truth about my love for you and giving her a
chance to break the engagement."
"Where is the letter?"
"It is gone."
"Suppose she will not break it?"
"She will, of course."
"Dick, I know that she loves you. I know she won't give you up. Oh, my
heart is breaking!"
"Nonsense; she doesn't love me at all!"
"No woman could help it who knew you as I do," decidedly.
"No one knows me as you do, dearest. To no one have I ever shown my
heart, myself, as I have shown them to you. She must give me up; she
shall! I tell you I will marry no woman but you, no matter what
happens!"
"And I, Dick, will marry no one but you. But, oh, the pity of it! Why
didn't I know you before?"
"But you believe me, don't you, that I love you, only you?"
"Yes, yes, I believe," mournfully.
"And you will trust me?"
"Yes, I suppose I will have to trust you," she answered.
"But you won't do that merely because you have to, will you?" pleaded
the young man, coming nearer to her.
"No," she said at last, faintly. "I will trust you because I--I love
you."
He suddenly swept her to his breast again and kissed her once more.
But she did not return his kiss, and immediately thrust him away from
her.
"Please do not do that again, Richard; at least not yet," she
murmured, as she resolutely disengaged herself from his embrace. "Poor
girl! you don't love her. And now good-night. I must think--it's all
so strange--I don't know. We will talk over what is best in the
morning."
"But you love me still? You won't let this make any difference, will
you?" he pleaded, in deadly anxiety, stretching out his hands to her.
"It won't make any difference in my love,--nothing will ever change
that," she answered, sadly; "but it makes a great difference in my
happiness."
Poor Emily! she was just learning that the beginning of a woman's love
is forgiveness.
In the oldest of Books is written, "It is not good that man should be
alone," and the saying is as true as it is ancient. The human being
who looks at things through but one pair of eyes--his own--is apt to
receive distorted impressions, to see strange visions, and to dream
fearful dreams.
To be solitary is to go mad. Society is the preserver and promoter of
intelligence and all the virtues; alas! of many of the vices as well.
Men--ay, and women, too--have tried to dispense with humanity, seeking
something higher. They have withdrawn themselves from the world a
while, and, far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, in the vast
expanse of some limitless desert, or upon some rough-ribbed Sinai's
rocky crest, in seclusion from the sound of tongues and the war of
men, have sought to draw near to God.
And they have not found Him. Rather Satan has entered into them and
they have become victims of diabolic obsession. For God is in the
people. The human touch conveys the divine. The attrition of men is
the outward force that makes character. Life is to fit in and be a
part of daily duty among common men. So other and higher life is won.
Barry was a man, alone,--a madman now. Revere had added the finishing
touch by breaking in upon the man's solitude. The admiral was becoming
only a daily duty to the sailor. Habit had almost encysted his
affection for his superior. As Emily had approached womanhood she had
drawn away from Barry. He worshipped her from a greater and greater
distance, constantly increasing. And now that she loved one of her own
age and her own class, the old man felt that she had almost vanished
from his sight. The last link that held him in touch with humanity was
breaking. Should he not strike while there was time? Love was not for
him, but hate is everybody's. He should claim his portion.
The rotting ship was his mountain, his desert, his hermitage. Its
bare, gaunt timbers were his horizon. He looked, he listened, he read
again the letters, he agonized, he broke, and was lost. And when the
devil came to him, under the guise of good to be accomplished, he
found a place ready, swept and garnished for him.
Oh, poor, blind, possessed old sailor!
CHAPTER XVI
A CLOUD ON THE HORIZON
A quickened conscience is not the best of soporifics, and Revere was a
long time in getting to sleep. The miserable situation into which he
had plunged himself, however, was alleviated by the consciousness, of
which nothing could deprive him, that Emily loved him. And he
persuaded himself that when a girl, such as he fancied her, loved, she
loved forever. Which was true. There was much comfort for him in the
idea. He could not, however, take the joy that should have been his in
the realization of this glorious fact until his affairs with Josephine
had been adjusted. As for Emily, she, too, mingled her grief at the
pre-engagement with joy in Richard's love, but with less confidence in
its permanence; and, like his, her hours were sorely troubled.
The next morning she carefully avoided seeing him except in the
presence of others, and the topics they were both dying to discuss
remained unbroached until a messenger from the village, a servant of
the inn, delivered a note to Revere. The admiral and Emily were on the
porch with him when the missive was handed to him. Barry was busy at
something down on the ship. He had reported to the admiral early in
the morning that there were some repairs that he wished to make which
would probably take him the whole of the day. However, nobody, unless
it was the admiral, missed him, in which lay the pity of it all.
Revere started with surprise as he glanced at the address on the
envelope.
"Why!" he exclaimed, involuntarily, "it is from my mother! Can it be
possible that she is here?"
"A lady guv it to me to bring to you," said the messenger. "She come
to the tavern late last night, an' said as how she didn't want to
disturb you until mornin'."
"Your mother!" exclaimed Emily. "Why--what can she--how does it----"
As she spoke Richard tore open the letter and glanced at its contents.
"She has heard some garbled account of my adventure," he said to
Emily, "and she was worried, and has come over here to see me. That's
all."
"Did she come alone?"
"Er--no; not exactly."
"Who is with her?" with dawning suspicion.
"Miss Remington."
"Oh!" with great surprise.
"Well, I must go to her at once, I suppose," said Revere, doubtfully.
"Of course," coldly and disdainfully.
"My lad," said the admiral, "the inn is but a poor place for ladies of
quality and gentlefolk to stay. Present my compliments to your mother
and her young friend, and beg them to honor me by accepting our
hospitality while they abide in this latitude. Tell them, I beg of
you, that my age and infirmities prevent me from extending the
invitation in person, but that my granddaughter will call upon them
later and invite them in my behalf."
"Oh, grandfather! I--I----"
"My mother will be delighted to receive Miss Emily," broke in Richard,
quickly. "I have no doubt that her plans contemplate remaining here
longer than a day, and I think she will be glad to accept your
hospitality. She will be honored, I am sure. Meanwhile, I must go. May
I have your boat, Miss Emily? I suppose that is the quickest way to
the village?"
"Certainly, Mr. Revere."
"And will you not walk down to the landing with me?"
She hesitated, longing yet reluctant.
"Of course she will. Go with him, Emily," said the admiral,
decisively.
"Richard," said the girl, as soon as they were out of earshot of the
porch, "they have come about that letter."
"Yes," answered Revere, dejectedly, forgetting in his confusion that
they had arrived the night before; "I suppose so. I didn't think it
possible that it could have reached them by this time. My man must
have made good time. Oh, dear; what shall I do? Was ever innocent man
placed in so miserable a position?"
"Oh, Richard, you are involved innocently--you say you could not help
loving me----"
"I couldn't."
"But you had no right to involve me, sir. But there, I won't reproach
you. She won't give you up; you will have to keep your word, that's
all."
She spoke with infinite sadness.
"You have loved me, anyway, and that's a great deal. I ought to be
thankful for that, I suppose," she continued.
They were sheltered now from the observation of every one,--but Barry
from the ship,--and she put her handkerchief up to her eyes and sobbed
out the following in broken sentences:
"I've thought it out all night long, Richard. You saved that girl's
life; she has a claim on you. I know she loves you deeply; and of
course she won't give you up. I--I wouldn't myself," she wailed. "I
hope you will be very hap--hap--happy with her and--you will forget
all about this. Oh, Dick, Dick!"
"My heavens! Emily, you nearly drive me distracted! I tell you I
couldn't be happy with an arch-angel if she were not you! She must
give me up! She shall! I don't really suppose she will hesitate a
moment. Why, if she could see you she would know in a glance that I
could not help falling in love with you."
"Probably she thinks she's as nice as I am," she continued, through
her tears. "She would look upon me as an ignorant little country girl.
She would wonder how you could possibly fall in love with me. I wonder
about it myself. You do love me, don't you?" anxiously.
"Of course I do. I have told you a thousand times, and I mean it! I
mean it more every time I tell you, and I want to tell you more every
time I see you. I won't marry Josephine Remington, and that's all
there is about it!"
"You must!" decisively.
"If you say that again, Emily, we will quarrel right here," sternly.
"Perhaps that would be best. If we quarrelled it would be easier to
break it off."
"Well, we won't quarrel, then. But what I am going to do I cannot say.
I'll just tell the truth and stick to it. I wish--oh, I wish--they
hadn't come! I do not want to see her at all."
"But you must go, and go right away!"
"Oh, very well. The sooner it is over the better, perhaps. Good-by,
Emily."
"Good-by, Richard," heartbrokenly.
"Won't you kiss me good-by? You have not kissed me since last night.
You have not let me see you alone this long morning," reproachfully.
"No," answered Emily, with sad decision; "I do not believe I shall
kiss you. We are not yet engaged, and you may not belong to me, after
all. I think I would better not."
"Oh, all right, then," with a savage simulation of unconcern.
"You are not angry, are you?" timidly.
"No, I am not angry; but I am awfully----"
"You see I am afraid it's the end and another kiss would make
it--harder."
She spoke slowly, with a note of interrogation in her voice. For
answer he clasped her in his arms and kissed her fervently again and
again. She remained weakly struggling for a moment, but finally
returned his caresses. Presently, however,--after she had been well
kissed, by the way,--her determination came back to her. She burst
from his arms with a violent effort, exclaiming,--
"There, go! And I suppose you will be with them all day?"
"I will come back to you as soon as I can get away."
"Oh, Dick, I suppose I will have to go over there in the afternoon and
invite them here. What will your mother think of me? I don't believe I
ever met a high-born, high-bred lady in my life. I wouldn't know what
to do."
"Do just as you always do; be yourself; and if my experience is any
criterion, she will adore you as I do. Good-by."
CHAPTER XVII
FREED!
In the same little parlor of the inn in which he had lunched with
Emily the day before, Revere awaited the entrance of his mother and
Josephine. His mother entered first and immediately clasped him in
fond embrace.
"Oh, Richard!" she exclaimed, tearfully; "I have been so miserable
about you! You never said a word about the gravity of your accident,
and I only learned about it accidentally. You are not suffering, are
you? You have sustained no serious consequences?"
"No, mother dear; I'm all right. In fact, I feel better than I have
felt for six months. It really did me good. It was awfully good of you
to come to see about me, though. I should have written and told you
all about it and assured you that nothing serious was the matter, but
I thought it would alarm you if I did; if I dwelt upon it too fully,
that is. I'm very glad to see you; but there was no real necessity for
your coming."
"Richard," she answered, hesitatingly, with a long sigh of regret, "I
did not come only on that account. To be perfectly frank with you,
Josephine--you have not yet greeted her."
She stopped abruptly. He turned and faced Josephine, who had stood
constrainedly in the door-way, apparently an unwilling witness of the
meeting.
"Oh," he said to her; "how do you do, Josephine? I'm awfully glad to
see you."
He had hitherto always signalized meetings of this kind by kissing
her, generally upon the forehead or cheek. With a vivid recollection
of his present situation, however, he hesitated awkwardly, and then
concluded that it would be better to act as if nothing had happened.
But to his great surprise the objection came from the young lady
herself. As if she had divined something of his mental attitude, she
drew back her head and thrust out her hand. He took it, feeling very
much embarrassed, yet greatly relieved.
"What a greeting," said his mother, "between--but I forget. Josephine
has something to say to you, Richard. She has made a decision which is
a source of lasting grief to me, and will be to all who know you. I am
sure it will be a great shock to you. Prepare yourself, my poor boy."
"Didn't you get my letter, Josephine?" said Richard, impetuously.
"No; I didn't receive any letter."
"Oh, then, you didn't----"
"Didn't what?"
"Well, er--nothing. What was it you wanted to say to me?"
"Richard," said the girl, "I may as well be frank with you. I----" She
hesitated and turned her face away. "I want to break our engagement."
"Want to break our engagement!" he exclaimed, dazed at this
development. "Why--I----"
"Yes," she said, honestly; "frankly, I do not believe that I care
enough for you to marry you."
"But, Josephine----"
"Yes, yes; I know what you would say. I thought I loved you; but since
I have come to know--Mr. Van Dorn, I am sure----"
"Josephine Remington, you don't mean to tell me that you have thrown
me over for Charlie Van Dorn? Why, he----"
"Richard, don't say another word! I love Mr. Van Dorn, and he loves
me, and I have promised to be his wife," with great dignity.
"Great heavens!" answered Richard, trying desperately to keep his
happiness at this announcement out of his voice and out of his face;
and yet he had to confess that he felt extremely annoyed at being
rejected in this summary manner for a man who he conceived to be in
every way inferior to himself.
He rejoiced, certainly; but the situation had elements of
unpleasantness. For a moment or two these had predominated, but as he
realized that he was free, he could hardly keep from shouting for joy.
Indeed, he felt that his face would betray his secret, and he
instinctively turned away from the two women, who were intently
watching him, and covered it with his hand as he did so.
"Oh, Richard!" cried Josephine, contritely, "I'm so sorry; I didn't
think you cared so much. I thought you felt as I do about the
engagement,--only that it was an agreed thing, and everybody more or
less expected it,--not that we loved each other very much--I'm so
sorry."
"My poor boy!" said his mother, coming up and laying her hand tenderly
on his bowed head; "this is nearly as great a disappointment to me as
it must be to you, although, of course, my grief cannot be like yours.
Josephine, why didn't you wait a little longer? And in his weak state,
too!"
"Never mind," said Revere, smiling--they thought him smiling bravely,
by the way!--"I dare say I shall get over it; and if Josephine really
loves Charlie Van Dorn, who is a splendid fellow, of course it is very
much better that she should tell me frankly than feel that she must
remain bound by an engagement in which her heart does not enter. Let
us say no more about it. I will take my medicine like a man," he
continued, mendaciously; "and I congratulate you, Josephine, on your
pluck. I presume that I may kiss you now, just as I have done before,"
he said, touching his lips to her forehead as he spoke.
"Yes, Richard. But I am sure they were never very lover-like kisses at
best."
"Not like Van Dorn's, eh!" said Richard, smiling.
"Richard, how can you jest about so serious a subject?" exclaimed his
mother. "Poor boy!" she said aside to Josephine; "I fear his nerves
are shattered."
"They are, mother, they are," exclaimed Richard, rapturously, giving
her a bear-like hug; "but it's all right."
"Then, you don't care so very much, after all?" said Josephine, in her
turn disappointed at the equanimity, not to say levity, with which her
quondam lover received the news of her engagement to another man.
"Care? Of course I care! There, don't say anything more about it.
Mother, did they tell you that my life was saved by a--er--a young
woman?"
Ah, Richard, where was Barry then?
"A young woman!" exclaimed his mother, peering at him through her
lorgnette in her very best Boston manner. "What sort of a person is
she?"
"She is not a person at all, mother," he answered, hotly and
inconsequentially; "she is a charming young girl, the granddaughter of
one of the most distinguished officers in the United States navy. And
she is as beautiful as she is brave and good."
"And who may this distinguished man be?" asked his mother, doubtfully.
"Admiral Charles Stewart, of the _Constitution_."
"Mercy!" she exclaimed. "Is he yet alive? I remember hearing of him
when I was a little girl."
"He is very much alive and his granddaughter lives with him over
yonder," he answered, pointing out of the window across the bay toward
the old white house embowered in the trees on Ship House Point. "That
is his home, and he bade me say to you that he would be honored to
have you and Josephine accept his hospitality while you are here. He
begs to be excused for his apparent discourtesy in not coming to
invite you in person, but he is unable to leave the house, he is so
old and feeble. His granddaughter, however, will call this afternoon
and extend the invitation, if it will be agreeable to you."
"I do not think we should stand on ceremony, Josephine, under the
circumstances, and we will go ourselves and call upon the admiral
immediately," said Mrs. Revere. "I should like to see this young lady
and thank her for Richard. How shall we get there, Dick?"
"I will row you over if you will allow me. There is a road by land,
but this is a quicker and pleasanter way."
"Excuse me, Richard; I think we would better go by land. I presume you
can get some sort of a carriage. I confess I am not fond of boats at
best, and since you were wrecked in the _Josephine_ I have a horror of
venturing on them."
"Very well, mother; I will make all the arrangements, and meanwhile go
back to the admiral and tell him to expect you."
"Do so," said his mother; "we will go and make ready. Come,
Josephine."
"Presently," answered Miss Remington; "I wish to speak to Dick a
minute."
"Richard," said his whilom fiancee, when they were alone, "are you in
love with that girl?"
"Well, er----"
"Answer me honestly!"
"I think it is very likely that I shall be, Josephine," he responded
at last. "You see, since you have thrown me over I----"
"Dick Revere, I believe you are in love with her now; I don't believe
you care a single bit whether I throw you over or not."
"Care!" exclaimed Revere. "I care immensely, I want to assure you,
Josephine. But I really do not see, since you have thrown me over,
that you have any right to object to my falling in love with anybody
else, have you?"
"Oh, very well," said Josephine, petulantly; "no doubt what you say is
true; but one thing is certain: I am just as anxious to see that girl
as your mother is."
"Just about as anxious, I suppose," laughed Revere, "as I should be to
see Charlie Van Dorn if I hadn't seen him until I am sick of the sight
of him!" he said, meanly. "Well, prepare yourself, Miss Josephine
Remington; you will see something charming when you do see 'that
girl'! Good-by!"
CHAPTER XVIII
"BUT YET A WOMAN"
Revere had pulled in many an Academy boat race. He had stroked his
cutter many a time when a cadet, but he never put so much vim and
force into the oars as he did that morning. In an incredibly short
time he was at the landing-place. Forgetful of his condition, he
bounded up the hill as if he had been a boy. Emily and the admiral
were still on the porch. Emily was looking very subdued and sad, and
there was a world of entreaty in the agonized glance she cast upon
him. His radiant face gave her delightful assurance, which his words
turned into ecstasy. He chose a novel way of announcing his news to
her.
"Admiral Stewart," he said, precipitately, as he stopped panting, "I
have the honor to ask you for the hand of your granddaughter, Miss
Emily. I love her and I--I have reason to believe that she----"
He hesitated and looked at the blushing girl, who had sprung to her
feet at his first word, and now stood poised as if for flight.
It was all right, then; he was released, he was free! She knew that he
would never have spoken to her grandfather unless he could honorably
do so. Her heart that had been so heavy was leaping in her bosom at
the gladsome thought. Free to love her, free to take her for his own!
The other girl had given him up, then. How could she do it? But she
had! And he was hers now! She must go away, though, while the two men
talked it over.
She turned swiftly toward the entrance to the house. The admiral, wide
awake instantly, turned and caught her by the hand. Escape cut off,
she dropped on her knees by the old man's side. What answer would her
grandfather make? What would he say or do?
"Child," he said at last, fondly looking down at her, "is this true?"
"True that he loves me, grandfather? He--he says so, sir."
"Do you believe him, my dear?"
"I--yes, sir; I think I do."
"And I do, too, Emily. If ever I heard truth ring in a man's voice, I
hear it now. But this is not all. Do you love him, daughter?"
"Yes, grandfather," she whispered, "I'm afraid--I do."
She hid her face in her hands on his knee, and the old man laid his
hand softly on her head, murmuring words of prayer and blessing. As
Revere watched them he thought they made a perfect pair.
"Are you able to support a wife, lad?" asked the veteran, at last, as
he stroked the sunny hair of his granddaughter.
"Yes, sir; amply able."
"You have something more than a lieutenant's pay, then?"
"Yes, sir; I have a private fortune of my own."
"And your mother?"
"I have not told her yet, sir; but she is coming to call upon you
immediately, and then I shall do so. I have no doubt what her answer
will be; although, whatever it be, I am a man in years and my own
master, and----"
"Nay, lad, a man's never wholly his own master in the presence of a
good mother, and I'd have no child of mine coldly welcomed into any
family. We shall see what your mother says. If she be content, I shall
be very glad. You have no other tie?"
Emily lifted her head and looked at Revere as this question was put.
There were tears in her eyes and her heart almost ceased beating. She
was sure of the answer, yet she longed to hear his specific reply.
"No, sir," answered the young man, boldly.
"Oh, Richard!" exclaimed Emily; "and Josephine!"
"Josephine!" said the old man; "who is she?"
"A connection of my family, sir, who has just announced to me her
engagement to an estimable young man of our acquaintance."
"Richard," said Emily, springing to her feet, "you don't mean it?"
"I do. Will you kiss me now, Emily?"
Forgetful of the old man, she sprang into his arms.
"Children, children!" said the admiral, smiling indulgently; "you are
in a great hurry, it seems to me. Ah, well, I remember when I was a
lad, so many years ago, I was in a hurry, too. Now I wait.
Indifferently I wait. It cannot be much longer, and yet, for your
sake, dear child, I was loath to go. Now, please God,--and your
mother, young sir,--the child will be cared for. We can go now, I and
the ship. I trust I will be able to leave you in love's hands; in the
hands of a gentleman and a sailor, an officer of the navy of the
United States,--your mother consenting, my lad,--that is as I would
have it. Revere, may God bless you as you deal tenderly and lovingly
with this daughter of my old, old age."
"And may God judge me, sir, if I do not so," answered Richard,
solemnly.
"This kiss is for you, grandfather," answered the happy Emily, turning
to him.
CHAPTER XIX
THE USUAL COURSE
They were together on the gun-platform once more, Emily and Revere.
She sat on the gun-carriage and he leaned against the parapet by her
side. He held a fold of her dress in his hand.
"Now, Dick," she said, "tell me all about it. Was she vexed when she
received your letter?"
"My darling, she has not seen it. She and mother started before my man
got there. He is probably bringing it back here now. As good luck
would have it, she has fallen in love with a certain Charles Van Dorn.
He's rather a poor stick, too, I think."
"She must be a strange girl, Dick, to fall in love with anybody else
when you were around."
"Well, I don't know. At any rate, she did fall in love, and she came
here of her own motion to break the engagement."
"I wonder how she will feel when she gets the letter?"
"Well, dearest, I thought, under the circumstances, I wouldn't give it
to her."
"Not give it to her?" cried the girl, with sudden promptness and
decision; "indeed you will give her that letter, sir! She shall know
you loved me before she released you, and that you were going to break
the engagement yourself. I won't have her think for a moment that I
just got you because she threw you over. Not give her the letter,
indeed!"
"Well, Emily," said Revere, deprecatingly, greatly surprised at this
outburst; "you see I thought I would save her the--er--humiliation,
you know, of being rejected by a man."
"And you will inflict on me, Richard Revere, the humiliation of
letting her think that I only have you because she didn't want you!
That I----" furiously.
"Now, my dear; you know perfectly well that's different. If she has
half an eye, as soon as she sees us together, she will know that I
love you desperately as I never loved her. She is a bright girl."
"Bright! I don't think so!" contemptuously. "She is very stupid to
give you up; but I'm glad she is----"
"I should think she would be awfully sorry to know that a man had
broken his engagement with her, and that's why I----"
"Mr. Revere, I believe you are sorry yourself, after all! I believe
you are half in love with her still!" reproachfully.
"Now, Emily, you know that's nonsense. Why, I felt so joyful when she
said she was in love with that Van Dorn, that I had to turn away my
face for fear she would see how enraptured I was."
"Why didn't you tell her frankly, honestly, right then, that you were
pleased with it; that you were engaged to me; that you had broken the
engagement before? It was your duty,--your duty to me. You failed me;
you failed me before. I can't trust you." Most unkindly and unjustly
spoken words were these, indeed.
"Why, Emily, my dear child----"
"I'm not a child, and don't you call me one! I am a woman, though you
treat me like a child, and I'm not dear to you, either! You are
sacrificing me to that other girl," bitterly, tearfully, but with
great determination.
Revere was nonplussed by the revelation of these essentially feminine
characteristics in Emily's otherwise charming personality. He did not
know what to do or how to answer her in his bewilderment.
"Are you going to give her that letter or not?" she asked,
insistently, after a pause which he appeared unable to break unaided.
"Well," he said at last, but very reluctantly, "I suppose if you
insist upon it I must; but frankly, I think it would be better not to
do so. I do not believe it is right."
"Is there something in it you don't want me to know?" suspiciously.
"Nothing; absolutely nothing. I told you all I said as near as I can
remember. It's a matter of principle, Emily. I think you are wrong,
dearest. I----"
"Oh, sir; then you will sacrifice me, will you, to your principle?
Very well, Mr. Revere, understand one thing: if you do not give that
letter to her as soon as you get it back, you do not get me. I will
not have any one think I am a second choice."
"But, Emily----"
"Don't say anything more to me!" she flashed out. "I never was so
angry in my life! Perhaps you are tired of me," impatiently and
proudly.
"Perhaps you are tired of me," answered Richard, shortly, his own
quick temper having at last reached the outbreaking point. "I think
you are very cruel indeed, to want to hurt this poor girl's feelings,
and I do not see why you are crying now, either," he added, as Emily,
under the stimulus of this reproach, the forc
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