XXVIIITHE AFTERGLOW
AGAIN the shores had vanished, this time Europe left behind, and the Orient lifting before them. It was after the sun had plunged beneath the waves, and the distance was illumined with the afterglow; when the Parsee matrons had retired to rest, publicly, upon the saloon floors, and some mysterious figures re-entered to recline on deck in awkward pose, with crooked necks against chairs and skylights, that Paul and Adele also glided forward, past captain and capstan, to their favorite spot. Only the prow of the vessel when it mounted the billows, and a spooky lanthorn aloft, hung in space between them and the constellations. Together they gazed forwards and upwards, listening to the thoughts of the stilly night.
“Fond memories for other days,” remarked Adele.
Paul looked round to discover the object supposed to suggest memories, and then concluded his chair was not quite close enough to hers.
“There it is,” said she, looking toward the constellation of the Southern Cross, resplendent in the heavens. “I never shall forget it.”
“Beautiful, each star a gem, all gems; but——”
“I cannot conceive anything more suggestive or more appropriate in the heavens than that cross,” said Adele.
“I am yet inclined to think that perhaps Orion is still more magnificent.”
“Don’t let’s make comparisons, Paul. I don’t feel in the mood just now; that only spoils our present enjoyment.”
“All right; take things as they are,” and Paul looked again at the constellation.
“See those four stars, Adele; they would make an exquisite pin. Would you like one in that form?”
“Pin! Please don’t think I care only for trinkets, and at such a time as this! Please don’t, it only belittles everything;” her voice betraying a slight trace of emotion.
Paul vowed inwardly that he would acquiesce in everything she said, so in duty bound endeavored to be philosophic himself.
“There’s nothing like being natural, even when it feels unnatural.”
Adele laughed outright.
“My dear Paul, philosophy never did sit well on you; please don’t.” Paul felt somewhat subdued, and immediately changed the subject.
“What was it you said you wished to ask me?”
“Oh, yes, about being inquisitive. We’re all getting so horribly inquisitive that I’ve had a curious experience. I really don’t know what I think.”
It was Paul’s turn to laugh. “Oh, that comes from thinking too much. Give it up; we’ve got something else on hand just now; don’t let’s think.”
This idea seemed to impress Adele rather favorably in her present mood, but she could not resist the temptation to continue.
“Paul, I really feel that I must exert my will—yes, I must will that I won’t—no! I mustn’t won’t anything, that is not what I mean. I can’t untangle my thoughts while talking. Paul, try to help me; you do the talking.”
“I know exactly what’s the matter with you, Adele; what Frank Winchester would call your ‘thinking apparatus’ is a little weary, and I have a sure cure—put it here;” his shoulderbeing very convenient. “Now we can talk without thinking or think without talking; just as you please.”
Adele felt safer, and her mind much less disturbed.
“I’m so very inquisitive,” said she.
“That’s perfectly natural,” acquiesced Paul, who was himself feeling quite comfortable; “most women, I mean most people, are.”
“Doctor Wise is,” said Adele. “I like to hear him talk.”
“Oh, that’s the way the wind blows, is it?” exclaimed Paul. “I knew you would tell me sooner or later. I know the Doctor like a book. He’s the best friend I have in the world; but I’ll tell you something about him.”
“I don’t wish to know unless it’s good,” said Adele, then paused an instant; “but I think he can trust both of us.”
“Oh, yes, but the Doctor’s this way; now I tell you this in confidence. He often forgets how old he is, and thinks we are about the same age.”
“I don’t see anything very confidential in that; besides, I rather like these middle-aged old fellows who must wear glasses and won’t wear ‘specs;’ they keep their youth.”
“You surely don’t like frisky old boys?” laughed Paul.
“Nonsense! People may live many years and yet not be aged. The Doctor’s not frisky.”
“Nor very slow, either,” laughed Paul. “Only he will persist in looking backward, and above one’s head, and sometimes inside of one, while you and I always look forward; don’t we, Adele?”
“Why, of course.”
“Well, then, when we reach his age, we may find some satisfaction in the other thing, but just at present I don’t feel like it. The Doctor mixes me up, too, sometimes; even when I understand his words perfectly. It’s the after-effects.”
“‘After-effects’ is good,” said Adele. “I’ve felt ’em myself, lately—in my state-room; but even before that, when they talked in the Sunday-school about Jebusites and Perizites,the most mixed-up crowd I ever met; almost as bad as those so-called scientists we met on the Atlantic. Now, I really care more about Porto Rico and the Philippine Islanders than any of those ancient or modern mixtures; and to return to what I started with, don’t you think the Doctor attempts to explain too much?”
“Well, yes—and no. Of course there are some things no fellow can find out, but the Doctor is not really trying to discover; he merely tries to arrange after his own fashion what he already has read and experienced. He really sees much more than most of us, and he told me he had discovered that fact written in the palm of his own hand.”
“I see he has you well in hand,” said Adele, thoughtlessly.
Paul winced.
Adele felt a slight shiver, and was sorry she had so spoken.
“He has helped me greatly,” said Paul, reminiscent of the Doctor’s friendship. “I never met a man who tried more to give his friends something worth thinking and talking about instead of twaddle and bosh.”
“And that’s just where my trouble comes in,” said Adele. “I don’t care for twaddle and bosh, but isn’t there such a thing as too much thinking; I mean too much thinking about too many things? I’ve a great notion to do something radical.”
“Gracious! You a Radical? What do you propose to do?”
“Change my mind.”
“Don’t do that; it’s too radical! Change your method, or your climate; but for heaven’s sake leave your mind alone.” And Paul’s sudden outburst of laughter attracted attention from the night watchman, who came forward to see if anything was wanted.
“Nothing. Thanks!” answered Paul.
“Oh, yes, there is,” continued Adele; “something must be done. I cannot undertake to keep up with all that’s going on above, below, outside, inside and underneath. I used to thinkso at college, but now it’s fatiguing. It’s not safe to live with all creation coming down on you at every turn.”
“I never thought Atlas a happy man,” interjected Paul.
“He gives me the backache to look at him,” said Adele; “and I’ve a notion not even to listen to philosophers or, in fact, any talk that involves so many ifs and buts in one’s own mind. Others may enjoy that game; I don’t. I told Father I detested ‘exceptions’ to rules when at school, and now it’s worse. I’m getting to think that most people had best leave such things alone in real life. What do you think about it?”
Paul felt a thrill of satisfaction run through him as Adele allowed herself to run on, giving vent to her feelings; and she also felt a pressure of endearment which thrilled also.
“My dearest,” said he, “that’s the wisest thing you ever thought out in your life. You’re the most level-headed girl I ever met in all my days.” He spoke as if both he and she were quite as old as the Doctor. Then, wishing to be very profound, Paul tried to be eloquent.
“Adele! do you know what you have done?—the most—h’m!—the most satisfactory thing I could have wished for in life.”
“Nothing radical, I trust, or I probably shall regret it;” her voice fading away towards the last in secret amusement.
“God knows! The Lord only knows how much trouble it will save us—after we’re settled.”
“Don’t swear, my dear, don’t swear! I’ve been thinking about it for some time. It’s the kind of philosophy I really believe in.”
“So do I,” said Paul, his voice betraying strong feeling.
“Not to bother with ’osophies or sophistries, anthropologies or any other apologies,” said Adele. “I want to live a free, open life—a life in the open.”
“Take things as they are.”
“Yes, and people as we find them—try to do them good.”
A pause followed.
Paul was striving to grasp within his own consciousness what an admirable girl Adele was, and how happy he ought to be with such a true woman for his wife; but such thoughts only confused him. All he could do was to whisper, more to himself than to her, the old, old words, “How I do love you, love you with all my heart!”
She heard him, and her heart responded.
“Do you know whatyouhave done?” asked Adele softly, intertwining her fingers in his. The sympathetic touch, the currents of emotion, vitality and supreme strength entered his very soul.
“Given me,” said she, “for my very own that which I most crave.”
He bowed his head in reverence, and could not lift so much as his eyes towards heaven.
“Oh, Paul, do you know what that means? Faith in one to love and trust.”
He made a movement as if trying to speak, but she grasped his hand anew, and pressed it.
They did not speak, only thought, and loved each other.
The Southern Cross shone resplendent in the heavens above.
“Let Nature be your teacher;Sweet is the love which Nature brings;Our meddling intellectMisshapes the beauteous form of things.We murder to dissect—Enough of Science and of Art;Close up those barren leaves;Come forth and bring with you a heartThat watches and receives.”—Wordsworth.
“Let Nature be your teacher;Sweet is the love which Nature brings;Our meddling intellectMisshapes the beauteous form of things.We murder to dissect—Enough of Science and of Art;Close up those barren leaves;Come forth and bring with you a heartThat watches and receives.”—Wordsworth.
“Let Nature be your teacher;Sweet is the love which Nature brings;Our meddling intellectMisshapes the beauteous form of things.We murder to dissect—Enough of Science and of Art;Close up those barren leaves;Come forth and bring with you a heartThat watches and receives.”
“Let Nature be your teacher;
Sweet is the love which Nature brings;
Our meddling intellect
Misshapes the beauteous form of things.
We murder to dissect—
Enough of Science and of Art;
Close up those barren leaves;
Come forth and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.”
—Wordsworth.
—Wordsworth.