Rosalind.Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown more than your enemies.—As You Like It.
Rosalind.Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown more than your enemies.—As You Like It.
In the few weeks following the entertainment of the Dusenalls, Hampstead had not seen Nina. He felt he had been doing harm. The memory of that which had occurred and a twinge or two at his unfaithfulness to his friend Jack had made him avoid seeing her. But afterward, as fancy for seeing her again came to him more persistently, he gradually reverted to the old method of self-persuasion, that if she preferred Jack she might have him. He said he did not intend to show "any just cause or impediment" when Jack's marriage bans were published, and what the girl might now take it into her head to do was no subject of anxiety to him.
She, in the mean time, had lost no time in improving her acquaintance with Margaret after the calls had been exchanged. Margaret was not peculiar in finding within her an argument in favor of one who evidently sought her out, and the small amount of effusion on Nina's part was not without some of its desired effect. Nina wished to be her particular friend. She had perceived that a difference existed between them—a something that Geoffrey seemed to admire; and she had the vague impulse to form herself upon her.
Huxley explained table-turning by a simple experiment. He placed cards underneath the hands of the people forming the charmed circle round the table, and when they all "willed" that the table should move in a particular direction the cards and hands moved in that direction, while the table resisted the spirits and remained firm on its feet. In a similar way, Nina's impulse to know Margaret and frame herself upon her were all a process of unconscious self-deception which resembled the illusions of unrecognized muscular movements. She had no fixed ideas regarding Hampstead. Her actions were simply the result of his presence in her thoughts. She moved toward him, distantly and vaguely, but surely—somewhat as the card of a ship-compass, when it is spinning, seems to have no fixed destination, though its ultimate direction is certain.
She found it easy to bring the Dusenall girls to regard Margaret as somebody worth cultivating. The family tree of the Dusenall's commenced with the grandfather of the Misses Dusenall, who had got rich "out West." On inquiry they found that Margaret's family tree dwarfed that of any purely Canadian family into a mere shrub by comparison; and on knowing her better they found her brightness and vivacity a great addition to little dinners and lunches where conversational powers are at a premium.
With plenty of money, no work, an army of servants, a large house and grounds, a stable full of horses, and a good yacht, three or four young people can with the assistance of their friends support life fairly well. Lawn-tennis was their chief resource. Nina, being rather of the Dudu type, was not wiry enough to play well, and Margaret had not learned. She was strong and could run well, but this was not of much use to her. When the ball came toward her through the air she seemed to become more or less paralyzed. Between nervous anxiety to hit the ball and inability to judge its distance, she usually ended in doing nothing, and felt as if incurring contempt when involuntarily turning her back upon it. If she did manage to make a hit, the ball generally had to be found in the flower-beds far away on either side of the courts. In cricketing parlance, she played to "cover point" or "square leg" with much impartiality.
So these two generally looked on and made up for their want of skill in dignity and in conversation among themselves and with the men too languid to play. The wonder was that the marriageable young women liked Margaret so well. With her long, symmetrical dress rustling over the lawn and her lace-covered parasol occasionally hiding her dainty bonnet and well-poised head, Margaret might have been regarded as an enemy and labeled "dangerous," but the girls trusted her with their particular young men, with a sort of knowledge that she did not want any of them, even if the men themselves should prove volatile and recreant. After all, what young girls chiefly seek "when all the world is young, lad, and all the trees are green," is to have a good time and not be interrupted in their whims. So Margaret, who was launching out into a gayer life than she had led before, got on well enough, and the wonder as to what girls who did nothing found to talk about was wearing off. If she was not much improved in circles where general advantages seemed to promise originality, it was no bad recreation sometimes to study the exact minimum of intelligence that general advantages produced, and the drives in the carriages and Nina's village-cart were agreeable. She was partial to "hen-parties." Nina had one of these exclusive feasts where perhaps the success of many a persistent climber of the social ladder has been annihilated. It was a luncheon party. Of course the Dusenall girls were there, and a number of others. Mrs. Lindon did not appear. Nina was asked where she was, but she said she did not know. As she never did seem to know, this was not considered peculiar.
On this day Margaret was evidently the particular guest, and she was made much of by several girls whom she had not met before. It was worth their while, for she was Nina's friend and Nina had such delicious things—such a "perfect love" of a boudoir, all dadoes, and that sort of thing, with high-art furniture for ornament and low-art furniture in high-art colors for comfort, articles picked up in her traveling, miniature bronzes of well-known statues, a carved tower of Pisa of course, coral from Naples, mosaics from Florence, fancy glassware from Venice—in fact a tourist could trace her whole journey on examining the articles on exhibition. A French cook supplied the table with delectable morsels which it were an insult to speak of as food. Altogether her home was a pleasant resort for her acquaintances, and there were those present who thought it not unwise to pay attention to any person whom Nina made much of.
There were some who could have been lackadaisical and admiring nothing, if the tone of the feast had been different, but Margaret was for admiring everything and enjoying everything, and having a generally noisy time and lots of fun. She was a wild thing when she got off in this way, as she said, "on a little bend," and carried the others off with her.
What concerns us was the talk about the bank games. Some difference of opinion arose as to whether or not these were enjoyable. Not having been satisfied with attention from the right quarter at previous bank games, several showed aversion to them. Nina was looking forward with interest to the coming events, and Margaret, when she heard that Geoffrey and Jack and other friends were to compete in the contests, was keen to be a spectator. Emily Dusenall remarked that Geoffrey Hampstead was said to be a splendid runner, and that these games were the first he had taken any part in at Toronto, as he had been away during last year's. It was arranged that Nina and Margaret should go with the Dusenalls to the games after some discussion as to whose carriage should be used. Nina asserted that their carriage was brand new from England and entitled to consideration, but the Dusenalls insisted that theirs was brand new, too, and, more than that, the men had just been put into a new livery. It was left to Margaret, who decided that she could not possibly go in any carriage unless the men were in livery absolutely faultless.
Some days after this the carriage with the men of spotless livery rolled vice-regally and softly into the great lacrosse grounds where the Bank Athletic Sports were taking place. The large English carriage horses pranced gently and discreetly as they heard the patter of their feet on the springy turf, and they champed their shining bits and shook their chains and threw flakes of foam about their harness as if they also, if permitted, would willingly join in the sports. There was Margaret, sitting erect, her eyes luminous with excitement. Inwardly she was shrinking from the gaze of the spectators who were on every side, and as usual she talked "against time," which was her outlet for nervousness in public places. Mrs. Mackintosh had made her get a new dress for the occasion, which fitted her to perfection, and Nina declared she looked just like the Princess of Wales bowing from the carriage in the Row. The two Dusenalls were sitting in the front seat. Nina sat beside Margaret. Nina was looking particularly well. So beautiful they both were! And such different types! Surely, if one did not disable a critical stranger, the other would finish him.
The whole turn-out gave one a general impression of laces, French gloves, essence of flowers, flower bonnets, lace-smothered parasols, and beautiful women. There was also an air of wealth about it, which tended to keep away the more reticent of Margaret's admirers. She knew men of whose existence Society was not aware—men who were beginning—who lived as they best could, and, as yet, were better provided with brains than dress-coats. Moreover, the Dusenalls had a way of lolling back in their carriage which they took to be an attitude capable of interpreting that they were "to the manor born." There was a supercilious expression about them, totally different from their appearance at Nina's luncheon, and they had brought to perfection the art of seeing no person but the right person. Consequently, it required more than a usual amount of confidence in one's social position to approach their majesties. The wrong man would get snubbed to a dead certainty.
After passing the long grand stand the carriage drew up in an advantageous spot where they could see the termination of the mile walking match. The volunteer band had brokenly ceased to play God save the Queen on discovering that theirs wasnotthe vice-regal carriage, and, in the field, Jack Cresswell was coming round the ring, with several others apparently abreast of him, heeling and toeing it in fine style. As they watched the contest, sympathy with Jack soon became aroused. Margaret heard somebody say that this was the home-stretch. Several young bank-clerks were standing about within earshot, and she listened to what they were saying as if all they said was oracular.
"Gad! Jack's forging ahead," said one.
"Yes, but Brownlee of Molson's is after him. Bet you the cigars Brownlee wins!"
This was too much for Margaret. She stood up in the carriage and, without knowing it, slightly waved her parasol at Jack, not because he would see her encouragement, but on general principles, because she felt like doing so, regardless of what the finer feelings of the Dusenalls might be. The walkers crossed the winning line, and it was difficult to see who won. Margaret sat down again, her face lighted with excitement, and said all in a breath:
"Was not that splendid? How they did get over the ground! What a pace they went at! Poor Jack, how tired he must be! I do hope he won, Nina," and she laid her hand on Nina's tight-sleeved soft arm with emphasis.
The Dusenalls did not think there was much interest in a stupid walking-match, and they thought standing up and waving one's parasol rather bad form, so they were not enthusiastic.
Nina said softly: "Indeed, if you take so much interest in Jack I'll get jealous."
While she said this her face began to color, and Margaret's reply was interrupted by Geoffrey Hampstead's voice which announced welcome news. He gave them all a sort of collective half-bow and shook hands with Nina in a careless, friendly way.
"I come with glad tidings—as a sort of harbinger of spring, or Noah's dove with an olive-branch—or something of the kind."
"Is your cigar the olive-branch? To represent the dove you should have it in your mouth," said Nina. "Stop, I will give you an olive-branch, so that you may look your part better."
She wished Geoffrey to know that she felt no anger for what had occurred at the ball. Geoffrey saw the idea, and answered it understandingly as she held out a sprig of mignonette.
"I suppose this token of peace can only be carried in my mouth," said Geoffrey, throwing away his cigar.
"Certainly," said Nina, and her gloved fingers trembled slightly as she put the olive-branch between his lips, saying "There! now you look wonderfully like a dove."
Margaret was smiling at this small trifling, but her anxiety about the walking-match was quite unabated. She said: "I do not see why you call yourself a harbinger of spring or anything else unless you have something to tell us. What is your good news? Has Mr. Cresswell won the prize?"
"By about two inches," said Geoffrey. "I thought I might create an indirect interest in myself, with Miss Lindon at least, by coming to tell you of it." He wore a grave smile as he said this, which made Nina blush.
"And so you did create an indirect interest in yourself," said Margaret. "Now you can interest us on your own account. What are you going to compete for to-day?"
Hampstead was clad in cricketing flannels—his coat buttoned up to the neck.
"I entered for a good many things," said he, "in order that I might go in for what I fancied when the time came. They are contesting now for the high-pole jump. Perhaps we had better watch them, as they have already begun to compete. I am anxious to see how they do it."
High leaping with the pole is worth watching if it be well done. Margaret's interest increased with every trial of the men who were competing, and she almost suffered when a "poler" did his best and failed. One man incased in "tights" was doing well, and also a small young fellow who had thrown off his coat, apparently in an impromptu way, and was jumping in a pair of black trousers, which looked peculiar and placed him at a disadvantage from their looseness. The others soon dropped out of the contest, being unable to clear the long lath that was always being put higher. These two had now to fight it out together. They had both cleared the same height, and the next elevation of the lath had caused them both to fail. Margaret was on her feet again in the carriage, her face glowing as she watched every movement of the "polers." Her sympathies were entirely with the funny little man in black trousers. The other at length cleared the lath, amid applause. But the little hero in black still held on and made his attempts gracefully.
"Oh," said Margaret, gazing straight before her, "I would give anything in the world to see that circus-man beaten!"
"How much would you give, Miss Mackintosh?" said Geoffrey.
Margaret did not hear him.
"Oh, I want my little flying black angel to win. Is it impossible for anybody to beat the enemy?" Then, turning excitedly to the girls, she said hurriedly, "I could just love anybody who could beat the enemy."
"Does 'anybody' include me?" asked Geoffrey, laughing.
"Yes, yes," cried Margaret, catching at the idea. "Can you really defeat him? Yes, indeed, I will devote myself forever to anybody who can beat him. Have you a pole? Borrow one. Hurry away now, while you have a chance." In her eagerness her words seemed to chase each other.
"Well—will you all love me?" inquired Geoffrey, with an aggravating delay.
There was a shrill chorus of "Until death us do part" from the girls, and Geoffrey skipped over a couple of benches and ran over to the "polers," where he claimed the right to compete, as he had been entered previously in due time for this contest. Strong objection was immediately raised by the man in tights. The judges, after some discussion, allowed Geoffrey to take part amid much protestation from the members of the circus-man's bank.
Geoffrey took his pole from Jack Cresswell, who had competed on it without success. It was a stout pole of some South American wood, and very long. He threw off his coat, displaying a magnificent body in a jersey of azure silk. After walking up to look at the lath he grasped his pole and, making a long run, struck it into the ground and mounted into the air. He had not risen very high when he saw that he had miscalculated the distance; so he slid down his pole to the earth. Derisive coughs were heard from different parts of the field, and "Tights" looked at Geoffrey maliciously and laughed.
At the next rush that Geoffrey made, he sailed up into the air on his pole like a great bird, and as he became almost poised in mid-air, he went hand over hand up the stout pole. Then, by a trick that can not be easily described, his legs and body launched out horizontally over the lath, and throwing away his pole he dropped lightly on his feet without disturbing anything.
"Tights" was furious, and he said something hot to Geoffrey, who, however, did not reply.
A difficulty arose here because there were no more holes in the uprights to place the pegs in to hold up the lath. Geoffrey was now even with the enemy, but not ahead of him. So he asked the judges to place the lath across the top of the uprights. This raised the lath a good fifteen inches, and nobody supposed that it could be cleared.
There was something stormy about Hampstead when a man provoked him, and "Tights" had been very unpleasant. He pointed to the almost absurd elevation of the lath; his tones were short and exasperating as he addressed his very savage rival:
"Now, my man, there's your chance to exhibit your form."
"Tights" refused to make any useless trial, but relieved the tension of his feelings by forcing a bet of fifty dollars on Geoffrey that he could not clear it himself.
The excitement was now considerable. Geoffrey took the offered bet, pleased to be able to punish his antagonist further. But really the whole thing was like child's-play to him. It seemed as if he could clear anything his pole would reach. His hand-over-hand climbing was like lightning, and he went over the lath, cricket trousers and all, with quite as much ease as when it was in the lower position, and this amid a wild burst of applause.
He then grabbed his coat and made for the dressing-room, to prepare for the hurdle race, for which the bell was ringing.
When he ran out into the field again, after about a moment, he was clad in tights of azure silk with long trunks of azure satin, and his feet wore running shoes that fitted like a glove. No wonder girls raved about him. So did the men. He was a grand picture, as beautiful as a god in his celestial colors.
But there was work for him to do in the hurdle race. The best amateur runners in Canada were to be with him in this race, and there is a field for choice among Canadian bank athletes. They were to start from a distant part of the grounds, run around the great oval, and finish close to our carriage, where eager faces were hopeful for his success. Geoffrey made a bad start—not having recovered after being once called back. The first hurdle saw him over last, but between the jumps his speed soon put him in the ruck. There is no race like the hurdle race for excitement. At the fourth hurdle some one in front struck the bar, which flew up just as Geoffrey rose to it. His legs hit it in the air and he was launched forward, turned around, and sent head downward to the ground. The thought that he might be killed went through many minds. But those who thought so did not know that he could gallop over these hurdles like a horse, lighting on his hands. No doubt it was a great wrench for him, but he lit on his hands and was off again like the wind.
The fall had lost him his chance, he thought, but he went on with desperation and pain, his head thrown back and his face set to win. It was a long race, and five more hurdles had yet to be passed. The first of these was knocked down so that in merely running through he gained time by not having to jump, and he rapidly closed on those before him. His speed between jumps was marvelous. His hair blew back in blonde confusion, and he might well have been taken to represent some god of whirlwinds, or an azure archangel on some flying mission. He hardly seemed to touch the earth, and Margaret, who delighted in seeing men manly and strong and fleet, felt her heart go out to him in a burst of enthusiasm that became almost oppressive as the last hurdle was approached.
There were now only two men ahead of him, and Geoffrey was so set on winning that it seemed with him to be more a matter of mind than body. A yell suddenly arose from all sides. One of the two first men struck the last hurdle and went down, and Geoffrey, shooting far into the air in a tremendous leap to clear the flying timber, passed the other man in the last arrow-like rush, and dashed in an undoubted winner.
The enthusiasm for him was now unmingled. The sensation of horror that many had felt on seeing him fall head downward during the race had given way to a keen admiration for his plucky attempt to catch up with such hopeless odds against him. There were old business men present whose hearts had not moved so briskly since the last financial panic as when the handicapped hero in azure leaped the last hurdle into glory. There were men looking on whose figures would never be redeemed who, at the moment, felt convinced that with a little training they could once more run a good race—men whose livers were in a sad state and who certainly forgot the holy inspiration before rising that night from their late dinners. Surely if these old stagers could be thus moved, feminine hearts might be excused. It was not necessary to know Geoffrey personally to feel the contagious thrill that ran through the multitude at the vision of his prowess. The impulse and the verdict of the large crowd were so unanimous that no one could resist them.
As for Margaret, she was, alas,standing on the seatby the time he raced past the carriage—a fair, earnest vision, lost in the excitement of the moment. With her gloved hands tightly closed and her arms braced as if for running, she appeared from her attitude as if she, too, would join in the race where her interest lay. The true woman in her was wild for her friend to win. Geoffrey's appearance appealed to all her sense of the beautiful. Knowledge of art led her to admire him—art of the ancient and vigorous type. All the plaudits that moved the multitude were caught up and echoed even more loudly within her. It was a dangerous moment for a virgin heart. As Geoffrey managed to land himself a winner against such desperate odds, she saw in his face, even before he had won, a half supercilious look of triumph and mastery that she had never seen there before. In a brief moment she caught a glimpse of the indomitable will that with him knew no obstacles—a will shown in a face of the ancient type, with gleaming eyes and dilated nostrils, heroic, god-like, possibly cruel, but instinct with victory and resolve.
To her the triumph was undiluted. At the close of the race her lungs had refused to work until he passed the winning line, and then her breath came in a gasp, as she became conscious that her eyes were filled with tears of sympathy.
With Nina it was different. That she was intensely interested is true. Everybody was. But, instead of that whirl of sympathetic admiration which Margaret felt, the strongest feeling she had was a desire that Geoffrey would come to her first, would lay, as it were, his honors at her feet—a wish suggesting the complacency with which the tigress receives the victor after viewing with interest the combat.
When Geoffrey rejoined them half an hour afterward he was endeavoring to conceal an unmistakable lameness resulting from striking the hurdle in the race. He had had his leg bathed, which he afterward found had been bleeding freely during the run, and had got into his flannels again. In the mean time a small circle of admirers had grouped themselves about the Dusenalls' carriage.
Jack had been in to see them for a moment with a hymn of praise for Geoffrey on his lips, but Nina made him uncomfortable by treating him distantly, and, although Margaret beamed on him, he departed soon after Geoffrey's arrival, making an excuse of his committee-man's duties.
Geoffrey noticed that, on his reappearing among them, Margaret did not address him, but left congratulations to Nina and the Dusenalls. In the interval after the race she had suddenly begun to consider how great her interest in Geoffrey was. She had known him for over a year. During that time he had ever appeared at his best before her. It was so natural to be civilized and gentle in her presence. And Margaret was not devoid of romance, in spite of her prosaic studies. Her ideality was not checked by them, but rather diverted into less ordinary channels, and she was as likely as anybody else to be captivated by somebody who, besides other qualities, could form a subject for her imaginative powers. Nevertheless, in spite of this sometimes dangerous and always charming ideality, she had acquired the habit of introspection which Mr. Mackintosh had endeavored to cultivate in her. He told her that when she fell in love she "would certainly know it." And it was the remembrance of this sage remark that now caused her to be silent and thoughtful. She was wondering whether she was going to fall in love with Geoffrey, and what it would be like if she did do so, and if she could know any more interest in him if it so turned out that she eventually became engaged to him. Then she looked at Geoffrey, intending to be impartial and judicial, and thought that his looks were not unpleasing, and that his banter with Miss Dusenall was not at all slow to listen to. She was pleased that he did not address her first. She felt that she might have been in some way embarrassed. Sometimes he glanced at her, as if carelessly, and yet she seemed to know that all his remarks were to amuse her, and that he watched her without looking at her. She had never thought of his doing this before.
Bad Margaret! Full of guilt!
Geoffrey was endeavoring to make the plainest Miss Dusenall fix the day for their wedding, declaring that it was she who had promised to marry him if he won at jumping with the pole, and that she alone had nerved him for the struggle, and he went on arranging the matter with a volubility and assurance which she would have resented in anybody else. She had affected to belittle Geoffrey somewhat, not having been much troubled with his attentions, and she was conscious now that this banter on his part was detracting from her dignity. But what was she to do? The man was the hero of the hour, and cared but little for her dignity and mincing ways. She would have snubbed him, only that he carried all the company on his side, and a would-be snub, when one's audience does not appreciate it, returns upon one's self with boomerang violence. After all, it was something to monopolize the most admired man in six thousand people, even if he did make game of her and treat her, like a child.
As for Nina, she answered feebly the desultory remarks of several young men who hung about the carriage, and she listened, while she looked at the contests, to one sound only—to the sound of Geoffrey's voice. From time to time she put in a word to the other girls which showed that she heard everything he said. This sort of thing proved unsatisfactory to the young men who sought to engage her attention. They soon moved off, and then she gave herself up to the luxury of hearing Geoffrey speak. It might have been, she thought, that all his gayety was merely to attract Margaret, but none the less was his voice music to her. Poor Nina! She would not look at him, for fear of betraying herself. She lay back in the carriage and vainly tried to think of her duty to Jack. Then she thought herself overtempted, not remembering the words:
The devil tempts us not—'tis we tempt him,Beckoning his skill with opportunity.
The devil tempts us not—'tis we tempt him,Beckoning his skill with opportunity.
This meeting, which to her was all bitter-sweet, to Geoffrey was piquant. To make an impression on the woman he really respected by addressing another he cared nothing about was somewhat amusing to him, but to know that every word he said was being drunk in by a third woman who was as attractive as love itself and who was engaged to be married to another man added a flavor to the entertainment which, if not altogether new, seemed, in the present case, to be mildly pungent.
After this Nina deceived herself less.
Come o'er the sea,Maiden with me,Mine through sunshine, storm, and snows.Seasons may roll,But the true soulBurns the same wherever it goes.Is not the seaMade for the free,Land for courts and chains alone?Here we are slaves;But on the wavesLove and liberty's all our own.Moore'sMelodies.
Come o'er the sea,Maiden with me,Mine through sunshine, storm, and snows.Seasons may roll,But the true soulBurns the same wherever it goes.
Is not the seaMade for the free,Land for courts and chains alone?Here we are slaves;But on the wavesLove and liberty's all our own.
Moore'sMelodies.
Mr. Maurice Rankin was enjoying his summer vacation. Although the courts were closed he still could be seen carrying his blue bag through the street on his way to and from the police court and other places. It is true that, for ordinary professional use, the bag might have been abandoned, but how was he to know when a sprat might catch a whale?—to say nothing of the bag's being so convenient for the secret and non-committal transportation of those various and delectable viands that found their way to his aerial abode at No. 173 Tremaine Buildings. He was now provided by the law printers with pamphlet copies of the decisions in different courts, and a few of these might always be found in his bag. They served to fill out to the proper dimensions this badge of a rank entitling him to the affix of esquire, and they had been well oiled by parcels of butter or chops which, on warm days, tried to lubricate this dry brain food as if for greater rapidity in the bolting of it.
In this way he was passing his summer vacation. Many a time he thought of his father's wealth before his failure and death. Where had those thousands melted away to? Oh, for just one of the thousands to set him on his feet! This perpetual grind, this endless seeking for work, with no more hope in it than to be able to get even with his butcher's bill at the end of the month! To see every person else go away for an outing somewhere while he remained behind began to make him dispirited. The buoyancy of his nature, which at first could take all his trials as a joke, was beginning to wear off. After yielding himself to their peculiar piquancy for six months, these jokes seemed to have lost their first freshness, and he longed to get away somewhere for a little change. The return, then, he thought, would be with renewed spirit.
While thinking over these matters his step homeward was tired and slow. He was by no means robust, and his narrow face had grown more hatchety than ever in the last few hot days. Hope deferred was beginning to tell upon him, but a surprise awaited him.
Jack Cresswell and Charley Dusenall were walking at this time on the other side of the street. They sighted Rankin going along gloomily, with his nose on the ground, well dressed and neat as usual, but weighted down, apparently with business, really with loneliness, law reports, and lamb-chops.
They both pointed to him at once. Jack said, "The very man!" and Charlie said, nodding assent, "Just as good as the next." Jack clapped Charley on the back—"By Jove, I hope he will come! Do him all the good in the world."
Charley was one of those happy-go-lucky, loose-living young men who have companions as long as their money lasts, and who seem made of some transmutable material which, when all things are favorable, shows some suggestion of solidity, but, when acted upon by the acid of poverty, degenerates into something like that parasitic substance remarkable for its receptibility of liquids, called a sponge. He liked Rankin, although he thought him a queer fish, and he would laugh with the others when Rankin's quiet satire was pointed at himself, not knowing but that there might be a joke somewhere, and not wishing to be out of it.
The two young men crossed the road and walked up to Rankin who was just about to enter Tremaine Buildings. Charlie asked him to come on a yachting cruise around Lake Ontario—to be ready in two days—that Jack would tell him all about it, as he was in a hurry. He then made off, without waiting for Maurice to reply.
Jack explained to Rankin that the yacht was to take out a party, with the young ladies under the chaperonage of Mrs. Dusenall, that the two Misses Dusenall, and Nina and Margaret were going, that he and Geoffrey Hampstead and two or three of the yacht-club men would lend a hand to work the craft, and that Rankin would be required to take the helm during the dead calms. As Rankin listened he brightened up and looked along the street in meditation.
"The business," he said thoughtfully, "will perish. Bean can't run my business."
His large mouth spread over his face as he yielded himself to the warmth of the sunny vista before him. Already he felt himself dancing over the waves. Suddenly, as they stood at the entrance to Tremaine Buildings, he caught Jack by the arm and whispered—so that clients, thronging the streets might not overhear:
"The business," he whispered. "What about it?" He drew off at arm's length and transfixed Jack with his eagle eye. Then, as if to typify his sudden and reckless abandonment of all the great trusts reposed in him, he slung the blue bag as far as he could up the stairs while he cried that the business might "go to the devil."
"Correct," said Jack. "It will be all safe with him. You know he is the father of lawyers. But I say, old chap, I am awfully glad you are coming with us. You see, the old lady has to get those girls married off somehow, and several fellows will go with us who are especially picked out for the business. Then, of course, the Dusenall girls want 'backing,' and they thought Nina and I could certainly give them a lead. And Nina would not go without Margaret. I rather think, too, that Geoffrey would not go without Margaret. Wheels within wheels, you see. Have you not got a lady-love, Morry, to bring along? No? Well, I tell you, old man, I expect to enjoy myself. I've been round that lake a good many times, but never with Nina."
Jack blushed as he admitted so much to his old friend, and after a pause he went on, with a young man's facile change of thought, to talk about the yacht.
"And we will just make her dance, and don't you forget it."
"But, my dear fellow, won't she object?"
"Object? No—likes it. She is coming out in a brand-new suit. Wait till you see her. She'll be a dandy."
"I can quite believe that she will appear more beautiful than ever," said Maurice, rather mystified.
"She is as clean as a knife, clean as a knife. I tell you, Morry, her shape just fills the eye. She—"
"Oh, yes, I understand. You are speaking of the yacht. I thought when you said you would make her dance that you referred to Miss Lindon. Excuse my ignorance of yachting terms. I know absolutely nothing about them."
"Never mind, old man, you might easily make the mistake. Talking of dancing now, I had a turn with her the other day and I will say this much—that she can waltz and no mistake. You could steer her with one finger."
"And shall we rig this spinnaker boom on her?" asked Rankin, with interest. "What is a spinnaker boom? I have always wanted to know."
"Spinnaker on who? or what?" cried Jack, looking vexed. "Don't be an ass, Rankin."
"My dear fellow—a thousand pardons—I certainly presumed you still spoke of the yacht. It is perfectly impossible to understand which you refer to."
"Well, perhaps it is," replied Jack; "I mix the two up in my speech just as they are mixed up in my heart, and I love them both. So let us have a glass of sherry to them in my room."
"I think," said Rankin, smiling, with his head on one side, "that to prevent further confusion we ought to drink a glass to each love separately, in order to discriminate sufficiently between the different interests."
"Happy thought," said Jack. "And just like you robbers. Every interest must be represented. Fees out of the estate, every time."
After gulping down the first glass of sherry in the American fashion, they sat sipping the second as the Scotch and English do. It struck Rankin as peculiar that Mr. Lindon allowed Nina to go off on this yachting cruise when he must know that Jack would be on board. He asked him how he accounted for his luck in this respect.
Jack said: "I can not explain it altogether to myself. The old boy sent her off to Europe to get her away from me, and that little manœuvre was not successful in making her forget me. I think that now he has washed his hands of the matter, and lets her do entirely as she pleases—except as to matrimony. They don't converse together on the subject of your humble servant. He is fond of Nina in his own way—when his ambition is not at stake. One thing I feel sure of, that we might wait till crack of doom before his consent to our marriage would be obtained. I never knew such a man for sticking to his own opinion."
"But you could marry now and keep a house, in a small way," said Rankin.
"Too small a way for Nina. She knows no more of economy than a babe. No; I may have been unwise, from a practical view, to fall in love with her, but the affair must go on now; we will get married some way or other. Perhaps the old boy will die. At any rate, although I have no doubt she would go in for 'love in a cottage,' I don't think it would be right of me to subject her to the loss of her carriage, servants, entertainments, and gay existence generally. Of course she would be brave over it, but the effort would be very hard upon the dear little woman."
When Jack thought of Nina his heart was apt to lose some of its chronometer movement. He turned and began fumbling for his pipe.
Maurice wished to pull him together, as it were, and said, as he grasped the decanter and filled the wine glasses again:
"Thank you; I don't mind if I do. Now I come to think of it, your first proposed toast was the right one. For the next three weeks at least we do not intend to separate the lady from the yacht. Why should we drink them separately? Ho, ho! we will drink to them collectively!" He waved his glass in the air. "Here's to The Lady and the Yacht considered as one indivisible duo. May they be forever as entwined in our hearts as they are incomprehensibly mixed up in our language!"
"Hear, hear!" cried Jack, with renewed spirit. "Drink hearty!" And then he energetically poured out another, and said "Tiger!"—after which they lit cigars and went out, feeling happy and much refreshed, while Rankin quite forgot the blue bag and the contents thereof yielding rich juices to the law-reports in the usual way.
About ten o'clock on the following Saturday morning valises were being stowed away on board the yacht Ideal, and maidens fair and sailors free were aglow with the excitement of departure. The yacht was swinging at her anchor while the new cruising mainsail caused her to careen gently as the wind alternately caught each side of the snowy canvas. A large blue ensign at the peak was flapping in the breeze, impatient for the start, while the main-sheet bound down and fettered the plunging and restless sail. Lounging about the bows of the vessel were a number of professional sailors with Ideal worked across the breasts of their stout blue jerseys. The headsails were loosed and ready to go up, and the patent windlass was cleared to wind up the anchor chain. Away aloft at the topmast head the blue peter was promising more adventures and a new enterprise, while grouped about the cockpit were our friends in varied garb, some of whom nervously regarded the plunging mainsail which refused to be quieted. Rankin was the last to come over the side, clad in a dark-blue serge suit, provided at short notice by the long-suffering Score. His leather portmanteau, lent by Jack, had scarcely reached the deck before the blocks were hooked on and the gig was hoisted in to the davits. Margaret, sitting on the bulwarks, with an arm thrown round a backstay to steady her, was taking in all the preparations with quiet ecstasy, her eyes following every movement aloft and her lips softly parted with sense of invading pleasure.
Mrs. Dusenall was down in the after-cabin making herself more busy than useful. Instead of leaving everything to the steward, the good woman was unpacking several baskets which had found their way aft by mistake. In a very clean locker devoted solely to charts she stowed away five or six pies, wedging them, thoughtfully, with a sweet melon to keep them quiet. Then she found that the seats at the side could be raised, and here she placed a number of articles where they stood a good chance of slipping under the floor and never being seen again. Fortunately for the party, her pride in her work led her to point out what she had done to the steward, who, speechless with dismay, hastily removed everything eatable from her reach.
As the anchor left its weedy bed, the brass carronade split the air in salute to the club and the blue ensign dipped also, while the headsail clanked and rattled up the stay. There was nobody at the club house, but the ladies thought that the ceremony of departure was effective.
Jack was at the wheel as she paid off on the starboard tack toward the eastern channel, and Geoffrey and others were slacking off the main-sheet when Rankin heard himself called by Jack, who said hurriedly:
"Morry, will you let go that lee-backstay?"
Maurice and Margaret left it immediately and stood aside. Jack forgot, in the hurry of starting, that Rankin knew nothing of sailing, and called louder to him again, pointing to the particular rope: "Let go that lee-backstay."
"Who's touching your lee-backstay?" cried Morry indignantly.
The boom was now pressing strongly on the stay, while Jack, seeing his mistake, leaned over and showed Rankin what to do. He at once cast off the rope from the cleat, and, there being a great strain on it, the end of it when loosed flew through his fingers so fast that it felt as if red hot.
"Holy Moses!" cried he, blowing on his fingers, "that rope must have been lying on the stove." He examined the rope again, and remarked that it was quite cool now. The pretended innocence of the little man was deceiving. The Honorable Marcus Travers Head, one of the rich intended victims of the Dusenalls, leaned over to Jack and asked who and what Rankin was.
"He's an original—that's what he is," said Jack, with some pride in his friend, although Rankin's by-play was really very old.
"What! ain't he soft?" inquired the Hon. M. T., with surprise.
"About as soft as that brass cleat," said Jack shortly. "I say, old Emptyhead, you just keep your eye open when he's around and you'll learn something."
There was a murmur of "Ba-a Jeuve!" and the honorable gentleman regarded Rankin in a new light.
The Ideal was a sloop of more than ordinary size, drawing about eight feet of water without the small center-board, which she hardly required for ordinary sailing. Her accommodations were excellent, and her internal fittings were elegant, without being so wildly expensive as in some of the American yachts. Her comparatively small draught of water enabled her to enter the shallow ports on the lakes, and yet she was modeled somewhat like a deep-draught boat, having some of her ballast bolted to her keel, like the English yachts. Her cruising canvas was bent on short spars, which relieved the crew in working her, but, even with this reduction, her spread of canvas was very large, so that her passage across the bay toward the lake was one of short duration.
To Margaret and Maurice the spirited start which they made was one of unalloyed delight. For two such fresh souls "delight" is quite the proper word. They crossed over to the weather side and sat on the bulwarks, where they could command a view of the whole boat. It was a treat for all hands to see their bright faces watching the man aloft cast loose the working gaff-topsail. When they heard his voice in the sky calling out "Hoist away," Morry waved his hand withabandonand called out also "Hoist away," as if he would hoist away and overboard every care he knew of, and when the booming voice aloft cried "Sheet home," it was as good as five dollars to see Margaret echo the word with commanding gesture—only she called it "Sea foam," which made the sailors turn their quids and snicker quietly among themselves. But when the huge cream-colored jib-topsail went creaking musically up from the bowsprit-end, filling and bellying and thundering away to leeward, and growing larger and larger as it climbed to the topmast head, their admiration knew no bounds. As the sail was trimmed down, they felt the good ship get her "second wind," as it were, for the rush out of the bay. It was as if sixteen galloping horses had been suddenly harnessed to the boat, and Margaret fairly clapped her hands. Maurice called to Jack approvingly:
"You said you would make her dance."
"She's going like a scalded pup," cried Jack poetically in reply, and he held her down to it with the wheel, tenderly but firmly, as he thereby felt the boat's pulse. When they came to the eastern channel Jack eased her up so close to the end of the pier that Maurice involuntarily retreated from the bulwarks for fear she would hit the corner. The jib-topsail commenced to thunder as the yacht came nearer the wind, but this was soon silenced, and half a dozen men on the main-sheet flattened in the after-canvas as she passed between the crib-work at the sides of the channel in a way that gave one a fair opportunity for judging her speed.
A moment more and the Ideal was surging along the lake swells, as if she intended to arrive "on time" at any place they pointed her for. The main-sheet was paid out as Jack bore away to take the compass course for Cobourg. This put the yacht nearly dead before the wind, and the pace seemed to moderate. Charlie Dusenall then came on deck, after settling his dunnage below and getting into his sailing clothes. Charlie had been "making a night of it" previous to starting, and felt this morning indisposed to exert himself. Jack and he had cruised together in all weathers, and they were both good enough sailors to dispense with pig-headed sailing-masters. Jack had sailed everything, from a birch-bark canoe to a schooner of two hundred tons, and had never lost his liking for a good deal of hard work on board a boat. As for his garb, an old flannel shirt and trousers that greased masts could not spoil were all that either he or Charlie ever wore. These, with the yachting shoes, broad Scotch bonnet, belt, and sheath-knife, were found sufficient, without any finical white jackets and blue anchors, and, if not so fresh as they might have been, these garments certainly looked like business.
Before young Dusenall put his head up the companion-way he knew exactly where the boat was by noticing her motions while below. There was something of the "old salt" in the way he understood how the yacht was running without coming on deck to find out. Generally he could wake up at night and tell you how the boat was sailing, and almost what canvas she was carrying, without getting out of his berth. These things had become a sort of second nature.
He was yawning as he hauled on a stout chain and dragged up from his trousers pocket a silver watch about the size of a mud-turtle. Then he looked at the wake through the long following waves and glanced rapidly over the western horizon while he counted with his finger upon the face of the enormous timepiece. "We will have to do better than this," he said, after making a calculation, "if we wish to dance at the Arlington to-night."
"They are just getting the spinnaker on deck," said Jack, nodding toward the bows. "As you say, it won't do her any harm. This breeze will flatten out at sundown, and walloping about in a dead calm all night is no fun."
"What a time they take to get a sail set!" said Charlie impatiently, as he looked at the sailors for a few moments. "I have a good mind to ask some of you fellows to go forward and show them how."
"Oh, never mind," said Jack, "We are not racing, and hurrying them only makes them sulky."
But Charlie's nerves were a little irritable to-day, and he swung himself on deck and went forward. A long boom was lowered out over the side and properly guyed; then a long line of sail, tied in stops, went up and up to the topmast-head; the foot of it was hauled out to the end of the boom; then there was a pull on a rope, and, as the wind broke away the stops, hundreds of yards of sail spread out as if by magic to the breeze, filling away forward like a huge three-cornered balloon, the foot of which almost swept the surface of the water.
"Look at that for a sail, Nina," said Jack. "Now you'll see her git right up and git."
When Jack was talking about yachts or sailing it was next to impossible for him to speak in anything but a jargon of energetic slang and metaphor picked up among the sailors, who, in their turn, picked up all they could while ashore. He seemed to take a pleasure in throwing the English grammar overboard. His heart warmed to sailors. He was fond of their oddities and forcible unpolished similes; and when he sometimes sought their society for a while, he was well received. When a man in good clothes begins to talk sailing grammatically to lake-sailors they seem to feel that he is not, as far as they can see, in any way up to the mark. His want of accuracy in sailing vernacular attaches to his whole character.
If Jack intended to say that the spinnaker would make the Ideal go fast, he was right. She was traveling down the lake almost as fast as she would go in a race with the same breeze. A long thin line of fine white bubbles extending back over the tops of several blue waves showed where her keel had divided the water and rubbed it into white powder as she passed. Jack had no time for continued conversation now. He had to watch his compass and the sails, the wind, and the land. He did not wish the wake behind the vessel to look like a snake-fence from bad steering, and to get either of the sails aback, while under such a pressure, would be a pretty kettle of fish. He was enjoying himself. Some good Samaritan handed him a pipe filled and lighted, and with his leg slung comfortably over the shaft of the wheel, his pipe going, Nina in front of him, and all his friends around him, he felt that the moment could hardly be improved.
Some time after the buildings of Toronto had dwindled away to nothing, and the thin spire of St. James's Cathedral had become a memory, the steward announced that luncheon was ready. One of the hands relieved Jack at the wheel, and all went below except Mrs. Dusenall, who was left lying among cushions and pillows arranged comfortably on deck, where she preferred to remain, as she was feeling the motion of the boat.
Luncheon was a movable feast on the Ideal—as liable to be shifted about as the hands of a wayward clock. The cabin was prettily decorated with flowers, and the table, weighted so as to remain always horizontal, was covered with snowy linen and delicate glass, while a small conceit full of cut flowers faced each of the guests. The steward and stewardess buzzed about with bottles and plates, and any appetite that could not have been tempted must have been in a bad way. The absence of that apology for a chaperon, who was trying to enjoy the breezes overhead, gave the repast an informality which the primness of the Misses Dusenall soon failed to check, although at first their precise intonations and carefully copied English accent did something to restrain undue hilarity on the part of those who did not know them well.
The idea of being able to entertain in this style gave the Misses Dusenall an inflation which at first showed itself in a conversation and manner touchingly English. The average English maiden, though by nature sufficiently insular in manner and speech, is taught to be more so. The result is that among strangers she rarely seems quite certain of herself, as if anxious lest she should wreck herself on a slip of the tongue or the sounding of a false note. Her prudish manners and her perfect knowledge of what not to say often suggest Swift's definition of "a nice man." One trembles to think what effect the emancipation of marriage will have upon some of these wildly innocent creatures. In Canada, and especially in the United States, we are thankful to take some things for granted, without the advertisement of a manner which seems to say: "I am so awfully pure and carefully brought up, don't you know."
The Misses Dusenall on this occasion soon found themselves in a minority (not the minority of Matthew Arnold), and before leaving the table they adopted some of that more genial manner and speech which, if slightly faulty, we are satisfied to consider as "good enough for the colonies."
Maurice seemed to expand as the English fog gradually lifted. The aged appearance that anxiety was giving him had disappeared. Amid the chatter going on, in which it was difficult to get an innings, Jack Cresswell seized a bottle of claret and called out that he proposed a toast.
"What? toasts at such an informal luncheon as this, Jack?" exclaimed Propriety, with the accent somewhat worn off.
"What's the odds as long as you're happy and the 'rosy' is close at hand?" said Jack. "Besides, this is a case of necessity—"
"I propose that we have a series of toasts," interrupted Charlie; who was beginning to feel himself again. "With all their necessary subdivisions," added Rankin, in his incisive little voice, which could always make itself heard.
"There you are again, Rankin," cried Jack. "I proposed a toast with Rankin two days ago, ladies, and, as I live by bread, he subdivided it sixteen times."
Dusenall was calling for a bottle of Seltzer water.
"Never mind your soda," commanded Jack. "Soda can't do justice to this toast. I propose this toast because I regard it as one of absolute necessity—"
"They all are," called Maurice.
"Gentlemen, I must protest against my learned friend's interrup—"
"Go on, Jack. Don't protest. Propose. I am getting thirsty," cried Hampstead's voice among a number of others.
"Well, gentlemen, am I to proceed or not? Have I the floor, or not?"
"That's just what he said after those sixteen horns," said Rankin, addressing the party confidentially. "Only, then he did not 'have the floor,' the floor had him."
His absurdity increased the hubbub, as Jack rapped on the table to command attention.
"The toast I am about to propose is one of absolute neces—"
"Oh, my!" groaned Rankin, "give me something in the mean time." He grasped a bottle, as if in desperation. "All right, now. Go on, Jack. Don't mind me."
The orator went on, smiling:
"It is, as I think I have said before, one of absolute—"
Here the disturbance threatened to put an end to the proposed toast.
"Take a new deal."
"Got any more toasts like this?"
"Oh, I would like a smoke soon. Hurry up, Jack."
"Well, ladies and gentlemen," said Jack, banging on the table to quell the tumult; "I will skip over the objectionable words, and propose that we drink to the health of one who has been unable to be with us to-day, and who needs our assistance; who perhaps at this moment is suffering untold troubles far from our midst. Ladies and gentlemen, have you charged your glasses?"
Answers of "Frequently."
"Well, then," said Jack, as he stood with a bottle in one hand and a glass in the other, "I ask you to drink with me to the health of 'The Chaperon,' who is nigh unto death."
All stood up, and were loudly echoing, "The Chaperon—nigh unto death!" when a long hand came down the skylight overhead and a voice was heard from on high, saying:
"Nothing of the kind. How dare you, you bad boy? Just put something into my hand and I'll drink my own health. I don't need your assistance at all."
Cheers broke out from the noisy gathering, and they all rushed on deck to see Mrs. Dusenall drink her own health, which she bravely accomplished.
They were a riotous lot. All the boat wanted was a policeman to keep them in something more like order, for a small joke received too much credit with them, and they laughed too easily.
Frenchman's Bay and Whitby were passed before they came up from lunch. Oshawa could be seen far away on the shore, as the yacht buzzed along with unabated speed. A speck on the horizon had risen up out of the sea to be called Raby Head—the sand-bluff near Darlington. Small yellow and green squares on the far-off brown uplands that rolled back from the shores denoted that there were farms in that vicinity; dark-blue spots, like feathery tufts, appeared here and there where the timber forests had been left untouched, and among them small marks or lines of white would occasionally appear where, on looking through the glasses, little railway trains seemed to be toiling like ants across the landscape.
There was no ceremony to be observed, nor could it be seen that anybody endeavored to keep up conversations which required any effort. The men, lounging about on the white decks, seemed to smoke incessantly while they watched the water hissing along the sides of the vessel, or lay on their backs and watched the masthead racing with the white clouds down the lake, and the girls, disposed on cushions, tried to read novels and failed. The sudden change to the fresh breezes of the lake, and the long but spirited rise and fall of the vessel made them soon doze away, or else remain in that peaceful state of mind which does not require books or masculine society or music, or anything else except a continuation of things just as they are. Granby and Newcastle were mentioned as the yacht passed by, but most of the party were drowsy, and few even raised their heads to see what little could be seen. Port Hope created but feeble interest, though the Gull Light, perched on the rocks far out in the lake, appeared romantic and picturesque. It seemed like true yachting to be approaching a strange lighthouse sitting like a white seabird on the dangerous-looking reefs, where the waves could be seen dashing up white and frothy.
Somewhere off Port Hope, about three or four miles away from the "Gull," one of the sailors had quietly remarked to the man at the wheel:
"We're a-goin' to run out of the wind."
Margaret was interested in this, wondering how the man knew. Far away in front and to the eastward could be seen a white haze that obliterated the horizon, and, as the yacht bore down to the Gull Light, one could see that beyond a certain defined line stretching across the lake the bright sparkle and blueness of the waves ceased, and, beyond, was a white heaving surface of water, without a ripple on it to mark one distance from another. It seemed strange that the wind blowing so freshly directly toward this calm portion of the lake should not ruffle it. The yacht went straight on before the wind at the same pace till she crossed the dividing line and passed with her own velocity into the dead air on the other side. The sails, out like wings, seemed at once to fill on the wrong side, as if the breeze had come ahead, and this stopped her headway. She soon came to a standstill. Every person at once awoke—feeling some of that numbness experienced in railway trains when, after running forty miles an hour for some time, the brakes are suddenly put on.
For half an hour the yacht lay within pistol-shot of the dancing, sparkling waves, where the breeze blew straight toward them, as far as the mysterious dividing line, and then disappeared. The spinnaker was taken in, and the yacht, regardless of the helm, "walloped" about in all directions, as the swells, swashing against the bow, or pounding under the counter, turned her around. This was unpleasant, and might last all night, if "the calm beat back the wind," as the sailors say, so Charley sent out the crew in the two boats, which were lowered from the davits, to tow the yacht into Cobourg, now about three miles away. The main-sheet was hauled flat aft to keep the main-boom quiet, and soon she had steerage way on.
To insure fine weather at home one must take out an umbrella and a water-proof. On the water, for a dead calm, sending the boats out to tow the yacht is as good as a patent medicine. Before very long the topsail seemed to have an inclination to fill on one side more than on the other, so one boat was ordered back and a club-gaff-topsail used in races was sent aloft to catch the breath moving in the upper air. This sail had huge spars on it that set a sail reaching a good twenty-five feet above the topmast head, and about the same distance out from the end of the gaff. It was no child's-play getting it up, and the sailors' chorus as they took each haul at the halyards attracted some attention. Perhaps no amateur can quite successfully give that break in the voice peculiar to a professional sailor when hauling heavily on a rope. And then the interjections:
"O-ho! H'ister up."
"Oh-ho! Up she goes."
"O-ho! R-Raise the dead."
"Now-then-all-together-and-carry-away-the-mast, O-ho!" etc.
Some especial touches were put on to-day for the benefit of the ladies, and when the man aloft wished those on deck to "sheet home" the big topsail, the rascal looked down at Margaret and called "sea foam!" In the forecastle she was called "Sea Foam" during the whole trip, not because she wore a dress of cricketing flannel, but on account of her former mistake in the words. To Rankin and some others who saw the little joke, the idea seemed poetical and appropriate.
Not more than a breath of wind moved aloft—none at all below—but it proved sufficient to send the yacht along, and about half-past six in the evening they slipped in to an anchor at Cobourg, fired a gun, and had dinner.