Some hearts might have yearned to have been on board during the fishing in Hay Bay, and to have enjoyed those evenings when the yacht anchored in the twilight calm, beside rocky shores, or near waving banks of sedge and rushes, where the whip-poor-will and bull frog supplied all the necessary music. I abandon all that occurred at pretty Picton and Belleville, but I must not forget the little episode that happened one evening near Indian Point as the yacht was on her way to Kingston. A fresh breeze had been blowing during the afternoon, and the two reefs, taken in for comfort's sake, still remained in the mainsail, as no one after dinner felt equal to the exertion of shaking them out. The wind had almost died away as they approached Indian Point, and not far off, on the other side of this long, narrow arm of the sea called the Bay of Quinte, lay MacDonald's Cove, a snug little place for anchorage in any kind of weather. A heavy bank of clouds was rapidly rising over the hills in the west, and hastening up the sky to extinguish the bright moon that had been making a fairy landscape of the bay and its surroundings, and the barometer was falling rapidly.
This condition of affairs Jack reported to Charley, who was below with several others having a little game in which the word "ante" seemed to be used sometimes in a tone of reproach. Charles answered gayly, without looking away from the game, that Jack had better get the yacht into the Cove while there was wind to take her there, and Jack, who observed that he was "seeing" and "raising" an antagonist for the fifth time on a pair of fours, thought a man should not be disturbed at such a time, and went on deck to shake out the reefs so as to drift into the Cove, if possible, before the storm came on. But when in the middle of the bay the wind gave out entirely. For half an hour the Ideal lay becalmed and motionless. Oilskin suits and sou'westers were donned. Now fringes of whitish scud, torn from the driving clouds, could be seen flying past the bleared moon, and it seemed in the increasing darkness, while they were waiting for the tumult, as if the shores around contracted, so as to give the yacht no space for movement. Jack took the compass bearings of the lighthouse, expecting soon to be in total darkness, and he had both anchors prepared for instant use. The sails had been close-reefed, but after being reefed they were lowered again so as to present nothing but bare poles to the squall. The darkness came on and grew intense. Between the rapidly increasing peals of thunder the squall could be heard approaching, moaning over the hills in the west and down the bay as if ravening for prey, while the lightning seemed to take a savage delight in spearing the distant cliffs which, in the flashes, were beautifully outlined in silhouette against an electric atmosphere. Still the yacht lay motionless in the dead air difficult to breathe and oppressive; and still Charley continued to "raise" and get "raised" in the cheerfully lighted cabin, whence the laughter and the talk of the game mingled strangely, in the ears of those on deck, with the sounds of the coming tempest. Margaret, with her head out of the companion-way, watched the scene with a nervousness that impending electrical storms oppressed her with. Her quick eyes soon caught sight of something on the water, not far off. A mystic line of white could be seen coming along the surface. She asked what it was at a moment when the deadness and blackness of the air seemed appalling, and the ear was filled with strange swishing sounds. She never heard any answer. Another instant and the yacht heeled over almost to the rail in that line of white water, which the whips of the tornado had lashed into spume. Blinding sheets of spray, picked up by the wind from the surface of water, flew over those on deck, and instantly the lee scuppers were gushing with the rain and spray which deluged the decks. Word was carried forward by a messenger from the wheel to hoist a bit of headsail, and when this was immediately done the yacht paid off before the squall, running easterly, with all the furies after her. The darkness was so great that it was impossible to see one's hand close to one's eyes. The thunderclaps near at hand were rendered more terrific by the echoes from the hills, and only while the lightning clothed the vessel in a spectral glare could they see one another. Still the yacht sped on, while Jack jealously watched the binnacle where the only guide was to be found. The Indian Point light, though not far off, was completely blotted out by the rain, which seemed to fall in solid masses, and even the lightning failed to indicate the shores or otherwise reveal their position.
A wild career, such as they were now pursuing, must end somewhere, and in the narrow rock-bound locality they were flying through, the chance of keeping to the proper channel entirely by compass and chart did not by any means amount to a certainty. Nor was anchoring in the middle of the highway to be thought of, especially as some trading vessels were known to be in the vicinity. The chance of being cut down by them was too great. Jack felt that an error now might cause the loss of the yacht. After calculating a variation of the compass in these parts, he decided to run before the gale for a while and keep in the channel if possible—hoping for a lull in the downfall of rain, so that his whereabouts could be discovered.
A high chopping sea was driving the yacht on, while she scudded under bare poles before the gale, and Jack had been for some little time endeavoring to estimate their rate of speed when the deluge seemed to abate partly and the glimmer of a light could be seen to the southward. A sailor called out "There's Indian Point light." If it had been the light he mentioned they would have had all they wanted. Jack feared they had run past it, but, to make sure, he asked the sailors their opinion. They all said they were certain it was Indian Point light. One of them declared he had seen the lighthouse itself in one of the flashes. So Jack had the peak of the mainsail partly hoisted and they drew around to the southward, so as to anchor under the lee of the lighthouse point. As the yacht came round sideways to the wind she lay down to it and moved slowly and heavily through the short angry seas that, hitting the side, threw spray all over her. Jack was feeling his way carefully and slowly through the inky blackness of the night with the lead-line going to show the depth of the water, when the lookout on the bowsprit-end, after they had proceeded a considerable distance to the south, suddenly cried "Breakers ahead!" and he tumbled inboard off the bowsprit, as if he thought the boat about to strike at once. "Let her go round, sir, for God's sake! We're right on the rocks."
Jack, back at the wheel, had not been able to get a glimpse of the foaming rocks in the lightning which the man on the bowsprit had seen. He despaired of the boat's going about, but he tried it. The high chopping sea stopped the yacht at once. He knew it was asking too much of her to come about with so little way on, and the canvas all in a bag, so, as there was evidently no room to wear the ship, he had the big anchor dropped. His intention was to come about by means of his anchor and get out on the other tack into the channel and anywhere away from the rocks and the breakers that could be heard above the tempest roaring close to them on the port side. While the chain was being paid out, the close-reefed mainsail was hoisted up to do its work properly. The storm staysail was also hoisted and sheeted home on the port side to back her head off from the land. As this was being done, the sailors paid out the anchor-chain rapidly. To do so more quickly they carelessly threw it off the winch and let it smoke through the hawse-pipe at its own pace. But suddenly there came a check to it, which, in the darkness, could not be accounted for. A bight or a knot in the chain had come up and got jammed somewhere, and now it refused to run out. The Ideal immediately straightened out the cable, and, at the moment, all the king's horses and all the king's men would have been powerless to clear it. Jack came forward, and with a lantern discovered how things were. "Never mind," he thought. "If she will lie here for a while no harm will be done." In the mean time, while the men were getting a tackle rigged to haul up a bit of the chain, so as to obtain control of it again, the rain ceased to fall, while the lightning, by which alone the men could see to work, served only to make the succeeding darkness more profound.
The place they had sailed into was on the north shore of Amherst Island. As Jack feared, the sailors had been wrong in thinking that the light they saw was the one on Indian Point. It was a lantern on a schooner which had gone ashore on the rocks close to where the Ideal now lay.
The worst of their anxiety was, however, yet to come. During a vivid flash, after the rain had partly cleared away, a reef of rocks was discovered a short distance off, trending out from the shore directly behind the yacht. Jack had been lying with his hand on the cable to feel whether the anchor was holding or not. He soon found that the yacht was "dragging." The sails were lowered at once, and the second anchor was left go, in the hope that it might catch hold when the first one had dragged back far enough to allow the second to work.
With the rocks behind waiting for them, it was now a question of anchors holding, or nothing—yacht or no yacht. Every moment as she pitched and ducked and tossed against the driving seas and wind she dropped back toward a black mass over which the waves broke savagely. The yacht was literally locked up to the big anchor. They could neither haul up nor pay out its cable, so that, until this was remedied by means of a tackle (which takes some time in a jumping sea and darkness) sailing again was impossible. Carefully they paid out chain enough for the second anchor to do its work. Not till they were close to the rocks did they allow any strain to come upon it. Then they took a turn on its chain and waited to see how it would hold.
Feeling the cable, when there is nothing to hope for but that the hook will do its work, is a quiet though anxious occupation. Jack waited for the sensations in the hand which will often tell whether the anchor is holding or not, and then rose, and in the moonlight which now began to break through the clouds his face looked anxious. "Flat rock," he muttered, "with a layer of mud on it."
By this time the men had got control of the big anchor's chain again and had knocked the kink out of it. But there was no room now to slip cables and sail off.
The rocks were too close. The idea struck him of winding in the first anchor a bit—in the hope that it might catch in a crack in the rock, or on a bowlder, before it got even with the second one.
This proved of no use, and the yacht was now approaching, stern-first, the point or outward rock of the reef which stood up boldly in the water. Only a few feet now separated this outside rock from the counter of the yacht. In two minutes more the stem would be dashing itself into matches.
Jack's brain, you may be sure, was on the keen lookout for expedients. He had the mainsail hoisted and the staysail flattened down to the port side—so as to back her head off. He hoped by this possibly to grind off the rocks by his sails after striking, and by then slipping his cables to get out into deep water before the stern was completely stove in. But while this was being done the thought came into his mind whether the stern might not clear the outer rock without hitting it. The changeable gusts of wind had been swinging the yacht sidewise—first a little one way and then a little the other. At the time he looked back at the yacht, they were just about near enough to strike when the wind shifted her a little toward the north, and for a moment the stern pointed clear of the outer rock. His first idea was that the wind was shifting permanently. But suddenly it came to him that this might be his only chance. He did not wait to command others, but flew to the anchor chains and threw off the coils. The yacht shot astern like the recoil of a cannon. He threw the chains clear of the windlass so that the vessel could dart backward without any check. It seemed a mad thing to do—to let both anchors go overboard—but it was a madness which when successful is called genius. It was genius to conceive and carry out the idea in an instant, and single handed, too, as if he were the only one on the boat, genius to know quickly enough exactly how the vessel would act. Half a dozen seconds sufficed to throw off the chains, and then he got back to the wheel, steering her as she went backward grazing her paint only against the rock, while the chains rushed out like a whirlwind over the bows. The staysail sheets had already been flattened down on the port side and the yacht's head paid off fast on the port tack, while Jack rapidly slacked the main sheet well off, and as she gathered way and plunged out into the open channel, an understanding of the quick idea that had saved the vessel trickled through the brains of the hired men. Instead of climbing to the rocks from a sinking yacht, as they expected to be doing at this moment, here they were heading out into deep water again—with the old packet good as new.
Cresswell called to the mate to keep her "jogging around" till he spoke to the owner about getting back the anchors, and then went below with the other men of the party who had remained on deck throughout the uncomfortable affair.
The workers on deck, who looked like submarine divers, slipped out of their oil-skins and descended from the deck to the gay cabin below. Charley still continued to "raise" and get "raised" with a pertinacity which defied the elements. His game had had the effect of making his mother and the others think, in spite of their tremors, that the danger lay chiefly in their own minds, and, under the circumstances, Charley had no easy time of it. He had listened to every sound, and knew a good deal more about the proximity of the rocks, and the trouble generally, than any one would have supposed.
He decided not to attempt to pick up the anchors that night, so they beat back to MacDonald's Cove, where they entered, in the moonlight, and made fast for the night to some trees beside a steep rocky shore.
Bassanio:So may the outward shows be least themselves;The world is still deceived with ornament.In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt,But, being seasoned with a gracious voice,Obscures the show of evil? In religion,What damméd error, but some sober browWill bless it, and approve it with a text,Hiding the grossness with fair ornament?
Bassanio:So may the outward shows be least themselves;The world is still deceived with ornament.In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt,But, being seasoned with a gracious voice,Obscures the show of evil? In religion,What damméd error, but some sober browWill bless it, and approve it with a text,Hiding the grossness with fair ornament?
Salarino:My wind, cooling my broth,Would blow me to an ague when I thoughtWhat harm a wind too great might do at sea.... Should I go to church,And see the holy edifice of stone,And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks?Merchant of Venice.
Salarino:My wind, cooling my broth,Would blow me to an ague when I thoughtWhat harm a wind too great might do at sea.... Should I go to church,And see the holy edifice of stone,And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks?
Merchant of Venice.
When approaching from the west among picturesque islands and past wooded points of land, our old city of Kingston affords the traveler a pleasant scene. Above the blue and green expanse of her spacious harbor, the penitentiary with its high wall and surrounding turrets suggests the Canadian justice we are proud of; and, further up, rises the asylum, suggestive only of Canadian lunacy, for which we do not claim pre-eminence, while beyond, some little spires and domes, sparkling in the sun, are seen over the tops of some English-looking stone residences, where the grassy lawns stretch down to the line of waves breaking on the rocky shore. Further off one sees the vessel-masts along the ship-yards and docks; here and there some small Martello forts try to look formidable; large vessels cross and recross the harbor, while others lie at anchor drying their sails; and beyond all, on the hill at the back, rises the garrison walls, where—
In spite of all temptation,Dynamite and annexation,
In spite of all temptation,Dynamite and annexation,
Canada is content, for the present at least, to see the English flag instead of our own.
As our friends came on deck the next morning (Sunday) they were able to enjoy this pleasant approach to Kingston. Mrs. Dusenall and others had wished to attend church if possible in the limestone city, and an early start had been made by the sailors long before the guests were awake. The wind came lightly from the southward, which allowed them to pick up the anchors without difficulty, and it took but a short time to sweep in past the city and "come to" off the barrack's wharf, where a gun was ceremoniously fired as the anchor was lowered from the catheads.
Mrs. Dusenall piped all hands for divine service. They came out of the ark two by two and filed up the streets in that order until the church was reached. The boys came out in "heavy marching order"—Sunday coats, and all that sort of thing—which made a vast change from the picturesque and rather buccaneer-like appearance they presented on the yacht.
If a traveling circus had proceeded up the center aisle of the attractively decorated edifice, no greater curiosity could have been exhibited among the worshipers. Mrs. Dusenall had some of the imposing mien of a drum-major as she led her gallant band to seats at the head of the church, and Charley was justly proud of the fine appearance they made. He had surveyed them all with pleasure while on the sidewalk outside, and had paid the usher half a dollar to lead them all together to front seats. Walk as lightly as they could, it was impossible in the stillness of the church to prevent their entrance from sounding like that of soldiery, and once the eyes of the worshipers rested on the noble troop they became fixed there for some time. There was a ruddy, bronzed look about the yachting men's faces which, innocent of limestone dust tended to deny the almost aggressive respectability which good tailoring and cruelty collars attempted to claim for them. In the hearts of the fair Kingstonians who glanced toward them there arose visions of lawn-tennis, boating, and buccaneer costumes suggested by that remarkably able-bodied and healthy appearance which a fashionable walk, bank trousers, and a gauzy umbrella may do much to modify but can not obliterate. As for the male devotees, it was touching to mark their interest in Margaret as she went up the aisle keeping step with the shortened pace of the long-limbed Geoffrey. The clergyman was just saying that the scriptures moved them in sundry places when all at once he became a mere cipher to them. After their first thrill at the beauty of her face, their eyes followed Margaret and that wonderful movement of hers that made her, as with a well-ordered regiment, almost as dangerous in the retreat as in the advance. But Nina came along close behind her, and those who, though disabled, survived the first volley were slaughtered to a man when the rich charms of her appearance won her a triumph all her own. Jack, walking by her side, full of gravity but happy, took in the situation with pride at her silent success. Then all the others followed, and when they were installed in a body in the three front pews, and after they had all bowed their heads and the gentlemen had carefully perused the legend printed in their hats—"Lincoln Bennett & Coy, Sackville Street, Piccadilly, London. Manufactured expressly for Jas. H. Rogers, Toronto and Winnipeg"—they got their books open and admitted that they had done things they ought not to have done and that there was no health in them.
The interior of the church was a luxury to the eye in its mellow coloring from stained-glass windows and carefully-arranged lights, and in its banners, altar-cloths, embroidery, and church millinery generally, it left little to be desired. The clergyman was a young unmarried offspring of a high-church college who, with a lofty disregard for general knowledge, had acquired a great deal of theology. He it was who arranged that dim religious light about the altar and walled up a neighboring window so that the burning of candles seemed to become necessary. Never having been out of America, it was difficult to imagine where he acquired the ultra-English pronunciation that had all those flowing "ah" sounds which after a while make all words so pleasantly alike in the high-pitched reading of prayers when, it may be inferred, that word-meanings are perhaps of minor import. It seemed that he alone was, from the holiness of his office, qualified to enter that mysterious place at the head of the chancel where, with his back to the congregation, at stated times he went through certain genuflexions and other movements in which the general public did not participate further than to admire the splendor of his back. The effect of the many mysteries on some of the Kingston men was to keep them away from the church. A few fathers of families and others came to please wives, sweethearts, or clients, and in the cool, agreeable edifice enjoyed some respectable slumber or watched the proceedings with mild curiosity or had their ears filled either with good music or the agreeable sound of the intoning.
The effect of the little mysteries on the well-to-do women of the church (for it was no place for a poor man's family) was varied. On the large-eyed, nervous, impressionable, and imaginative virgins—those who could always be found ready in the days of human sacrifices—the clergyman's mysteries and the exercise of the power of the Church, as exhibited in the continual working of his strong will upon them, had of course the usual results in enfeebling their judgment and in rendering them very subservient. In the case of some unimaginative matrons and more level-headed girls these attractions did not unfit them for every-day life more than continual theatre-going, and they took a pride in and enjoyed a sense of quasi-ownership in the man whom it tickled their fancy to clothe in gorgeous raiment. To these solid, pleasure-loving, good-natured women, whose religion was inextricably mixed up with romance, the mysteries, sideshows, and formalities of their splendidprotégébrought satisfaction; and in their social gatherings they discussed the doings of their favorite much as a syndicate of owners might, in the pride of ownership, discuss their horse. It may be pleasing to be identified with the supernatural, but one's self-respect must need all such compensations to allow one to become a peg for admiring women to hang their embroidery on—to be largely dependent upon their gratuities, subject to some of their control, to put in, say, two fair days' work in seven, and spend the rest in fiddle-faddle.
"There is but one God. What directly concerns you, my friends, is that Mohammedis his Prophet—to interpret the supernatural for you." It would be interesting to find out if there ever existed a religion, savage or civilized, whose public proclamation did not contain a qualifying clause to retain the power in the priests.
The sermon on this occasion was on the observance of the Sabbath. It contained much church law and theology, and in quotations from different saints who had lived at various periods during the dark ages, and whose sayings did not seem to be chosen so much on account of their force as for the weight given by the names of the saints themselves, which were deliveredore rotundo. But it is doubtful whether the most erudite quotation from obscure mediæval saints is capable of carrying much conviction to the hearts of a Canadian audience, and Jack and Charley had to be kicked into consciousness from an uneasy slumber.
From the saints the priest descended to Chicago, a transition which awoke several. And he sought to illustrate the depravity of that city by commenting upon the large facilities there provided for Sabbath-breaking. He spoke of the street-cars he had seen there running on that day, and of the suburban trains that carried thousands of working-women and girls out of the city. He did not say that the cars were chiefly drawn by steam-power, nor that these poor, jaded, hollow-eyed girls worked harder in one day than he did in three weeks; nor did he speak of the weak women's hard struggle for existence in the life-consuming factories; nor of the freshness of the lake breezes in the spots where the trains dropped thousands of their overworked passengers.
Margaret Mackintosh had seen these dragged, dust-choked, narrow-chested, smoke-dried girls, with all the bloom of youth gone from them, trying to make their drawn faces smile as they go off together in their clean, Sunday print dresses, too jaded for anything save rest and fresh air. She knew that any man not devoid of the true essence of Christ might almost weep in the fullness of his sympathy with them. But the young priest convicted them of sacrilege, and did not say he was thankful for being privileged to witness such a sight, or that Chicago existed to shame the more priest-ridden cities of Canada.
When this story was concluded, Mrs. Dusenall, and many of her kind; and the unimpressionable girls looked acquiescence, because the words were backed by the Church, but their hearts went out to the poor sinners in Chicago. Only with those who took their mental bias from the priest did his words find solid resting-place. Geoffrey sat with an inmovable face, impossible to read. His subsequent remark to Margaret, when she had delivered her opinions about the matter, was, however, characteristic. He said simply, as if deprecating her vehemence:
"The man must live, you know, and how is he to live if people go out of town on Sunday." To Geoffrey a short time was sufficient to satisfy him that the preacher ought to have lived in the days when mankind were saturated with belief in miracle and looked for explanation of events by miracle without dreaming of other explanation.
During the next five minutes the sermon rather wandered from the subject, but fastened upon it again in an anecdote of an occurrence said to have taken place at an American seaport town, during the preacher's visit there.
Several young mechanics, instead of going to church one Sunday morning, had engaged a yawl, and also the fishermen who owned it, to take them to a village on the coast and back again. It appeared from the account that for a day and a night the yawl had been blown away from the coast, and then that the wind had changed, so as to drive it back again; and the story of the voyage naturally found attentive listeners among our yachting friends.
"All through that first terrible day, and all through the long, black night they were tossed about among the giant billows of a most tempestuous ocean. And what, dear friends, must have been the agony and remorse of those misguided young men when they thus realized the results of their deliberate breaking of the holy day. As they clung to the frail vessel, which reeled to and fro beneath them like a drunken man, and which now alone remained to possibly save them from a watery grave—as they perceived the billows breaking in upon that devoted ship, insomuch that it was covered with waves, what must have been their sensations? And when the wind suddenly changed its direction and blew them with terrible force back again toward the rocky coast, we can imagine how earnestly they made their resolutions never again to transgress in this way. Once more, after a while, they saw the land again, and as they came closer they could discern the spires of those holy edifices which they had abandoned for the sake of forbidden pleasures and in which they were doomed never to hear the teachings of the Church again. There lay the harbor before them, as if in mockery of all their attempts to reach it; and while raised on high in the air, on the summit of some white, mountainous billow, they could obtain a Pisgah-like view of those homes they were destined never again to enter."
Jack was broad awake now and wondering why, with the wind dead after them, the fishermen in charge of the boat could not make the harbor.
"Suddenly there came a great noise, which no doubt sounded like a death knell in the hearts of the terrified and exhausted young men. It was soon discovered that the mainsail of the ship had been blown away by the fury of the tempest."
"Now what was their unhappy condition? How could they any longer strive to reach the longed-for haven when the mainsail of the yawl was blown away?"
Jack shifted in his seat uncomfortably at this point. He was saying to himself: "Why not sneak in under a jib? Or even under bare poles? Or, if the harbor was intricate, why not heave to under the mizzen and signal for a tug?" Half a score of possibilities followed each other through his brain, which in sailing matters worked quickly. He always inclined from his early training to accept without question all that issued from the pulpit; but this story bothered him. The instructor went on:
"Clearly there was now no hope for the devoted vessel. Even the anchor was gone; the anchor of Hope, dear friends, was gone. The strong trustworthy anchor (in which mariners place so great confidence that it has become the type or symbol of Hope) was gone—washed overboard by the temptuous waves."
Charley here received a kick under the seat from Jack whose face was now filled with a blank incredulity, which showed that the influence of his early training had departed from him.
In one way or another, the preacher succeeded in irritating some of the Ideal's crew. He went on to say that the yawl was dashed to pieces on the rocks, and that only one man—a fisherman—survived; from which he drew the usual moral.
With three or four exceptions, our friends went out of church not as good-humored as when they came in. Geoffrey alone seemed to have enjoyed himself. His heart-felt cynicism pulled him through. He said aloud to Mrs. Dusenall, when they were all together again, that he thought the preacher's description of the perils of the deep was very beautiful. (Dead silence from Jack and Charley). Mrs. Dusenall concurred with him, and said it was wonderful how clergymen acquired so much general knowledge.
Presently Charley, thoughtfully: "Say, Jack, what was the matter with that boat, any way?"
"Blessed if I could find out," said Jack.
"Why! did you not hear? Her mainsail was gone," said Geoffrey gravely, to draw Jack out.
"Well, who the deuce cares for a mains'l?" answered Jack, rising testily to the bait. "The man does not know what he is—well, of course, he is a clergyman, but then, you know—my stars! not make a port in broad daylight with the wind dead aft! Perfectly impossible to miss it! And, then the anchor—a fisherman's anchor!—washed overboard!"
Geoffrey persisted, more gravely, in a reproachful tone; "You don't mean to say, Jack, that you doubt that what a clergyman says is true?"
The Misses Dusenall also looked at him very seriously.
Jack was a candid young man, and had his religious views fixed, as it were, hereditarily. He looked at his boots, as if he would like to evade the question; but, seeing no escape, he came out with his answer like parting with his teeth.
"When the parson," he said with stolid determination, "goes in for mediæval saints, I don't interfere. He can forge ahead and I won't try to split his wind. But when he talks sailing he must talk sense. No, sir! I donotbelieve that story—and no Angel Gabriel would make me."
There was a force behind his tones of conviction which amused some of his hearers.
"Jack Cresswell! You surprise me," said Geoffrey loftily.
After lunch the ladies went up into the city to visit some friends, and the men were lying about under the awning, chatting, smoking, and sipping claret.
"Well, there was one thing about that boat that caused the entire disturbance," said Charley, sagaciously. "I've thought the whole thing out; and I put down the trouble to the usual cause—and that is—whisky. When the fishermen found there was liquor on board they 'steered for the open sea,' and when they were all stark, staring, blind drunk they went ashore."
"I fancy you have solved the difficulty," said Mr. Lemons. "The preacher did not, somehow, seem to get hold of me. My notion is that he should come down to your level and help you up—like those Arab chaps that lug and butt you up the Pyramids—not stand at the top and order you to climb."
"Just so," said Geoffrey. "A speaker must in some way make his listeners feel at home with him, just as a novel, to sell well, must contain some one touch of nature that makes the whole world kin. The sympathies must be excited. In books accepted by gentle folk the "one touch" of attractive and primitive nature is refined, and in this shape it is called poetry—in this shape it creates vague and pleasant wonderings, especially in the minds of those whose fancies are capable of no higher intellectual flight. When we see that people so universally seek productions in which nature is only more or less disguised, we seem to understand man better."
"What are you trying to get at now?" asked Jack, with a smiling show of impatience.
"Why," said Hampstead, "take the work of the sprightliest modern novel writers—say, for instance, Besant and Rice. Deduct the fun from their books and the shadowy plot, and what remains? A girl—a fresh, young, innocent girl—who, with her beautiful face and figure, charms the heart. She does not do much, and (with William Black) she says even less; but the people in the book are all in love with her, and the reader becomes, in a second-hand and imaginative way, in love with her also. She is quiet, lady-like, and delicious; her surroundings assist in creating an interest in her; but in the dawn and development of love within her lies the chief interest of most readers. The mind concentrates itself without effort when lured by any of our earlier instincts. What we want is a definition as to what degree of careful mental exertion is worthy of being dignified by the name of "thought," as distinguished from that sequence of ideas, without exertion, which is sufficient in all animals for daily routine and the carrying out of instinct."
"There are some of your ideas, Hampstead, which do not seem to promise improvement to anybody," said Jack.
"And, for you, the worst thing about them is that they have a semblance of truth," replied Hampstead.
"Sometimes—yes," admitted Jack. "But I would not excuse you because they happened to be true. The only way I excuse you is because, after your scientific mud-groveling, you sometimes point higher than others. Are we to understand, then, that you object to novel reading on moral grounds?"
"Don't be absurd. A novel may be all that it should be. I am stating what I take to be facts, and I think it interesting to consider why we enjoy what ladies call 'a good love-story.' You will notice that people who adopt an over-ascetic and unnatural life and do not seek nature, give up reading 'good love-stories.' Perhaps they vaguely realize that the difference in the interest created by Black's insipid Yolande and Byron's Don Juan is merely one of degree."
"Now, will you be so good as to say candidly what gain you or any one else ever received from thinking in such channels as these?" inquired Jack, with impatience.
"Certainly. It keeps me from transcendentalism—from being led off into vanity—thoughts about my immortality—"
"Surely," interrupted Jack, "the aspirations of one's soul are sufficient to convince us that we will live again."
"Jack, a man's soul is simply his power of imagining and desiring what he hasn't got. Once a day, more or less, his soul imagines immortality. The rest of the time it imagines his sweetheart. If a poet, his soul combines the two. Or else it is the mighty dollar, or hunting, or something else. Shall all his aspirations toward nature go for nothing? His soul will conjure up his sweetheart nine thousand times for one thought of his future state. Because he has acquired neither. If he had acquired either, he would soon be quite as certain that there was something still better in store for him. With our minds as active and refined as they are, it would be quite impossible for men to do otherwise than have their imaginings about souls and immortality. These make no proof; the savage has none of them; and if they were proof, whither do man's aspirations chiefly point? To earth or to heaven?"
"Well, I suppose your answer," said Jack, "is sufficient for yourself. You study science, then, to persuade yourself that when you die you will remain teetotally dead?"
"Rather to make myself content with a truth which is different from and not so pleasant as that which we are taught in early life."
"For goodness' sake," cried Mr. Lemons, yawning, "pass the claret."
Visam Britannos hospitibus feros.Horace,Lib. 3, Carm. 4.
Visam Britannos hospitibus feros.
Horace,Lib. 3, Carm. 4.
Mrs. Dusenall liked the visit to Kingston. She was proud of the appearance her guests and family made at the church, and she thought of going home and writing a book as prodigal of pretty woodcuts and fascinating price-lists as those published by other gilded ladies. True, she had with her no young children wherewith to awake interest in foreign places by detailing what occurred in the ship's nursery; and thus she might have been driven to say something about the foreign places themselves, which, in a book of travels, are perhaps of secondary importance when a whole gilded family may be studied in their interesting retirement.
They kept a log on the Ideal, and each one had to take his or her turn at keeping the account of the cruise posted up to date.
Some events on board or near the Ideal did not come under Mrs. Dusenall's notice and did not appear in the log-book. Nobody flirted with Mrs. Dusenall to make her experience exciting, and her book, if written, would have been one long panorama of landscape interlarded with the mildest of items. But compress your world even to the size of a yacht, and there will be still more going on, in the same eternal way, than any one person can observe, especially if that person happens to be a chaperon.
The first evening among the islands was spent in different ways. Some paddled about to explore or bathe. Flirtation of a mild type was prevalent—interesting possibly to the parties concerned, and, as usual, to themselves only. Toward dusk the gig was manned by the crew for the transportation of Mrs. Dusenall and part of her suite across the river through the islands to the hotels at Alexandria Bay on the American shore. The hotel guests on the balconies and verandas were continuing to enjoy or endure that eternal siesta which at these places seems to be quite unbroken save at meal times, and the arrival of a number of very presentable people in a handsome gig, rowed in the man-of-war style by uniformed sailors and steered by a person with a gold-lace badge on his cap, created a ripple of interest. Among those on the verandas engaged, perhaps overtaxed, in the digestion of their dinners, not a few were slightly interested by what they saw. In a group of a dozen or more a gentleman behind a solitaire shirt-stud, worth a good year's salary for a Victoria Bank clerk seemed to be speaking the thoughts of the party, though his words came out chiefly as a form of soliloquy. He seemed to be taking a sort of admiring inventory of the gig and its occupants as it approached the landing wharf:
"Small sailor boy—standing in the bow—with a spear in his hand."
It was a boat-hook in the boy's hand, but it might have been a trident.
"He's real cunnin'—that boy—in his masquerade suit. Four sailors—also in masquerade costume. And they can make her hump up the river, sure's-yer-born. Now I wonder who those fellows are—in buttons—with gold badges on their hats. Wonder what those badges might imply! Part of the masquerade, I guess. But stylish—very."
Then, turning to a friend, he said:
"Cha'ley, those people are yachting round here."
At this discovery the exhausted-looking refugee from overwork in some city addressed as "Cha'ley," whose face was lit up solely by a cigar, answered slowly but decisively:
"Looks like it—very."
Then followed a quick mental calculation in the head of the gentleman behind the solitaire, and, as the boat came alongside the landing, the oars being handled with trained accuracy, he said:
"I wonder how many of those paid men they have on board. I like it. I like the whole thing. I shall do it myself next summer. And right up to the handle. Cha'ley, bet you half a dollar that those are first-class gentlemen and ladies down there, and we ought to go down andreceive them."
"Why, certainly," said the other in grave, staccato tones, which seemed to deny the exhaustion of his appearance by indicating some internal strength. "James," he added in solemn self-reproach, "we should have been down—on the landing—to assist the ladies from their canoe."
As they left the veranda several ladies called after them:
"Mr. Cowper, we would be pleased to have you bring the ladies up."
Mr. Cowper bowed with gravity, but did not say anything, as he was preparing within him his form of self-introduction.
In a few moments Mr. Cowper and Mr. Withers met our party as they slowly meandered up the ascent toward the hotel. Mr. Cowper, hat in hand, gave them collectively a bow, which, if somewhat foreign in its nature, was not without dignity, and he addressed them with unmistakable hospitality, while Mr. Withers, by a flank movement, attacked the left wing of the party, where he conducted a little reception of his own.
Mr. Cowper said, "How do you do, ladies and gentlemen?"
Mrs. Dusenall bowed and smiled, and the others, wondering what was coming, bowed also as they caught Mr. Cowper's encompassing eye. "We regret," he said, looking toward Geoffrey, to whom he was more especially attracted on account of his cap-badge and greater stature. "We regret, captain, that we did not notice your arrival in time to be on the landing to assist the ladies from your canoe."
Geoffrey's smile only indicated his gratification and had no reference to Mr. Cowper's new name for the yacht's gig.
"We are only guests in the hotel ourselves, but if we had known of your coming some of us certainly would have been down toreceive you in the proper manner."
What "proper manner" of reception Mr. Cowper had in his head it is difficult to say. His words showed Mrs. Dusenall, however, that he was not the custom-house officer or the hotel-keeper, which relieved her of some anxiety lest she should make a mistake. At a slight pause in his flow of language she thanked him in her most reassuring accents, and continued in those suave tones and with that perfect self-possession, with which the English duchess, her head a little on one side and chin upraised, has been supposed carelessly to assert her person, crown, and dignity.
"I assure you," she said, "that we are only knocking about, as it were, quite informally, from place to place in the yacht."
"Quite informally," echoed Geoffrey, who was enjoying Mrs. Dusenall.
She added: "So, of course, we could not think of allowing you to give yourselves any trouble on our account."
In what pageantry Mrs. Dusenall proceeded when not traveling quite informally Mr. Cowper did not give himself the trouble to consider. The thought came to him that he might be entertaining an English duchess unawares, but the succeeding consciousness that he could probably buy up this duchess "and her whole masquerade" fortified him as with triple brass.
"Madam," he said, with that distinctness and intensity with which Americans convey the impression that they mean what they say, "if we have neglected you and your friends at first, we will be pleased if you will allow us now to try to make your visit attractive."
Mrs. Dusenall thought this was assuming a heavy responsibility.
"If you will come up on the pe-az-a, there are a number of real nice ladies who would be most pleased to meet you."
Several of the party began to think that the cares of "knocking about quite informally" were about to commence. But as there was no escape, and all smiled pleasantly, and Mr. Cowper conversed as he and Mr. Withers led them up to the "pe-az-a." He was gratified at the way they responded to his endeavors; and perhaps he was not without a latent wish to show his hotel friends how perfectly at home he was in "first-class British society."
"There is always something going on here," he said; "and if there is nothing on just now we will get up something real pleasant—or my name's not Cowper."
This hint as to his identity was not thrown away, and as it seemed more than likely that they were about to be entertained immediately by this gentleman behind the solitaire headlight, it occurred to Geoffrey that it would be as well for the party to know what his name was.
"Mr. Cowper, let me introduce you to Mrs. Dusenall."
This quickness on Geoffrey's part relieved Mr. Cowper from any difficulty in mentioning his own name. Mrs. Dusenall then introduced him in a general way to the remainder of the party. To Miss Dusenall it was impossible for him to do more than bow, as she was chilling in her demeanor. She had received, as has been hinted, that final distracting finishing polish which an English school is expected to give, and she sought to be so entirely English as not to know what cosmopolitan courtesy was.
Margaret's face, however, gave Mr. Cowper encouragement and pleasure, and, as he shook hands warmly with her, something in her appearance gave a new spur to his hospitable intentions. The energy of a new nation seemed bottled up within him, as he said to Margaret:
"If I can't get up something here to make you enjoy yourself, why—why don't believe in me any more."
His evident but respectful admiration could only elicit a laugh and a blush. It was impossible to resist Mr. Cowper in his energetic intention to be host, and, in spite of his dazzling headlight, the national generosity and forgetfulness of self were so apparent in him that Margaret "took to him" in a way that mystified the other girls, who regarded the headlight only as a warning beacon placed there by Providence to preserve young ladies with an English boarding-school finish from undesirable associations.
Mr. Cowper was what is called "self-made"—a word that in the States conveys with it no implied slur—for the simple reason that there is not the same necessity for it as in England. Speaking generally, an American has a generous consideration for women and a largeness of character, or rather an absence of smallness, not yet sufficiently recognized as national characteristics. He is generally the same man after "making his pile" as before—not always fully acquainted, perhaps, with social veneer, but kind, keen, and generous to a fault. It would be an insult to such a one to compare him with the "self-made" Englishman, whose rude pretension of superiority to those poorer than himself, truckling servility to rank and position, and ignorance of everything outside his own business render him very unlovely.
"Now," said Mr. Cowper, when he had been introduced to them all. "Now," he said, "we're all solid. We will just step up-stairs, if you please." He looked at them all pleasantly as he offered his arm to assist Mrs. Dusenall's ascent. When they arrived on the veranda above, his idea was that, in order to bring about the perfect concord he desired to see, individual introductions were necessary. To Mrs. Dusenall he introduced a large number of lean girls and stout women, ninety per cent of whom said "pleased to meet you," and Mrs. Dusenall, appearing, with surprising activity of countenance, to be freshly gratified at each introduction, quite won their hearts.
But when Mr. Cowper commenced to introduce them all over again to Margaret, that young person, not being afraid of women, rebelled, and, touching his arm to stay his impetuous career, said: "Oh, no, it will take too long. Let me do it." Then she turned to the company. "As Mr. Cowper says, my name is Mackintosh," and she ducked them a sort of old-fashioned courtesy. The company bowed—some smiling and some solemn at her audacity. "And very much at your service," she added, as she dipped again to the solemn ones—capturing them also. Then she turned to the others. "And this is Miss Dusenall," and so-and-so, and so-and-so, until they were all made known.
"And this is Morry," she said lastly, taking the little man by the coat-sleeve. "Make your bow, Morry."
Rankin remained gazing on the ground until she shook him by the sleeve. Then he took a swift, scared glance at the assembly, and said, "I'm shy," and hid his head behind tall Margaret's shoulder. This absurdity amused the American girls, and five or six of them, forgetting their stiffness, crowded around to encourage him. A beaming matron came up to Margaret and took her kindly by the elbows.
"I must kiss you, my dear. You did that so charmingly."
"Indeed, it's very kind of you to say so," replied Margaret, as she received an affectionate salute. "Long introductions are so tiresome, are they not?"
"They do take time, my dear," said the motherly person, as they sat down together.
"Yes, time and introductions should be taken by the forelock," smiled Margaret.
"Just what you did, my dear. Idowish I had a daughter like you. Oh my!" And the little woman's face grew long for a moment at some sad recollection. An interesting episode of family sorrow would have been confided to Margaret if they had not been interrupted by the arrival of four tall young men, in company with Mr. Withers. The grave, worn-out face of Mr. Withers had just a flicker in it as his strong ratchet-spring voice addressed itself to our party:
"Mrs. Dusenall and friends, permit me to introduce to you the 'Little Frauds.'"
The four tall young men bowed with the usual gravity, and then mixed with the company. They wore untanned leather and canvas shoes, dark-blue stockings, light-colored knickerbocker trousers, and leather belts. Navy-blue flannel shirts, with white silk anchors on the broad collars, completed their costume, with the exception of black neck-ties and stiff white linen caps with horizontal leather peaks. Taken as a whole, their costume was such a happy combination of a baseball player's and a Pullman-car conductor's that the brain refused to believe in the maritime occupation suggested by the white anchors.
Mr. Withers explained who they were.
"The Little Frauds," he said, "are a party of young men who live together in a kind of small shanty on one of the neighboring islands. Although the locality is picturesque, they do not live here during the winter, but only migrate to these parts when—well, when I suppose no other place will have them. They come here every year to enjoy the solitude of a hermit-life. Here they withdraw themselves from their fellow-man, and more especially their fellow-woman."
The gentlemen referred to were taking no manner of notice of Mr. Withers, and in their chatter with the girls were not living up to their character.
"The reason why they are called 'Little Frauds' has now almost ceased to be handed down by the voice of tradition," continued Mr. Withers. "It is not because they are intrinsically more deceptive than other men. No man who had any deception in his nature would go round with a leg like this without resorting to artifice to improve its shape."
Mr. Withers here picked up a blue-covered pipe-stem which served one of the Frauds with the means of locomotion.
"That, ladies and gentlemen," said Mr. Withers, slowly, in the tone of a lecturer, and poising the limb in his hand, "is essentially the leg of a hermit. If for no other reason than to hide that leg from the public, its owner, ladies, should become a hermit."
The leg here became instinct with life, and Mr. Withers suddenly stepped back and gasped for breath. Then he explained further:
"Seeing that the origin of the name is now almost lost in obscurity, the Little Frauds themselves have lately taken advantage of this fact, ladies, to palm off upon the public a spurious version of the story. They say, in fact, that because they systematically withdrew themselves into a life of celibacy and retirement, and being, as they claim, very desirable as husbands, this name was given to them as being frauds upon the matrimonial market."
Somebody here called out: "Oh, dry up, Withers!"
Mr. Withers took a glass of champagne from one of the waiters passing with a tray and did quite the reverse. He took two gulps, threw the rest over the railing, and continued:
"One glance, ladies, at these people, who are really outcasts from society, will satisfy you that their explanation of the term is as palpably manufactured as the manuscripts of Mr. Shapira—"
"Mister who?" inquired a profane voice.
"Unaccustomed as they are to the usages of polite society, ladies, you will excuse any utterances on their part that might seem intended to interrupt my discourse. The real reason of this ridiculous name is as follows—"
Here, a remarkably good-looking Fraud stood up before Mr. Withers and obliterated him. He spoke in a voice something like a corn-craik:
"We commissioned Mr. Withers to speak to you, Mrs. Dusenall, and to your party, on a topic of great interest to ourselves, but as the night is likely to pass before Mr. Withers gets to the point, we will have to dispense with his services."
Mr. Withers had already retired behind his cigar again, with the air of a man who had acquitted himself pretty well.
The Frauds then begged leave to invite by word of mouth all our party to a dance next evening on their island.
Mrs. Dusenall accepted for all, as she rose to go, suggesting, at the same time, that perhaps some of her new friends, if they did not think it too late, would accompany them across the water in the moonlight to examine their yacht.
After some conversation, a number went with Mrs. Dusenall in the gig, while Margaret and the rest of our party were ferried over by Frauds and others in their long and comfortable row-boats.
Some more champagne was broached on the yacht, but Mr. Withers said he remembered once, early in life, drinking some of the old rye whisky of Canada, and that since then he had always sought for annexation with that delightful country.
To the surprise of Mrs. Dusenall, both he and all the "Melican men" took rye whisky, and ignored her champagne.
The dismay of Mr. Cowper on hearing that the yacht would depart on the morning after the Frauds' dance was unfeigned. He said it "broke him all up."
"Just when we were getting everything down solid for a little time together," he said.
Mrs. Dusenall explained that the yacht was to take part in a race at Toronto in a few days, and must be on hand to defend her previously won laurels.
"Well, Mrs. Dusenall," said Mr. Cowper thoughtfully, "I have myself, over there in the bay, a small smoke-grinder that—"
"A—what?" inquired Mrs. Dusenall.
"A steamboat, madame—a small steam-yacht. Nothing like this, of course." He waved his hand airily as if he considered himself in a floating palace. "But very comfortable, I do assure you. Now, if you are going away so soon, the only thing I can do is to get you all to visit the different islands round here in my steam-barge. I call her the old roadster, madame, because she can't do her mile in better than three minutes."
As this represented a speed of twenty miles an hour, Mrs. Dusenall said it was fast enough for her. If he could have got a steamboat fast enough to beat the best trotting record Mr. Cowper would have been content.
It was settled that at eleven o'clock next day the steamer should call and take the whole party off to visit the islands; and he suggested that, as there would be "a sandwich or something" on the boat, Mrs. Dusenall need not think about a return to the Ideal for luncheon.
He then gravely addressed himself to the four Frauds and to Mr. Withers:
"Gentlemen, before we leave this elegant vessel, I wish to remind you that no real old Canadian rye whisky will pass our lips again until such a chance as this once more presents itself. Gentlemen, as this is the last drink we will have to-night, we will, with Mrs. Dusenall's permission, make ready our glasses, and we will dedicate and consecrate this toast to the success of the Ideal and her delightful crew. Mrs. Dusenall—ladies and gentlemen of the Ideal—this toast is not only to celebrate our new acquaintance, which we hope may have in the future more chances to ripen into intimacy (and which on our part will never be forgotten), but we drink it also for another reason—for another less worthy reason—and I can not disguise from you the fact that, to speak plainly,we like the liquor. Madame, the gentlemen of the Ideal have consented to come back with me now, to smoke just one cigar on the hotel before we all retire for the night. Citizens of the United States, Frauds, and others, as this is the last drink we are to have to-night, we will drink the toast in silence."
The gravity of the Americans is a huge national sham, throwing into relief their humor and sunshiny good-will, as in a picture a somber gray background throws up the high lights.
In half an hour more all the men were back at the hotel with Mr. Cowper; but, instead of pursuing the tranquil occupation of smoking a cigar, as he proposed, they were led in and confronted with a banquet in which the extensive resources of the hotel had been taxed to the utmost Mr. Cowper called it the "little something to eat," as he pressed them to come from the verandas into the hotel. But really it was a magnificent affair, and, as Mr. Lemons, who was eloquent on the subject, said, it was calculated to appeal to a man's most delicate sensibilities.
We will not follow them any further on this evening. Mr. Cowper's idea was to all have a good time together—banish stiffness, promote intimacy, and to drive to the winds all cares. He certainly succeeded, for at twelve o'clock there was not a "Mister" in the room for anybody. At one o'clock it was "Jack, old man," and "Cowper, old chappie," all round. At two o'clock the friendship on all sides was not only hermetically sealed, but it promised to be eternal, and after that, it was thought the night was a little dark for Charley Dusenall to return with the others to the yacht, so he remained at the hotel till morning.