Ferdinand:... Full many a ladyI have eyed with best regard; and many a timeThe harmony of their tongues hath into bondageBrought my too diligent ear; for several virtuesHave I liked several women; never anyWith so full a soul but some defect in herDid quarrel with the noblest grace she owed,And put it to the foil; but you, O youSo perfect and so peerless, are createdOf every creature's best.The Tempest.
Ferdinand:... Full many a ladyI have eyed with best regard; and many a timeThe harmony of their tongues hath into bondageBrought my too diligent ear; for several virtuesHave I liked several women; never anyWith so full a soul but some defect in herDid quarrel with the noblest grace she owed,And put it to the foil; but you, O youSo perfect and so peerless, are createdOf every creature's best.
The Tempest.
The "old roadster" had a busy time of it the next morning preparing for the visit to the islands. She was steaming up and down the river for a long while before our friends knew it was time to get up. At eleven o'clock she took on board the Canadians, and away they went—not at "better" than twenty miles an hour, but pretty fast. Mr. Cowper's hint that the Ideal was magnificent in its fittings had pleased the Dusenalls. They thought he had been somewhat impressed by a swinging chandelier over the cabin table. Mr. Cowper had examined this, found it did not contain the last improvements, said it was splendid, and the Dusenalls were pleased. But their pleasure was damped when they were led into the main cabin of the "old roadster." The crimson silk-plush cushions covering the divan around the apartment, into which they sank somewhat heavily, did not at first afford them complete repose. The window curtains andportièresthroughout the vessel were all of thick corded silk or silk plush. The walls and ceilings in the cabins were simply a museum of the rarest woods, and in the main cabin was a little tiled fireplace with brass dogs and andirons, its graceful curtains reined in with chains. The cabins alone had cost a fortune, and the Dusenalls were for once completely taken aback. Mrs. Dusenall did not get her head over on one sidea la duchesseany more that day, and it ended in her coming to the conclusion that Americans in their hospitalities may frequently have no other motive than to give pleasure. This could only be realized by Britons able to denationalize themselves so far as to understand that there may be a life on earth which is not alternate patronage and sponging. It is to be feared though that most of them receive attentions from Americans only as that which should, in the ordinary course of things, be forthcoming from a people blessed with a proper power to appreciate those excellent qualities of head and heart with which the visitor represents his incomparable nation.
Mr. Cowper did not do things by halves. As they sped about among the many islands the strains of harps and violins came pleasantly from some place about the boat where the musicians could not be seen. A number of people from the hotels and islands were also among Mr. Cowper's guests, and Mr. Withers, as a sort of aid-de-camp, assisted the host in bringing everybody together and in seeing that the colored waiters with trays of iced liquids did their duty. One room down below was reserved for the inspection of "the boys," a room which had received a good deal of personal attention and in which any drink known to the civilized world could be procured. Mr. Withers confidentially invited our friends to name anything liquid under the sun they fancied—from nectar to nitric acid. For himself, he said that "that champagne and stuff" going round on deck was not to his taste, and he had the deft-handed "barkeep" mix one of his own cocktails. His own invention in this direction was composed of eight or ten ingredients, and the Canadians were polite enough to praise the mixture; but, afterward, when among themselves, Jack's confession met with acquiescence when he said it seemed nothing but hell-fire and bitters.
The long, narrow craft threaded its tortuous way like a smooth-gliding fish through the little channels between the islands, passing up small natural harbors or coming alongside a precipitous rock. They several times disembarked to see how much art had assisted nature on the different islands, and viewed the fishponds, summer houses, awnings, and hammocks, and the taste displayed in the picturesque dwellings. Mr. Cowper's assurances that the owners of the islands would not object to be caught in any kind of occupation or garment were corroborated by the warm welcomes extended to them. Such is the freedom of the American citizen, that a good many of the islanders who heard Mr. Cowper was having a picnic "guessed they'd go along, too." It was evidently expected that they would do just as they liked, without being invited; in fact, Mr. Cowper loudly objected in several cases, declaring he had no provisions for them. "Never mind, old man, we're not proud. We'll whack up with your last crust, and bring a pocket-flask for ourselves."
This seemed friendly.
Of course the lunch, which was found to be spread under a large marquee on a distant island, was really another banquet. The hotel retinue had been up all night preparing for it. The waiters, glass, table-linen, flowers, and everything else showed what money could do in the way of transformation scenes. The only fault about it was that it was too magnificent for a picnic. It can not be a picnic when there is no chance of eating sand with your game-pie, no chance of carrying pails of water half a mile, no difficulty in keeping stray cows, dogs, and your own feet out of the table-cloth spread upon the ground. And when the trip in the steamer had ended and most of our crew were having a little doze on the Ideal during the latter part of the afternoon, the curiosity which Mr. Cowper had awakened was still at its height.
After dinner that evening, about eight o'clock, a pretty picture might have been made of the Ideal, as she lay in the shadows, moored to a well-wooded island where the rock banks seemed to dive perpendicularly into blue fathomless depths. The party were taking their coffee in the open air for greater coolness, and all had arrayed themselves for the dance in the evening. The delicately shaded muslins and such thin fabrics as the ladies wore blended pleasantly with the soft evening after-glow that fell upon the rustling trees and running water. Seated on the overhanging rocks beside the yacht, or perched up on the stowed mainsail, they not only supplied soft color to the darkling evening hues, but seemed to have a glow of their own, and reminded one of Chinese lanterns lit before it is dark. This may have been only a fancy, helped out by radiant faces and the slanting evening lights, but, even if the simile fails, they were certainly prepared to shine as brightly as they knew how at the ball later on.
The little basswood canoe, with its comfortable rugs and cushions, lay beside the yacht, bobbing about in the evening breeze, and Margaret sat dreamily watching its wayward movements.
"A penny for your thoughts?" asked somebody.
"I was thinking," answered Margaret, "that the canoe is the only craft that ought to be allowed in these waters, and that the builders of houses on these islands ought to realize that the only dwelling artistically correct should be one that either copies or suggests the wigwam. No one can come among these islands without wondering how long the Indians lived here. All the Queen Anne architecture we have seen to-day has seemed to me to be altogether misplaced."
"What you suggest could hardly be expected here," said Geoffrey, "because, putting aside the difficulty of building a commodious house which would still resemble a wigwam, there remains the old difficulty of getting people to see in imagination what is not before them—the old difficulty that gave us the madonnas, saints, and heroes as Dutch, Italian, or English, according to the nationality of the painter. Of all the pictures of Christ scattered over Europe, none that I have seen could have been like a person living much in the open air of the Holy Land. They will paint Joseph as brown as the air there will make anybody, because it does not matter about Joseph, but the Christs are always ideal."
"Still, I am sure something might be done to carry out my idea," said Margaret, keeping to the subject. "Surely localities have the same right to be illustrated according to their traditions that nations have to expect that their heroes shall be painted so as to show their nationality. No one would paint the Arab desert and leave out the squat black tent, the horse, and all the other adjuncts of the Bedouin. Why, then, build Queen Anne houses in a place where the mind refuses to think of anything but the Indian?"
"Perhaps," said Hampstead, "the case here is unique. It is difficult to find a parallel. But the same idea would present itself if one attempted to build an English Church in the Moorish style instead of the Gothic or something similar. I fancy that the subscribers would feel that the traditions of their race and native land were not being properly represented, as you say, in their architecture—that they would resent an Oriental luxury of outline suggesting only Mohammed's luxurious religion, and that nothing would suit them but the high, severe, and moral aspect of their own race, religion, and churches. By the way, did you ever consider how the moral altitude of each religion throughout the world is indelibly stamped in the very shape of each one's houses of worship. Begin at the whimsical absurdities of the Chinese, and come westward to the monstrosities of India, then to the voluptuous domes of the Moor and the less voluptuous domes of Constantinople, then to the still less Oriental domes of Rome, then to the fortress-like rectangular Norman, then to the lofty, refined, severe, upward-pointing Gothic of Germany and England. Each church along the whole line, by its mere external shape, will tell of the people and religion that built it better than a host of words."
"If that be so, it would seem like retrograding in architecture to suggest the Indian wigwam here," said Jack. "What do you say, Margaret?"
"I think that this is not a place where national aspirations in monuments need be looked for. Its claims must always be on the side of simple nature and the picturesque—a place for hard workers to recuperate in, and, therefore, the poetry of all its early traditions should in every way be protected and suggested."
"Of course, I suppose, Miss Margaret, the Indian you wish to immortalize is John Fenimore Cooper's Indian, and that you have no reference to Batoche half-breeds. Perhaps after a while we may see the genius of this place suggested further, but I think the Americans have had too much trouble in exterminating 'Lo, the poor Indian' to wish to be reminded of his former existence, and that the savagery of Queen Anne is sufficient for them. 'Lo' has, for them, no more poetry than a professional tramp. Out West, you know, they read it 'Loathe the poor Indian.'"
"They don't loathe the poor Indian everywhere," said Rankin, as he remembered an item about the dusky race. "You know our act forbidding people to work on Sunday makes a provision for the unconverted heathen, and says 'this act shall not apply to Indians.' Some time ago a man at the Falls of Niagara was accustomed to run an elevator on Sunday to carry tourists up and down the cliff to the Whirlpool Rapids. His employés were prosecuted for carrying on their business on the Sabbath day. When the following Sunday arrived, a quite civilized remnant of the Tuscarora tribe were running the entire business at splendid profits, and claimed, apparently with success, that the law could not touch them."
While this desultory talk was going on, Margaret was still watching the little canoe bobbing about on the water. Geoffrey said to her: "Those rugs and cushions in the canoe look very inviting, do they not?"
Margaret nodded.
"I know what you are thinking about," he whispered. "You want to go away in the canoe, and dream over the waters and glide about from island to island and imagine yourself an Indian princess."
She nodded again brightly.
"Well, if my dress-coat will not interfere with your imagining me a 'great brave,' you might get your gloves, fan, and shawl, and we can go for a sail, and come in later on at the dance. If the coat spoils me you can think of me as John Smith, and of yourself as Pocahontas."
As Margaret nestled down into the cushions of the canoe, Geoffrey stepped a little mast that carried a handkerchief of a sail, and, getting in himself, gave a few vigorous strokes with the paddle, which sent the craft flying from under the lee of the island. As the sail filled and they skimmed away, he called out to Mrs. Dusenall that they would go and see the people at the hotels, and would meet them at the dance about nine o'clock. From the course taken by the butterfly of a boat, which was in any direction except toward the hotels, this explanatory statement appeared to be a mere transparency.
Nina's spirits sank to low ebb when she saw these two going off together.
They sailed on for some distance in open water, and then, as the sail proved unsatisfactory, Margaret took it down, and they commenced a sinuous course among small islands. The dusk of the evening had still some of the light of day in it, but the moon was already up and endeavoring to assert her power. Everybody had given up wearing hats, which had become unnecessary in such weather. As they glided about, Geoffrey sometimes faced the current with long, silent strokes that gave no idea of exertion foreign to the quiet charm of the scene, and at other times the paddle dragged lazily through the water as he sat back and allowed the canoe to drift along on the current close to the rocky islands. They floated past breezy nooks where the ferns and mosses filled the interstices between rocks and tree roots, where trees had grown up misshapenly between the rocks, under wild creeping vines that drooped from the overhanging boughs and swept the flowing water. Hardly a word had been spoken since they left the yacht. For Margaret, there was enough in the surroundings to keep her silent. She had yielded herself to the full enjoyment of the balmy air and faint evening glows, changing landscape, and sound of gurgling water. Her own appearance as seen from the other end of the canoe did not tend to spoil the view. Her happy face and graceful lines, and the full neck that tapered out of the open-throated evening dress did not seem out of harmony with anything. Reclining on one elbow against a cushioned thwart, she leaned forward and altered the course of the light bark by giving a passing rock a little push with her fan.
They were now passing a sort of natural harbor on the shore of one of the islands. It had been formed by the displacement of a huge block of granite from the side of the rock wall, and the roots and trunks of trees had roofed it in.
Geoffrey pointed it out for inspection, and they landed lower down so that they could walk back to a spot like that to which Shelley's Rosalind and Helen came.
To a stone seat beside a stream,O'er which the columned wood did frameA rootless temple, like a faneWhere, ere new creeds could faith obtain,Man's early race once knelt beneathThe overhanging Deity.
To a stone seat beside a stream,O'er which the columned wood did frameA rootless temple, like a faneWhere, ere new creeds could faith obtain,Man's early race once knelt beneathThe overhanging Deity.
Here they rested, while Margaret, lost in the charm of the surroundings, exclaimed:
"Could anything be more delightful than this?"
Geoffrey had always been conscious of something in Margaret's presence which, seemingly without demand, exacted finer thought and led him to some unknown region which other women did not suggest. When with her he divined that it was by some such influence that men are separately civilized, and that, with her, his own civilization was possible. Every short-lived, ill-considered hope for the future seemed now so entangled with her identity that her existence had become in some way necessary to him. He had come to know this by discovering how unfeigned was the earnestness with which he angled for her good opinion, and he was rather puzzled to note his care lest "a word too much or a look too long" might spoil his chances of arriving at some higher, happier life that her presence assisted him vaguely to imagine. Nevertheless, so great was his doubt as to his own character that all this seemed to him as if he must be merely masquerading in sheep's clothing to gain her consideration, and that it must in some way soon come to an end from his own sheer inability to live up to it. All he knew was that this living up to an ideal self was a civilizing process, and if he did not count upon its permanency it certainly, he thought, did him no harm while it lasted. "After all, was it not possible to continue in the upper air?"
While his thoughts were running in this channel, such a long pause elapsed, that Margaret had forgotten what he was answering to when he said decisively: "Yes. It is pleasant."
She looked around at him because his voice sounded as if he had been weighing other things than the scenery in his head.
"Oh, it is more than pleasant," she said. "It is something never to forget." Margaret looked away over earth, water, and sky, as if to point them out to interpret her enthusiasm. Her range of view apparently did not include Geoffrey. Perhaps he was to understand from this that he, personally, had little or nothing to do with her pleasure. But a glimpse of one idea suggested more serious thought, and the next moment she was wondering how much he had to do with her present thorough content.
Geoffrey, who was watching her thoughts by noticing the half smile and half blush that came to her face, felt his heart give a little bound. He imagined he divined the presence of the thought that puzzled her, but he answered in the off-hand way in which one deals with generalities.
"I believe, Miss Margaret, this whole trip provides you with great happiness."
"I believe it does," said Margaret. To conceal a sense of consciousness she uprooted a rush growing at the edge of the rock seat.
"Well, that is a great thing, to know when you are happy. Happiness is a difficult thing to get at."
"Do you find it so hard to be happy?"
"I think I do," said Geoffrey. "That is, to be as much so as I would like."
"You must be rather difficult to please."
"No doubt it is a mistake not to be happy all the time," replied Geoffrey. "There is such a thing, however, as chasing happiness about the world too long. She shakes her wings and does not return, and leaves us nothing but not very exalting memories of times when we seem, as far as we can recollect, to have been only momentarily happy."
"For me, I think that I could never forget a great happiness, that it would light up my life and make it bearable no matter what the after conditions might be," said Margaret thoughtfully.
"Just so," answered Geoffrey lightly. "There's the rub. How's a fellow to cultivate a great happiness when he never can catch up to it. I don't know of any path in which I have not sought for the jade, but I can look back upon a life largely devoted to this chase and honestly say that beyond a few gleams of poor triumph I never think of my existence except as a period during which I have been forced to kill time."
"That is because you are not spiritually minded," said Margaret, smiling.
"I suppose you mean consistently spiritually minded," said Geoffrey. "No doubt some who live for an exalted hereafter may sometimes know what actual joy is, but this can only approach continuity where one has great imaginative ambition and weak primitive leanings. For most people the chances of happiness in spirituality are not good. Happily, the savage mind can not grasp the intended meaning of either the promised rewards or punishments continually, if at all; and this inability saves them from going mad. Of course the more men improve themselves the more they may rejoice, both for themselves and their posterity, but mere varnished savages like myself have a poor chance to gain happiness in consistent spirituality. It is foolish to suppose that we are free agents. A high morality and its own happiness are an heirloom—a desirable thing—which our forefathers have constructed for us."
"I have sometimes thought," said Margaret, "that if happiness depends upon one's goodness it is not necessarily that goodness which we are taught to recognize as such. Goodness seems to be relative and quite changeable among different people. Some of the best people under the Old Testament would not shine as saints under the New Testament, yet the older people were doubtless happy enough in their beliefs. Desirable observances necessary to a Mohammedan's goodness are not made requisite in any European faith, and yet our people are not unhappy on this account. Nobody can doubt that pagan priests were, and are, completely happy when weltering in the blood of their fellow-creatures, and, if it be true that conscience is divinely implanted in all men, that under divine guidance it is an infallible judge between good and evil, that one may be happy when his conscience approves his actions, and that therefore happiness comes from God, how is it that the pagan priest while at such work is able to think himself holy and to rejoice in it with clearest conscience? It would seem, from this, that there must be different goodnesses diametrically opposed to each other which are equally-pleasing to Him and equally productive of happiness to individuals."
Geoffrey smiled at her, as they talked on in their usual random way, for it seemed that she was capable of piecing her knowledge together in the same sequence (or disorder) that he did himself. One is well-disposed toward a mind whose processes are similar to one's own. He smiled, too, at her attempts to reconcile facts with the idea of beneficence toward individuals on the part Of the powers behind nature. For his part, he had abandoned that attempt.
"I have a rule," he said, "which seems to me to explain a good deal, namely, if a person can become persuaded that he is rendered better or more spiritual by following out his natural desires, he is one of the happiest of men. The pagan priest you mentioned was gratifying his natural desires, his love of power and love of cruelty—which in conjunction with his beliefs made him feel more godly. Mohammed built his vast religion on the very corner-stone of this rule. Priests are taught from the beginning to guard and increase the power of the Church. This is their first great trust, and it becomes a passion. Their natural love of power is utilized for this purpose. For this object, history tells us that no human tie is too sacred to be torn asunder and trampled on. Natural love of dominion in a man can be trained into such perfect accord with the desired dominion of a priesthood that he may feel not only happy but spiritually improved in carrying out anything his Church requires him to do—no matter what that may be."
Geoffrey-stopped, as he noticed that Margaret shuddered. "You are feeling cold," he said.
"No, I was only thinking of some of the priests' faces. They terrify me so. I don't want to interrupt you, but what do you think makes them look like that?"
Geoffrey shrugged his shoulders.
"I don't know," he answered. "Perhaps interpreting the supernatural has with some of them a bad effect upon the countenance. All one can say is that many of them bear in their faces what in other classes of men I consider to be unmistakable signs that their greatest happiness consists in something which must be concealed from the public." Hampstead spoke with the tired smile of one who on an unpleasant subject thinks more than he will say.
"Let us not speak of them. They make me think of Violet Keith, and all that sort of thing. Go back to what you were saying. It seems to me that the most refined and educated followers of different faiths do not gain happiness in spirituality in the way you suggest. Your rule does not seem to apply to them."
"I think it does," answered Geoffrey, with some of that abruptness which in a man's argument with a woman seems to accept her as a worthy antagonist from the fact that politeness is a trifle forgotten. "You refer to men whose mental temperament is stronger in controlling their daily life than any other influence—men with high heads, who seem made of moral powers—ideality, conscientiousness, and all the rest of them. They have got the heirloom I spoke of. They are gentle from their family modification. These few, indeed, can, I imagine, be happy in religion, for this reason. There has been in their families for many generations a production of mental activity, which exists more easily in company with a high morality than with satisfactions which would only detract from it. With such men it may be said that their earlier nature has partly changed into what the rule applies to equally well. With ordinary social pressure and their own temperaments they would still, even without religion, be what they are; because any other mode of life does not sufficiently attract them. Their ancestors went through what we are enduring now."
"But," said Margaret—and she continued to offer some objections, chiefly to lead Geoffrey to talk on. However incomplete his reasoning might be, his strong voice was becoming music to her. She did not wish it to stop. Both her heart and her mind seemed impelled toward both him and his way of thinking by the echo of the resonant tones which she heard within herself. Being a woman, she found this pleasant. "But," she said, "people who are most imperfect surely may have great happiness in their faith?"
"At times. Yes," replied he. "But their happiness is temporary, and necessarily alternates with an equal amount of misery. The loss of a hope capable of giving joy must certainly bring despair in the same proportion, inversely, as the hope was precious. All ordinary men with any education alternate more or less between the enjoyment of the energetic mental life and the duller following of earlier instincts, and when, in the mental life, they allow themselves to delight in immaterial hopes and visions, there is unhappiness when the brain refuses to conjure up the vision, and most complete misery after there has occurred that transition to their older natures which must at times supervene, unless they possess the great moral heirloom, or perhaps a refining bodily infirmity to assist them. Ah! this struggle after happiness has been a long one. Solomon, and all who seek it in the way he did, find their mistake. Pleasure without ideality is a paltry thing and leads to disgust. Religion-makers have hovered about the idea contained in my rule to make their creeds acceptable. In this idea Mohammed pleased many. Happiness in spirituality can only be continuous for men when they come to have faces like some passionless but tender-hearted women, and still retain the wish to imagine themselves as something like gods."
Geoffrey paused.
"Go on," said Margaret, turning her eyes slowly from looking at the running water without seeing it. She said very quietly: "Go on; I like to hear you talk." The spell of his presence was upon her. There was the soft look in her eyes of a woman who is beginning to find it pleasant to be in some way compelled, and for a moment her tones, looks, and words seemed to be all a part of a musical chord to interpret her response to his influence. Geoffrey looked away. The time for trusting himself to look into the eyes that seemed very sweet in their new softness had not arrived. For the first time he felt certain that he had affected her favorably. Almost involuntarily he took a couple of steps to the water's edge and back again.
"What is there more to say?" said he, smiling. "We neither hope very much nor fear very much nowadays. Men who have no scientific discovery in view or who can not sufficiently idealize their lives gradually cease expecting to be very happy. To men like myself religions are a more or less developed form of delusion, bringing most people joy and despair alternately and leading others to insanity. We know that religions commenced in fear and in their later stages have been the result of a seeking for happiness and consolation. To us the idea of immortality is but a development of the inherent conceit we notice in the apes. We do not allow ourselves the pleasing fantasy that because brain power multiplies itself and evolves quickly we are to become as gods in the future. If we do not hope much neither do we despair. Still, there is a capacity for joy within us which sometimes seems to be cramped by the level and unexciting mediocrity of existence. We do not readily forget the beautiful hallucinations of our youth; and for most of us there will, I imagine, as long as the pulses beat, be an occasional and too frequent yearning for a joy able to lift us out of our humdrum selves."
Margaret felt a sort of sorrow for Geoffrey. Although he spoke lightly, something in his last words struck a minor chord in her heart. "Your words seem too sad," she said after a pause.
"I do not remember speaking sadly," said he.
"No; but to believe all this seems sad when we consider the joyful prospects of others. You seem to put my vague ideas into coherent shape. The things you have said seem to be correct, and yet" (here she looked up brightly) "somehow they don't seem to exactly apply to me. I never had strong hopes nor visions about immortality. They never seemed necessary for my happiness. Small things please me. I am nearly always fairly happy. Small things seem worth seeking and small pleasures worth cultivating."
"Because you have not lived your life. Do you imagine that you will always be content with small pleasures?" asked Geoffrey quickly as he watched her thoughtful face.
Margaret suddenly felt constraint. After the many and long interviews she had had with Geoffrey she had always come away feeling as if she had learned something. What it was that she had learned might have been hard for her to say. His conversation seemed to her to have a certain width and scope about it, and to her he seemed to grasp generalities and present them in his own condensed form; but she had been unconsciously learning more than was contained in his conversation. His words generally appealed in some way to her intellect; but tones of voice go for a good deal. Perhaps in making love the chief use of words is first to attract the attention of the other person. Perhaps they do not amount to much and could be dispensed with entirely, for we see that a dozen suitors may unsuccessfully plead their cause with a young woman in similar words until some one appears with tones of voice to which she vibrates. Perhaps it matters little what he says if he only continues to speak—to make her vibrate. Certainly Cupid studied music before he ever studied etymology. Hampstead had never said a word to her about love, but the resonant tones, his concentration, and the magnetism of his presence, were doing their work without any usual formulas.
The necessity of answering his question now brought the idea to her with a rush that Geoffrey had taught her perhaps too much—that he had taught her things different from what she thought she was learning—that the simplicity of her life would never be quite the same again. She became conscious of a movement in her pulses before unknown to her that made her heart beat like a prisoned bird against its cage, that made her whole being seem to strain forward toward an unknown joy which left all the world behind it. In the whirl of feeling came the impulse to conceal her face lest he should detect her thoughts, and she bent her head to arrange her lace shawl, as if preparatory to going away. She looked off over the water, so that she could answer more freely. Her answer came haltingly.
"Something tells me," she said, "that the small pleasures I have known will not always be enough for me." Then faster: "But, of course, all young people feel like this now and then. I think our conversation has excited me a little."
She arose, and walked a step or two, trying to quell the tumult within her.
"We must be going. It is late," she said in a way that showed her self-command.
Geoffrey arose also, to go away, and they walked to the higher ground. Suddenly Margaret felt that for some reason she wished to remember the appearance of this place for all her life, and she turned to view it again. The moon was silvering the tracery of vines and foliage and the surface of the twisting water, and giving dark-olive tones to the shadowed underbrush close by. The large hotels could be seen through a gap in the islands with their many lights twinkling in the distance; a lighthouse, not far off, sent a red gleam twirling and twisting across the current toward them, and a whip-poor-will was giving forth its notes, while the waltz music from the far-away island floated dreamily on the soft evening breeze. Geoffrey said nothing. He, too, was under the influence of the scene. For once he was afraid to speak to a woman—afraid to venture what he had to say—to win or lose all. He thought it better to wait, and stood beside her almost trembling. But Margaret had had no experience in dealing with the new feelings that warred for mastery within her, and she showed one of her thoughts, as if in soliloquy. She was too innocent. The vague pressures were too great to allow her to be silent, and the words came forth with hasty fervor.
"No, no! You must be wrong when you say there is nothing in the world worth living for?"
"No, not so," interrupted Geoffrey. "I did not say that. I said that life, for many of us, was mediocre, because ideals were scarce and imaginations did not find scope. But there is a better life—I know there is—the better life of sympathy—of care—of joy—of love."
As she listened, each deep note that Geoffrey separately brought forth filled her with an overwhelming gladness. When he spoke slowly of sympathy, care, joy, and love, the words were freighted with the musical notes of a strong man's passion, and they seemed to bring a new meaning to her, one deeper than they had ever borne before.
Earth and heaven seemed one,Life a glad trembling on the outer edgeOf unknown rapture.
Earth and heaven seemed one,Life a glad trembling on the outer edgeOf unknown rapture.
What a transparent confession the love of a great nature may be suddenly betrayed into! The tears welled up into Margaret's eyes, and, partly to check the speech that moved her too strongly, and partly to steady herself, and chiefly because she did not know what she was doing, she laid her hand upon his arm.
He trembled as he tried to continue calmly with what he had been saying. He did not move his arm or take her hand, but her touch was like electricity.
"I know there is such a life—a perfect life—and that there might be such a life for me, a life that more than exhausts my imagination to conceive of. You were wrong in saying that I said—that is, I only said—oh, I can't remember what I said—I only know that I worship you, Margaret—that you are my heaven, my hereafter—the only good I know—with power to make or mar, to raise me from myself and to gild the whole world for me—"
Margaret put up her hand to stay the torrent of his utterance. She had to. For, now that he gave rein to his wish, the forceful words seemed to overwhelm her and seize and carry off her very soul. He took her hand between both of his, and, still fearful lest she might give some reason for sending him away, he pleaded for himself in low tones that seemed to bring her heart upon her lips, and when he said: "Could you care for me enough to let me love you always, Margaret?" she looked half away and over the landscape to control her voice. Her tall, full figure rose, like an Easter lily, from the folds of the lace shawl which had fallen from her shoulders. Her eyes, dewy with overmuch gladness and wide with new emotions, turned to Geoffrey's as she said, half aloud—as if wondering within herself:
"It must be so, I suppose."
When she looked at him thus, Geoffrey was beyond speech. He drew her nearer to him, touching her reverently. He did not know himself in the fullness Of the moment. To find himself incoherent was new to him. She was so peerless—such a vision of loveliness in the moonlight! The thought that he now had a future before him—that soon she would be with him for always—that soon they would be the comfort, the sympathy, the cheer, and the joy of one another! It was all unspeakable.
Margaret placed both her hands upon his shoulder as he drew her nearer, and, as she laid her cheek upon her wrists, she said again, as if still wondering within herself:
"It must be so, I suppose. I did not know that I loved you, Geoffrey. Oh, why are you so masterful?"
A little while after this they approached the island, where the ball was at its height, and it seemed to Margaret that all this illumination of Chinese lanterns, ascending in curving lines to the tree tops—that all the music, dancing, and gayety were part of the festival going on within her. As Geoffrey strode into the ball-room with Margaret on his arm he carried his head high. A man who appeared well in any garb, in evening dress he looked superb. Some who saw him that night never forgot how he seemed to typify the majesty of manhood, and how other people seemed dwarfed to insignificance when Margaret and he entered. If only a modified elasticity appeared in her step, the wonder was she did not skip down the room on her toes. They went toward Mrs. Dusenall, who came forward and took Margaret by the elbows and gave them a little shake.
"You naughty girl, how late you are! Dear child, how beautiful you look! Where—?"
Some imp of roguery got into Margaret. She bent forward and whispered to her motherly friend.
"Dear mother," she whispered, "we landed on an island, and Geoffrey kissed me."
"Heavens!" cried Mrs. Dusenall, not knowing what to think. "Why—but of course it's all right. Of course he did, my dear—he could not do anything else—and so will I. And so you are engaged?"
At this Margaret tried to look grave and to shock Mrs. Dusenall again.
"I don't know. I don't think we got as far as saying anything about that." Then, turning to Geoffrey, with simplicity, "Are we engaged?"
"Girl! are my words but as wind that you should mock me with their emptiness? Come and let us dance, for it is advocated by the preacher." And they danced.
When Nina had seen Mrs. Dusenall kiss Margaret on her late arrival, she knew its meaning at once, and her heart sickened.
Pretty playthings seemed in some way rather degrading to Geoffrey that night, and Nina was able to speak to him only for a moment, just before all were going away. She then pretended to know nothing about the engagement, and said, with cat-like sweetness:
"I thought you did not care for Margaret's dancing much? I see she must have improved, as you have been with her all the evening."
Geoffrey answered gravely; "I believe you are right; there is a difference. Yes, I did not think of it before, but, now you speak of it, there does seem to have been an improvement in her dancing."
"Ah!" said Nina.
As Geoffrey paddled the canoe back to the yacht that night, or rather morning, and the Yankee band had finished a complimentary God save the Queen, and after the last cheer had been exchanged, Margaret said to him in the darkness, just before they parted:
"If there were no more happiness to follow, Geoffrey, to-night would last me all my life!"
How like a younker, or a prodigal,The scarfed bark puts from her native bay,Hugged and embraced by the wanton wind.How like the prodigal doth she return,With over-weathered ribs and ragged sails.Lean, rent, and beggared by the wanton wind.Merchant of Venice.
How like a younker, or a prodigal,The scarfed bark puts from her native bay,Hugged and embraced by the wanton wind.How like the prodigal doth she return,With over-weathered ribs and ragged sails.Lean, rent, and beggared by the wanton wind.
Merchant of Venice.
Next morning the deck of the Ideal was all activity.
A strong northeasterly wind had sprung up, so that by a rare chance they were able to sail up the current instead of employing a tug. Only the paid hands and one or two others were on deck as they struggled up the stream till near Clayton. Here the channels opened out, the current seemed to ease up, and they got the wind continuously as she boiled up to Kingston. The steward went ashore at the city, and there was a delay while he was getting in more ice for the refrigerator, and poultry, and other supplies. Then they went off again, flying before the wind, past the wharves of Kingston toward Snake Island lying hull down and showing nothing but its tree-tops.
Breakfast was very irregular that day—terribly so, the steward thought. He was preparing breakfast at any and all times up to twelve o'clock, and after that it was called luncheon. No troublesome bell awoke the tired sleepers, no colored man came to take away their beds as on the sleeping-cars. The dancers of the previous night tumbled up, more or less thirsty, just when the spirit moved them, and, as all had a fair quantum of sleep in this way, there were no bad tempers on board, except—well, the steward knew enough to look pleasant.
It was a fine start they made. But it did not last long. During the night the heavy water-laden atmosphere began to break up into low clouds that went flying across the face of the moon, producing weird effects in alternate light and darkness. They were soon close-hauled on a wind from the southward, and before the port of Charlotte was reached they had a long tussle with a stiff breeze from the west—topmast housed, two reefs down, and the lee-scuppers busy.
At dawn, when they went into Charlotte, it was blowing a gale. Not a Cape Horn gale, perhaps, but a good enough gale, and the water was lively around the pier-heads. Several vessels could be seen up the lake, running down to the harbor for shelter, and wallowing in the sea. So they ran the yacht far up into the harbor between the piers, and made fast as far away from the lake as they could get, to avoid being fouled by incoming vessels, and to escape the heavy swell that found its way in from outside. An hour after the sailing vessels had made the port the mail-line steamer Eleusinian came yawing in, with some of her windows in bad shape, and glad to get in out of the sea.
Next morning it was blowing harder than ever. Everything outside the cabins was disagreeable. The water they floated in seemed to be principally mud, and on land the mud seemed principally water. Some of the adventurous waded through the mire to see the works for smelting iron in the neighborhood. But the only thing resembling fun outside the boat was trying to walk on the piers. Two figures, to which yellow oilskin suits lent their usual grace, would support a third figure, clad in a long water-proof, resembling a sausage. These three would make a dash through the wind and seize a tall post or a spile for mooring vessels, and here they would pause, hold on, and recover their lost breath. Then, slanting into the wind, they would make a sort of tack, partly to windward, till they reached the next spile, and so on, while occasionally they would be deluged with the top of a wave. The fun of this consisted in the endeavor to avoid being blown into the water. Certainly the sausage could not have gone alone. After several hours in the cabin the element of change in this exercise made it quite a pastime. It cooled the blood and took away the fidgets, and, on returning, made the cabins seem a pleasant shelter instead of a prison.
So far there had been no chance to leave the harbor for the purpose of reaching Toronto. The wind was dead ahead from that quarter. Young Dusenall was watching the weather continually, very anxious to get away to be in time for the yacht race there on the 7th and 8th. He was over at the steamboat hobnobbing with the captain of the Eleusinian, who was also anxious to get on with his vessel. What with whisky and water, nautical magic, and one thing or another between the two of them they got the wind to go down suddenly about five o'clock that evening. Charley came back in high good-humor. The captain had offered to tow the Ideal behind the steamer to Toronto, and nothing but a long, rolling sea, with no wind to speak of, could be noticed outside.
Jack did not like going to sea hitched up, Mazeppa-like, to a steamer, and he had misgivings as to the weather. The leaden-colored clouds, banked up in the west, were moving slowly down the lake like herded elephants. They did not yet look pacific, and he feared that they would make another stampede before the night was over. He declared it was only looking for another place to blow from. Charley answered that the race came off on the day after to-morrow, and, as they had to get to Toronto somehow, why not behind the steamer? As Jack was unable to do any more than say what he thought, he suggested "that, if the boat must go out in this sort of way during bad weather, that the women had better take the train home." The trip in the yacht promised to be unpleasant, but when Mrs. Dusenall considered the long, dusty, and hot journey around the western end of the lake she decided to "stick to the ship."
At seven o'clock in the evening they were flying out of port behind the steamer at the end of a long hawser. A heavy dead swell was rolling outside, and the way the Ideal got jerked from one wave to another boded ill for the comfort of the passage. Charley hung on, however, thinking that this was the worst of it and that the sea would go down.
The night grew very dark, and two hours afterward the gale commenced again, and blew harder than before from the same quarter. Every time they plunged hard into a wave the decks would be swept from stem to stern, while a blinding spray covered everything. If they had cast off at this time they could have sailed back to Charlotte in safety, but Charley was bound to see Toronto, and held on.
Suddenly, in the wildness of the night, they heard a crack of breaking timber, and the next moment the tall mast whipped back toward the stern like a bending reed. A few anxious moments passed before those aft could find out what had happened. In the darkness, and the further obscurity caused by the flying water, the bowsprit had fouled the towline. The bowstays had at once parted and, perhaps assisted by the recoil of the mast, the bowsprit had snapped off, like a carrot, close to the stem.
This large piece of timber was now in the water, acting like a battering-ram against the starboard bow, with the stowed staysail, and all the head gear, attached to it. There was no use trying to clear away the wreck by endeavoring to chop through all the wire rigging, chains, forestays, bowsprit shrouds, bobstays, and running gear, all adrift in a mass that would have taken a long time to cut away or disentangle, even in daylight and calm water. Besides this, one could not see his hand held before his face, except by lantern-light, and such was the unnatural pitching of the yacht that it was almost impossible to stand without holding on to something. Charley, who was steering, asked of one of the English hands, who was carefully crawling aft to take the wheel, "How's everything forward?" To Charley's mind the reply seemed to epitomize things as the man touched his hat and answered respectfully, "Gone to 'ell, sir." He spat on the watery deck, as he said this, while a blast of wind and half a ton of water from the bows swept away so effectually both the remark and the tobacco juice that Mr. Lemons could not help absurdly thinking of the tears of Sterne's recording angel. The sailor was very much disgusted at the condition of things, and both he and his remark were so free from any appearance of timidity that the Hon. M. T. Head felt like giving him five dollars. While on shore, the honorable gentleman was accustomed to emphasize his language, but, in the present crisis, no wild horses could have dragged from him a questionable word.
Geoffrey's long arms and strength came in well that night. At the first crack of the timber he slid out of his oil-skins for work, and his was one of those cool heads that alone are of use at such a time. On a sailing vessel the first effect of a bad accident in the night-time is to paralyze thought. The danger and the damage are at first unknown. The blackness of the night, the sounds of things smashing, the insecurity of foothold, the screaming of the wind, and the tumbling of the waters, all tend to kill that energy and concentration of thought which, to be useful, must rise above these enervating influences.
Jack had had more experience than Geoffrey, and thus knew better what to do. But Geoffrey, for his part, was "all there." When he was hanging down over the side, and climbing about to get the floating, banging mass of wreckage attached to the throat-halyards, the tops of the waves that struck him were unable to wash him away, and when he had succeeded in his efforts, the wreckage was hoisted bodily inboard.
The fellows at the wheel were momentarily expecting the mast to snap and fall backward on their heads, as there was now no forestay on it. The worst fault of the sloop-rig here became apparent. Unlike cutters, sloops have no forestay leading from the masthead down to the stem, but one leading only to the outer end of the bowsprit, and when the bowsprit carries away, as it frequently does, the mast then has nothing but its own strength to save it from snapping in a sudden recoil.
What made the plunging of the mast worse was that the lower-mast backstays had both carried away at the deck, as also had the topmast backstays, after pulling the head off the housed topmast. All this heavy wire rigging, with its blocks, immediately became lost to sight. It was streaming out aft on the gale from the masthead, together with every other line that had a chance to get adrift. If a halyard got loose from its belaying pin that night it was not seen again. It said good-by to the deck and went to join the flying mass overhead, that afterward by degrees wound itself round and round the topping-lifts and peak-halyards, effectually preventing the hoisting of the mainsail. The long and heavy main-boom, which had long since kicked its supporting crutch overboard, was now lowered down to rest on the cabin-top, so as to take the weight off the mast; and while the end of it dragged in the boiling caldron behind the counter, the middle part of it rose and fell with every pitch, in spite of endeavors to lash it down, until it seemed that the cabin-top would certainly give way. Had the top caved in, the chances of swamping were good.
Their power to sail by means of the canvas was now virtually gone. Nothing was left for them but to follow the huge "smoke-grinding" mass that yawed and pitched in front of them. One or two men were kept at the stern of the steamer during this part of the night, to report any signals of distress and to aid the yacht's steering by showing bright lights. Near to these bright lights the figure of the captain could be seen from time to time through the night, anxiously watching the lights on the yacht, which told him that she still survived. Sometimes he was apparently calling out to those on the yacht, but of course no sound could be heard.
The ladies were in their cabins all this time, sorry enough that they had not taken the railway home.
When the mast was stayed forward, by setting up the staysail-halyards, etc., at the stem, there was nothing to do on deck but steer and keep watch, and as nearly everything had been carried away except the whale boat, Geoffrey went below for dry clothes and, feeling tired with his hard work, took a nap in one of the bunks in the after-cabin. As the sailors say, he "turned in all standing"—that is, with his clothes on.
The other men remained on deck. Most of them were drenched to the skin and were becoming gradually colder in the driving spray and heavy swashes of solid wave that swept the decks with clock-like regularity. They thought it better to remain where they could at least swim for a while if the yacht went down, and they preferred exposure to the idea of being drowned like rats in the cabin.
After some time Geoffrey awoke, feeling that a soft warm hand was being passed around his chin. He knew it was Margaret before he got his eyes open. He peered at her for a moment without raising his head. She was sitting on the seat outside, looking very despairing.
"Oh, Geoffrey," she said, "I think we are going to the bottom."
Geoffrey listened, with his eyes shut, and heard both pumps clanging outside. Margaret thought he was going off to sleep again. She was very frightened, and the fear seemed to draw her toward Geoffrey all the more for protection. She put her hand half around his neck and urged him to wake up.
"Oh, how can you go on sleeping at such a time? Do wake up, dear Geoffrey. I tell you the yacht is sinking. We are all going to the bottom. Do get up!"
Geoffrey was perfectly wide awake, but this was even pleasanter than being waked by music, and her hand on his chin seemed like a caress. With his eyes shut, he reproached her sleepily: "No, no, don't make me get up. I like it. I like going to the bottom."
Margaret smiled through her fears. "But, Geoffrey, do look here! The water has risen up over the cabin floor."
He got up then. Certainly, things did seem a little threatening. A couple of corks were dancing about in the water upon the carpet quite merrily. This meant a good deal. He heard that peculiar sound of rushing water inside the boat which can be easily recognized when once heard. Above the howling of wind and swash of waves, both pumps could be heard working for all they were worth. The vessel was pitching terribly, mercilessly dragged as she was from one wave to another, without having time to ride them.
Geoffrey thought the time for bailing with the pails might be deferred for a while. Without Margaret's knowledge he stuck a pen-knife into the woodwork near the floor to define high-water mark, and thus detect any increase in the leakage over the pumps. Then he devoted some time toward endeavoring to calm Margaret's fears, chiefly by exhibiting a masterly inaction in regard to the leak and in searching about for a lost pipe. By the time he had found it and was enjoying a quiet smoke, reclining on the cushions to make the motion seem easier, her fears began to weaken. She did not at all object to the smoke of pipes, and Geoffrey's comfort became contagious. Although the clanging of the pumps outside recalled stories of shipwreck, she was, on the other hand, more influenced by the easy-going indifference that he assumed. Twenty minutes passed in this way, and then she felt sure that the danger was not so great as she had thought. Geoffrey in the mean time was covertly watching his pen-knife, that marked the rise or fall of the water in the boat. At the end of half an hour he could see, from where he lay, that half the blade of the knife was covered with water. So he knocked the ashes out of his pipe and said he would go and see the boys on deck, and that Margaret had better go and comfort the others in the ladies' cabins, and tell them it was all right.
When Margaret had staggered away, Geoffrey's manner was not that of one satisfied with his surroundings. He ripped up the carpet and the planks underneath to get at the well, and then skipped up the companion-way in the liveliest manner. When on deck, he made out Jack at the wheel.
"How's the well?" Jack cried, in the wind. "Did you sound it?"
Geoffrey had to roar to make himself heard above the gale and noise of waters.
"Get your buckets!" he said; and Jack passed his order forward by a messenger, who crawled along by the main-boom carefully, lest he should go overboard in the pitching.
"Why, the pumps were gaining on the leak a while ago!" Jack said to Geoffrey. "Did you examine the well?"
"There is no well left that I could see. It's all a lake on the cabin floor. The leak gained on the pumps an inch in half an hour! I waited and watched to make sure, and to quiet the women."
"Then it is only a question of time," said Jack. "The buckets and pumps won't keep her afloat long. She is working the caulking out of her seams, and that will get worse every moment."
There were no loiterers on board after that. They all "turned to" and worked like machines. Even the steward and cook were on deck to take their trick at the pumps. Five men in soaking trousers and shirts worked five buckets in the cabin, heaving the water out of the companion-way. Of these five, some dropped out from time to time exhausted, but the others relieved them, and so kept the five buckets going as fast as they could be worked. Some fell deadly sick with the heat, hard work, and terrible pitching and driving motion of the boat, but nobody said a word. If a man fell sick, he had something else to think of than his comfort, and he staggered around as well as he could. From the companion-way to the well, and from the well to the companion-way, for two hours more they kept up the incessant toil. At first some had attempted to be pleasant by saying it was easy to get water enough for the whisky, and by making other light remarks. But now it was changed. They said nothing on the exhausting and dreary round, but worked with their teeth clinched—while the sweat poured off them as if they, too, had started every seam and were leaking out their very lives.
Still the pitiless great mass of a steamer in front of the yacht plunged and yawed and dragged them without mercy through the black waters, where a huge surge could now be occasionally discerned sweeping its foaming crest past the little yacht, which was gradually succumbing to the wild forces about it.
Margaret was back again in the cabin now. She had wedged herself in, with her back against the bunks, and one foot up against the table as a prop to keep her in position. In one hand she held a bottle of brandy and in the other a glass. And when a man fell out sick and exhausted she attended to him. There was no water asked for. They took the brandy "neat." She had succeeded in quieting the other women, and as they could not hear the bailing in the after-cabin they were in happy ignorance of the worst. Whatever fears she had had when the knowledge of danger first came to her, she showed no sign of them now—but only a compassion for the exhausted workers that heartened them up and did them good.
A third hour had nearly expired since they began to use the buckets, and Margaret for a long time had been watching the water, in which the bailers worked, gradually creeping up over their feet as they spent themselves on a dreary round, to which the toil of Sisyphus was satisfactory. The water was rising steadily in spite of their best efforts to keep the boat afloat. Margaret had quietly made up her mind that they would never see the land again. There did not seem to be any chance left, and she was going, as men say, to "die game." Her courage and cheering words inspired the others to endless exertions. She was like a big sister to them all. At times she was hilarious and almost boisterous, and when she waved the bottle in the air and declared that there was no Scott Act on board, her conduct can not be defended. Maurice Rankin tried to say he wished they could get a Scott Act on the water, but the remark seemed to lack intrinsic energy, and he failed from exhaustion to utter it.
Another half-hour passed, and while the men trudged through the ever-deepening water Margaret experienced new thoughts whenever she gazed at Geoffrey, who had worked almost incessantly. She looked at the knotted cords on his arms and on his forehead, at the long tenacious jaw set as she had seen it in the hurdle race, and she knew from the swelling nostril and glittering eye that the idea of defeat in this battle with the waters was one which he spurned from him. His clothes were dripping with water. The neck-button of his shirt had carried away, his trousers were rolled up at the bottom, and his face perspired freely with the extraordinary strain, and yet in spite of his appearance she felt as if she had never cared for him so much as when she now saw him. On through the night she sat there doing her woman's part beside those who fought with the water for their lives. She saw the treacherous enemy gaining on them in spite of all their efforts, and in her heart felt fully convinced that she could not have more than two hours to live. The hot steam from men working frantically filled the cabin, the weaker ones grew ill before her, and she looked after them without blenching. Hers was no place for a toy woman. She was there to help all those about to die; and to do this rightly, to force back her own nausea, and face anxiety and death with a smile.
As for Geoffrey, life seemed sweet to him that night. For him, it was Margaret or—nothing. To him, this facing of death did just one thing. It raised the tiger in him. He had what Shakespeare and prize-fighters call "gall," that indomitable courage which women worship hereditarily, although better kinds of courage may exist.
Another long half-hour passed, and then Maurice fell over his bucket, keel-up. He had fainted from exhaustion, and was dosed by Margaret in the usual way, and after this he was set on his pins and sent on deck for the lighter work at the pumps. After that, the paid hands, having in some way purloined too much whisky, mutinied, and said they would be blanketty-blanketted if they would sling another bucket.
The others went on as steadily as before, while the crew went forward to wait sulkily for the end.
Jack and Charley then consulted as to what was best to be done. To hold on in this way meant going to the bottom, without a shadow of doubt. They had tried to signal to the steamer, to get her to slow up and take all hands on board. But the watchers at the stern of the steamer had been taken off to work at the steamer's pumps; for, as was afterward found, she also was leaking badly and in a dangerous condition.
Ought they to cut the towline, throw out the inside ballast, and cut away the mast to ease the straining at the seams? The wooden hull, minus the inside ballast, might float in spite of the lead on the keel, which was not very heavy, and in this way they might drift about until picked up the next day. But the ballast was covered with water. They could not get it out in time to save her. Yet the seas seemed somewhat lighter than they had been. Would not the boat leak less while proceeding in an ordinary way, instead of being dragged from wave to wave? No doubt it would, but was it safe to let the steamer leave them? Ought they to cut the towline, get up a bit of a sail, and endeavor to make the north shore of the lake?
While duly weighing these things, Jack was making a rough calculation in his head, as he took a look at the clock. Then he walked forward, took a halyard in his hands, and embracing the plunging mast with his legs, he swarmed up about twenty feet from the deck. Then, after a long look, he suddenly slid down again, and running aft he called to the others, while he pointed over the bows.
"Toronto Light, ahoy!"
"Holy sailor!" cried Charley in delight. "Are you sure of it?"
"Betcherlife!" said Jack. "Can't fool me on Toronto Light. Go and see for yourself."
Charley climbed up and took a look. Then he went down into the forecastle and told the men they would get no pay for the trip if they did not help to bail the boat.
Seeing that not only life but good pay awaited them, they turned to again and helped to keep the ship afloat.
In a few minutes more Jack called to Margaret to come on deck. When she had ascended, she sat on the dripping cabin-top and watched a changing scene, impossible to forget. Soon after she appeared, there came a flicker in the air, as short as the pulling of a trigger, and all at once she perceived that she began dimly to see the waves and the pitching boat. It was like a revelation, like an experience of Dante's Virgil, to see at last some of that hell of waters in which they had struggled so long for existence.
As the first beginning of weird light, coming apparently from nowhere, began to spread over the weary waste of heaving, tumbling, merciless waters and to dilute the ink of the night, as if with only a memory of day, a momentary chill went through Margaret, as she began to realize a small part of what they had come through. But as the ragged sky in the east paled faintly, rather than warmed, with an attempt at cheerfulness, like the tired smile of a dying man, it sufficed, although so deficient in warmth, to cheer her heart. The calm certainty of an almost immediate death that had settled like a pall upon her was dispelled by rays of hope that seemed to be identical with the invading rays of light. "Hope comes from the east," she thought, as a ray from that quarter made the atmosphere take another jump toward day, and as she fell into a tired reverie she remembered, with a heart forced toward thanksgiving, those other early glad tidings from the East. Worn out, she yielded to early emotions, and thanked God for her deliverance. She arose and went carefully along the deck, holding to the wet boom, until she reached the mast, where she stopped and gazed at the black mass of the great steamer still plunging and yawing and swinging through the waters, with its lights looking yellow in the pale glimmer of dawn. After viewing the disorder on decks she could form an idea of the work the men had had during the darkness of the night.
But, oh, what a broken-nosed nightmare of a yacht it was, in the dreary morning light, with all the dripping black-looking heap of wreckage piled over the bows, the mast pitching back toward the stern with a tangled mass of everything imaginable wound in a huge plait down the lifts. In this draggle-tailed thing, with a boom lying on deck and hanging over the counter and its canvas trailing in the water, Margaret could not recognize the peerless swan that a short time ago poised itself upon its pinions and swept so majestically out of Toronto Bay.
The water, at every mile traversed, now grew calmer as the gale came partly off the land. Soon the pitching ended altogether. The opened seams ceased to smile so invitingly to the death that lurks under every boat's keel. The pumps and buckets had begun to gain upon the water in the cabin, and by the time they had swept round the lighthouse and reached the wharf the flooring had been replaced, while the pumps were still clanging at intervals.
When they made fast to the dock a drawn and haggard group of men—a drooping, speechless, and even ragged group of men—allowed themselves to sleep. It did not matter where or how they slept. They just dropped anywhere; and for five hours Nature had all she could do to restore these men to a semblance of themselves.
[Note.—If Captain Estes, of the Mail Line Steamer Abyssinian, should ever read this chapter, he will know a part of what took place at the other end of the hawser on the night of September 5, 1872.]
[Note.—If Captain Estes, of the Mail Line Steamer Abyssinian, should ever read this chapter, he will know a part of what took place at the other end of the hawser on the night of September 5, 1872.]