CHAPTER XIII
Love Holds the Yoke-Lines
As he anticipated, Revere found his man with a well-filled portmanteau and several letters awaiting him at the little old-fashioned country inn of the village. The morning was far spent when Emily finished her simple purchases, and the two lovers lunched together in the quaint old parlor of the inn. The girl, in her innocence of the customs of the world, was quite oblivious to the conventional necessity for a chaperon; so, without the embarrassment of a third party, they greatly enjoyed the wholesome and substantial meal provided for them by the skilful hands of the innkeeper's wife with whom Emily was a great favorite. They lingered a long time at the table in the cool old-fashioned room, and it was somewhat late in the afternoon when they started back to the Point, to which Revere had previously directed his man to repair with his baggage, by the land road.
The constraint which had been put upon both of them by the necessities of the business which had called them to the village, and the presence of other people wherever they went, for the officious but well-meaning landlady had frequently interrupted the privacy of the parlor even, had been the strongest force in developing the growing passions in their hearts.
Emily was a simple-minded maiden, with all the attributes of a very old-fashioned age. She had no mission to reform this world, which indeed she had found most sweet and fair, and sweeter and fairer that day than ever before; she stood for no so-called modern idea; she had no deep plan or mighty purpose for the amelioration of mankind,—or womankind either; she did not aim at the achievement of great results, the doing of mighty deeds. The complexities of her character did not manifest themselves in these ways.
Woman's sphere for her, if she thought of it specifically at all, was a very simple and a very old thing. To love and to be loved, to be first a faithful, happy wife, and second, please God, a wise, devoted mother, was the sum of her ambition.
There were no young men with whom she came in contact who could measure up to the standard of her social and intellectual requirements, and the chances that any would present themselves had been exceedingly small. So she had represented in her life a hope deferred, but without being heart-sick with the delay; she was of so sane, so healthy, and so happy a disposition that she had been saved all that. With the optimism of youth she had confidently expected that some day the prince would arrive, and when he came, together hand in hand they would go "over the hills and far away, to that new land which is the old." And the portals of that undiscovered country were now opening before her delighted vision.
Barely out of her teens, she had not grown impatient in her dreaming,—life had been too sweet and pleasant for that,—but the thoughtful and somewhat lonely years had made her ready, and it was no wonder that at the touch she yielded. When Revere came to her out of the deep, cast up at her feet by the waves of the sea, as it were, he fitted into anticipation already old. He represented the realization of her maidenly desires and her womanly hopes. That she should fall in love with him was entirely natural and quite to be expected, especially since he was blessed with a personality at once strong, lovable, and charming.
The reserve and the calmness of Revere's long line of Boston ancestry had been tempered, modified, brightened, by his sailor life and by his intimate contact with great and heroic men in the war which was just over. Frank, genial, generous, and not without a certain high-bred distinction in his manner, and blessed with a sufficiency of manly good looks, he might well have hoped to win any woman's heart.
The day had been a happy one to Emily, then; happier for her than for Revere, in fact, for that young man's conscience troubled him deeply, while there was no cloud on her sweet pleasure. If he had not been engaged to Josephine he would have revelled in his love for Emily; but he was not free. He was now bound to two women at the same time, and not in strictly honorable relationship to either. The false position was almost unbearable to a man of his fine sensitiveness, and that he had made it himself did not make it less easy to endure. He firmly resolved to extricate himself from his dilemma by informing Josephine at the first opportunity.
No other course was left to him. Since he had seen and known Emily he felt that it would be impossible for him to keep his previous engagement, and yet he realized that it would have been more honorable for him to have controlled himself as he had determined, better to have been less precipitate and to have waited until he had gained his release before he offered himself to Emily.
Carried away by his feelings, he had proposed to her in the boat, and he regretted, not the fact,—never that,—but that he had been so little master of himself, that he could not have delayed his wooing for a few days, until, being made free, he could definitely and properly and honorably ask her for her hand. He felt, for instance, that he could not speak to the old admiral upon the subject until he had secured his release. It would be impossible for him to approach that soul of ancient honor other than free.
Yet when he looked at the girl; when the clear, sweet notes of her fresh young voice thrilled in his ear; when walking by her side her dress brushed against him; when by chance or design he touched her, or her hand met his; when she looked at him out of those frank, honest blue eyes; when he saw the color come and go in her cheek, marked the beating of her heart, caught the unconscious affection with which her eye dwelt upon him at times, when she thought herself unobserved, he vowed that he stood excused in his own heart for his precipitancy.
Every moment when she did not feel and know that he loved her he, in his turn, counted a moment lost. He could hardly wait to get back to the house, where he determined to write to Josephine instantly and apprise her of the situation. He felt, as a matter of course, that she was too proud a woman to hold him to an unwilling engagement for a single moment. Whether she loved him or not he could not say. He thought not, he hoped not. Their engagement had been a matter-of-fact affair, and the courtship had been rather a cool one. He was perfectly certain that she liked him, but that was very different. He had never once seen her breath come quicker when he approached her, the color flush or fade in her cheek as he spoke to her. But he could not be sure. The veneer of birth, custom, and environment had not been worn off of her as it had been stripped from him, and her outward action beneath all this coolness afforded no infallible guide to her feelings.
If she loved him, that would indeed complicate the matter, but there could be—there must be—no other issue than that the engagement should be broken. He would be very sorry for her in that case, but there would be nothing else to be done. He could not help it that he had fallen in love with some one else, and the only honorable thing to do now was to tell the truth at once and break away. A man's reasoning, certainly!
As they approached the wharf where the boat was tied Emily noticed that Revere looked pale and tired. The violent current of his thoughts, the acuteness of the mental struggle in which he found himself involved, together with his low physical condition, had worn him out. Therefore the girl insisted upon rowing back herself.
Even in the dependence of the first love of a young maiden there is a feeling of protection, a foreshadowing of the instinct maternal, which is the foundation of most of the good things in this life, even of the habit and practice of religion. Emily, while she gloried in his virile manhood and dwelt happily upon his strength and vigor, already watched over Revere as she might have looked after a child. And she delighted in the opportunity of doing her lover further service. So Omphale might have considered Hercules.
"I want to show you how beautifully I can pull an oar," she artfully said, in answer to his expostulation, herself only half comprehending the deep springs of action that lay in her being; "and you look so tired. You know you are not yet strong. I ought not to have allowed you to come."
The sense of ownership implied in her last words was delightful to both of them.
"I am tired," he said, honestly, "but not too tired to row you back; and I wouldn't have missed this little voyage for all the cruises of a lifetime. Please get into the boat and take the yoke-lines."
"No," said Emily; "you said I was captain, and I mean to exercise the privileges of my position. Take the yoke-lines yourself. I insist upon it."
"Oh, very well," assented the young sailor, smiling at her; "I have been under orders, it seems to me, ever since I was born. First mother, then Josephine, and now you."
He sat down in the stern-sheets with affected resignation and gathered up the yoke-lines.
Emily's face had changed somewhat at this last remark, but she said nothing as she cast off the painter, stepped to the thwart, shoved off the boat, broke out the oars, and pulled away. She rowed a pretty stroke, quite as deft as Revere's had been, though lacking somewhat in power. As they cleared the wharf and headed out into the bay toward the Point she looked up at him.
"You have always been under orders, you say?"
"Yes."
"First your mother?"
"Yes."
"And then,—who did you say?" with poorly simulated indifference.
"Josephine,—Miss Josephine Remington," carelessly.
"And who is she?"
"Oh, she's an old friend of the family, a connection in a far-off way. She has lived with us pretty much since she was a child."
"Are you fond of her?" coldly.
"Yes," with mischievous promptness.
"I suppose so," looking away.
"But not so fond of her as I am of you, Emily," tenderly.
"Is that really true?" eagerly.
"Upon my word and honor," with convincing assurance.
"And you don't love her?"
"Not a bit. I love only one person in the world, and that is you," passionately.
"Was she the girl you saved?" relieved, but still somewhat anxious.
"She was."
"Does she love you, I wonder?"
"I think not. She never gave me half as much evidence of caring for me as——"
He stopped suddenly.
"As what?" she asked in swift alarm.
"As—forgive me, Emily—as you have this afternoon."
She stopped pulling instantly, her oar-blades lifted from the water in mid-stroke, drops trickling from them.
"Have I been bold and forward?" she cried in dismay. "Oh, what must you think of me?"
"You have been perfect," he answered, fervently; "simply perfect. I wouldn't have you changed an iota in any way. Don't let's talk about other people now. I'd rather talk about you. Tell me something about yourself, about the life you have lived, what you have done, what you have thought, what you have dreamed; tell me everything. I want to know it all."
"Yes, but are you sure you do not love her?"
"I never was so certain of anything in my life, except it be that I love you."
There was conviction in his voice which comforted her soul. Still, she sought enlightenment upon another point.
"Are you sure she doesn't love you?"
"I think it is very improbable."
"Well, I don't, then!" she exclaimed, vigorously resuming her stroke. "You saved her life, and I don't see how she could help it," she continued.
"I didn't save your life, though, Emily."
The boat was in the shadow of the island trees, where it had been when he had first spoken of love to her that morning. She let it drift; again the water made sweet music lipping along the side; they would associate it forever with these ineffable moments.
"No," she murmured, her honesty and innocence giving her courage to say that which another might have sought to conceal, "you didn't, but—I don't believe—I can—help it, either."
It was out now. His love had shown her her own. She was another woman; never again would she look at life with the eyes of the girl of yesterday. Ferdinand had come to Miranda; and Ariel had opened the eyes of the maiden to new things on the old island more wonderful than those revealed by Prospero's magic wand. And to Revere, too, the complexion of the world suddenly and swiftly altered.
"Oh, Emily, you don't mean it!" he cried in exultant surprise. He had not hoped so soon for this revelation of the woman's heart.
Her face was averted now, but she spoke distinctly enough for him to hear every whispered word.
"Yes, I think—I believe—I do. I have thought about it a great deal since you spoke."—Three hours ago! "And I believe I——"
She could not quite say it—yet.
"Emily, dearest, I am so happy it seems to me I can hardly breathe. I do not dare to look at you. I love you so! Come, let us hurry back to the shore."
"Mr. Revere——" she began, starting the boat again.
"That will not do at all," he interrupted, promptly and decisively; "you must call me something else—now that you—oh, do you?"
"Richard," she said, bravely.
"Those who love me call me 'Dick,'" pleadingly.
"I couldn't say that—not just yet—Dick!"
He laughed in sheer pleasure.
"I never knew what a pretty name I had before, Emily."
"I think it is lovely," she said, naïvely.
"Thank you. Do you like my other name, too?"
"Oh, ever so much."
"I am so glad, because it will be yours. Mrs. Richard Revere."
"Hush, how can you!" she cried, blushing furiously. "I want to ask one thing of you. Do not say anything about—to-day. That is, to grandfather or Captain Barry,—not just yet."
"I'm not likely to say anything about it to Captain Barry now or at any other time," he laughed; "and as for the admiral, it will do no harm for us to wait a day or two, I fancy,—that is, if you wish it, princess."
Her desire suited his plans admirably, for the delay would give him time to write and get his freedom.
"I want to enjoy it first alone," she went on, dreamily. "I want to have the knowledge that you love me all to myself, just for a day. It's so sacred, and so solemn a thing to me, Richard; so beautiful, that I want to keep it just here in my heart alone, for a little while."
She laid her hand upon her heart with the sweetest gesture as she spoke.
"It shall be so," he answered, frankly, adoring her. "Whatever you wish shall always be, if I can bring it about."
Oh, the rash promises of lovers!
"And you will let me have my happiness to myself, then? You will not think me foolish?"
"Not all to yourself, for, though I do not speak, I must still share it, and I think you are perfect in everything."
"We are at the wharf," she murmured. "I must go up to the house alone. Do not come with me. I want to think it over."
"But, dearest, I shall see you to-night?" he pleaded.
"Yes; but please do not persuade me now."
Respecting her desire, he doffed his cap and stood aside for her to pass, bowing low before her with all the chivalry of his race, all the ardor of his youth, all the devotion of his manhood in his look and attitude.
The sweetness of the present reality so far transcended her sometime imagination of it that the girl, on leaving him, walked away as if borne by seraph's wings through the air of heaven. Yet there was a note athwart her joy,—not exactly one of sadness or of heaviness, but a feeling, as it were, of maidenly awe before the bright vistas of happiness which had opened before her eyes, in her lover's presence, in his love. Unconsciously she put her hand to her face, as if the sight dazzled her.
A little distance away Revere, having fastened the boat, followed her up the hill. She did not look back, but she could hear his feet upon the steps. He was there, then. He was looking at her as he had looked at her in the boat. He loved her. What had she done to merit this?
She stopped on the porch by the chair where her grandfather sat gazing at the ship and dreaming as usual. She bent low and kissed him as she had never kissed him before. He awoke from his reverie with a start, half comprehending, and gazed from the girl entering the door to Revere coming up the walk.
"You have been a long time, lad," he said, as the latter stopped before him.
"Yes, sir. We took luncheon together at the old inn and rowed back slowly. Your granddaughter—I shall have something to say to you in a day or two, sir."
"I hope so," said the admiral, quietly. "I thought so. But don't wait too many days. Days are as moments to the young; to the aged they are as years."
That day Barry had not left the ship. With a long, old-fashioned glass that was chief among his treasures, which had belonged to the admiral, he had followed the boat across the harbor. He had divined—by what cunning who can say?—what had been said in the pauses under the trees. He had waited and watched for them until the lovers came back. He knew it all. Twenty times during the period of their stay upon the shore he had gone down to the locker and taken out the letters.
And at last he had succumbed to the temptation. The devil had won him in the end. Hidden away in his corner of the old vessel, he opened the bundle of letters and orders. And as he painfully deciphered them, one by one, it all became clear to him. This cursed officer had come to sell the ship over their heads. He had stolen Emily's heart, and yet he was engaged to be married to another woman. The letters from Josephine Remington puzzled him; but as he slowly blundered through them, with their casual references to an engagement, with their quiet assumption that all was understood between the two, Barry became convinced that Revere was simply amusing himself with the admiral's granddaughter.
And was he to stand idle, indifferent, impotent, while these things were going on? Was the old ship to be sold and broken up? His ship! His love, too! Was that sweet flower of innocence to be rifled of the chief treasure of her womanhood and he do nothing? Was she to be robbed of her happiness, too, while he was there? No, never!
His brain reeled under the pressure of his thoughts. What should he do? What could he do? In what way might he compass the destruction of this man? Save the ship and save the girl, too!
Ah! Like to one of old in his blindness, there flashed an idea into his mind, as he stood there with the crumpled letters in his clinched hand. At first it startled him. It was so bold; in a way it was so terrible. But he had brooded too long to look at that idea in more than one light. With the one thought of revenge upon the man who he imagined intended to sell the ship, and who would gain Emily Sanford, he brooded upon the notion until it took entire possession of him, and then, although it involved his own destruction, he grimly prepared to put it in practice.
CHAPTER XIV
In the Shadow of the Ship
The rest of the afternoon passed swiftly enough for Revere, because he was busy. He wrote a long letter to Josephine Remington, telling her frankly the whole situation: how he had met this girl, how he had loved her, how he had struggled against the feeling that had sprung up in his heart, honorably intending to keep his engagement, but each moment convinced him of the depth and fervor of this sudden affection. How he had come to the conclusion that it was not fair to bind her to a man who, while he admired and respected her, while he should ever hold her in the highest regard, did not, and could not, love her.
He had written to her thus frankly that she might break the engagement. He could not, he said, flatter himself that she loved him, or that it meant much to her; yet if he grieved her, he humbly begged her pardon, and hoped that some day, when she truly loved some one, she would find excuse for him.
It was fearfully hard to write such a letter, and as he read it over it seemed almost brutal in its frankness. Yet he reasoned that it were better to write it as he had than to attempt to conceal the facts; still, it was with many misgivings and thoroughly sick at heart at the unfortunate plight in which he had involved himself that he sealed it up.
The other letter was to the Secretary of the Navy. Revere reported faithfully the condition of the ship, estimated carefully what he thought she would be worth as firewood,—for the materials in her were fit for no other purpose,—and then frankly offered to buy her himself for twice the value he had put upon her. In a private letter, which he had enclosed in his official report, the secretary being an old friend of his family, he told why he wished to purchase the ship. He told him about the admiral, and the old sailor, and the admiral's granddaughter. He made him see very clearly that it would kill the old man to have the ship broken up, and, since he possessed ample means, he wished to have the privilege of purchasing it himself and saying nothing about it to the admiral, or to any one,—letting it stand where it was as long as it would. As a matter of fact, it would fall to pieces in a short time he was certain, and the admiral need never know anything about the transaction, provided the secretary were willing.
If there was any doubt as to the accuracy of his valuation of the ship, he suggested that another officer could be sent to appraise her, and he stood ready to pay twice the amount of the next appraisement for the privileges of ownership. In fact, the matter would best be done that way. It was a nice letter, and he felt sure his request would be granted.
Revere felt much better when he had completed these two letters. He felt that he could save the ship for the old admiral, and that he could save his honor as well by his tardy action. He gave the letters to his man, directing him to mail the one to the Secretary of the Navy, and get a horse and ride back to his mother's summer home at Alexandria Bay, deliver the other in person, and bring the answer to him immediately. He could not hear too quickly from Josephine.
The admiral retired early that evening,—was it from a consideration of past experience, thought Revere,—so the two lovers were left alone.
"Emily," said the young lieutenant, coming over toward her as the door closed behind the old veteran.
"No, no, not here, I beg of you!" said the girl, rising to her feet. "Come, let us go out into the moonlight. Down to the old ship. It should be a part—a witness—of our betrothal. I, too, have loved it. The earliest recollections of my childhood are about it. It has been a part of my life as well. Come, let us go."
She extended her hand to him as she spoke. He took it gravely, and the two stepped out of the house and stood upon the porch. The moonlight streamed across the old ship, standing lonely and still upon the Point beneath them. The cracks and crannies, the gaping seams of the broken, mouldering sides, the evidences of decay, were hidden in the shadows cast by the soft splendor.
They walked down to it and stopped in its shadow. Black, solid, and terrible in the silver light it loomed above their heads. They stood almost beneath it, and it towered into the skies above them. A trick of the imagination would have dowered it with spars covered with clouds of snowy canvas, and launched it upon the sea of dreams.
The girl still held the hand of the young officer. He waited for her pleasure, something telling him he should not wait in vain.
"I brought you here, Richard," she said, at last, very gravely, "that the old ship might hear you say,"—the words came from her in a faint whisper,—"that the ship might hear you say—you—loved me. Here I have stood often, gazing out upon the water, dreaming and waiting. Waiting for you, Richard, dreaming of you. And here you come to me and here—I give myself to you."
She faced him as she spoke and took his other hand. He stared at her in the shadow of the ship. The little autumn breeze swept softly over their faces. Slowly he bent his head toward her. She awaited him, smiling faintly, her heart beating half fearfully. It was so new and sweet. Then his lips met her own; he kissed her, he swept her to his breast, he gathered her in his arms. Her head lay upon his shoulder, her face was upturned to his. Her eyes were light in the darkness to him. The perfume of her breath enveloped him. A faint, passionate sigh of joy and content ineffable escaped her. He drank in the white, exquisite perfection of feature so close to him; the purity of her soul spoke there equally with the passion of her heart. She was his, his own; she loved him, she gave herself to him! May God deal so with him as he dealt with her!
"I love you, I love you!" he murmured.
Pity 'tis that there is no new word for each new meeting and mating of human hearts in this old world.
Pity 'tis that the words we say so lightly, that we use so frequently of things of less, of little, moment, should be the only ones we have with which to voice the deepest feeling of our being. Yet when the hour strikes, to each heart they come with the freshness of a new revelation, with the assurance of an eternal truth undiscovered until that hour. Never again would Emily be so happy as in that supreme moment of avowal and confession.
"I love you, I love you!"
It was only a whisper. She would have felt the truth had he been voiceless.
"I love you, I love you!"
It was but a murmur that blended with the sigh of the wind, that harmonized with the sound made by the breeze as it swept through the cracks and crannies of the ship, yet another listened, another heard.
Profanation to the royal arcanum of their hearts!
One had marked them descending the hill, one had divined that they would stop by the ship, one had gone down into the grim, black depths of the monster and with his ear pressed against the riven side had heard, and in the hearing had understood what he could not see.
So despair, heart-break, envy, jealousy, raged a few feet from love and joy and peace ineffable.
So in life it happens. Was there not a serpent in the Garden of Eden?
As he heard the sound of lip on lip, the break of kisses, and the murmur of caressing words, the man listening could endure no more. He turned and stumbled blindly away. Had it been mid-day he could not have seen where he went.
The sound of his going startled Emily.
"What is that?" she cried; "something moving on the ship!"
They listened, but Barry had gone far enough away by that time for them not to hear him more.
"'Twas nothing, dearest," answered Revere, holding her tenderly to him; "a piece of timber, a loosened plank, a tottering frame. The newest and best of ships are full of strange sounds, much more these old ones."
"Bit by bit it wears away," said the girl, sadly.
"Ay, sweet, old things go, but new ones come," answered Revere. "Life ends, yes, but new life begins. It begins for us. Come. We have told the ship the story. Let us go back to the hill."
"Keep thou the secret, old ship," said Emily, fancifully, yet half in earnest; "tell it not while thou livest, and if thou must fall, let it perish with thee."
She bent and kissed the plank. Where she kissed it Barry had listened. The whisper of love and the oath of despair,—a few inches of sheathing alone divided them.
CHAPTER XV
Forgiveness the First Lesson
"That kiss, sweetest," said Revere, gravely, as they walked up the hill, "has made the ship immortal in my heart. It shall stand until it falls away. I was sent here by the government to sell the ship. It was to be destroyed."
"Oh, Richard!" she cried in sudden anxiety and alarm at his words.
"Nay, love; say nothing of it to any one. It shall not be."
"Who will prevent it?"
"I."
"You! But how?"
"I shall buy it myself and let it stand as long as it will."
"How good you are!" she exclaimed, greatly relieved. "But, Dick, are you rich enough to buy a whole ship yourself?"
"My darling," he answered, "since you kissed me I think I have the mines of Golconda at my command."
"Ah, but kisses won't buy ships," returned the wise maiden. "Seriously, Richard?"
"Seriously, dearest, I suppose I am rich enough to buy anything I want; that is, anything in reason that is buyable. No fortune could put a price upon you, I am afraid."
"Nonsense, Dick!" said the girl. "Are you as rich as that?"
"I am of the opinion that I am," he said, somewhat reluctantly; he could not exactly comprehend why. "Does it disappoint you?"
"No, I believe not," she answered, doubtfully. "I never dreamed of such a thing, I'll admit. I always thought we would have a little cottage somewhere——"
"We?" joyfully.
"Of course. We. I was waiting for you, you know."
"Well, dearest, I hope you will become accustomed to something larger than a cottage. Money has some advantages, you know."
"I doubt not I shall if you will teach me. Oh, Dick, I am so happy! I feel so sorry for that other girl."
"What other girl?" he asked, faintly conscience-smitten.
"Josephine, you know. The girl you saved."
Her words struck him like a blow. They brought him to himself. He had to tell her the truth. They were by this time sitting side by side on the gun-carriage on the little platform overlooking the brow of the hill.
"Emily, dearest," said Revere, desperately. He hated to do it; he told himself that he was a fool to say anything, yet her presence and her trust compelled him. "I have something to confess to you. I cannot allow a shadow of deceit to rest on our happiness this heavenly night, and even though it hurts you——"
"Tell me, Dick," she said, as he lingered, reluctant to speak, "whatever it may be. I think I have had happiness enough to last a lifetime as it is; and you love me, don't you? It is not that you do not?"
"Love you? I worship you!"
"Then nothing can matter much," she interrupted.
"But I must say it," he persevered; "I am—I was engaged to marry——"
"Josephine?" a note of terror in the exclamation.
"Yes," with great contrition.
There was a long silence. The girl shrank away from him. She hid her face in her hands, but she did not weep. That would come later. Was she not to be happy, after all?
He felt so guilty and conscience-stricken that he made no attempt to restrain her movement of avoidance, although he longed to take her in his arms again.
"Oh, Richard, how could you?" she said at last, the misery and reproach in her voice cutting him to the heart.
"I could not help it."
It was the old answer that seems so weak, so futile, so foolish, and yet the only answer that could be given; a vague reply, and yet she comprehended.
"I've been a mean coward," he exclaimed. "But at least I love you, and I could not help it."
"Yes, I believe that—that you love me, I mean,—but you could have helped it," she answered, faintly.
"Well, I ought to have helped it," he admitted, in honest misery; "but I love you, and before you it was hard to be silent."
"But you loved the other girl before?"
"No, never, I swear to you!"
"Look me in the face, Richard."
She turned him about in the moonlight and gazed at him keenly, passionately, hungrily almost. He met her glance undaunted. The incubus of the secret was lifted from him—he was another man, even though still bound.
"Emily, I swear to you that my heart has never beat quicker at the thought of her since I have known her. Believe that."
"Yes, I do believe," said the girl, trustingly, at last.
"It is true, and you may. It was an engagement entered into as a sort of family affair, and I never cared anything about it one way or the other. I thought it would be rather pleasant——"
"Is that all?"
"Yes, on my honor, until I met you; and then I knew it could never be."
"You said youwereengaged to her, Richard. What do you mean by that?"
"As soon as I could after I had spoken to you this afternoon I wrote to her, telling her the truth about my love for you and giving her a chance to break the engagement."
"Where is the letter?"
"It is gone."
"Suppose she will not break it?"
"She will, of course."
"Dick, I know that she loves you. I know she won't give you up. Oh, my heart is breaking!"
"Nonsense; she doesn't love me at all!"
"No woman could help it who knew you as I do," decidedly.
"No one knows me as you do, dearest. To no one have I ever shown my heart, myself, as I have shown them to you. She must give me up; she shall! I tell you I will marry no woman but you, no matter what happens!"
"And I, Dick, will marry no one but you. But, oh, the pity of it! Why didn't I know you before?"
"But you believe me, don't you, that I love you, only you?"
"Yes, yes, I believe," mournfully.
"And you will trust me?"
"Yes, I suppose I will have to trust you," she answered.
"But you won't do that merely because you have to, will you?" pleaded the young man, coming nearer to her.
"No," she said at last, faintly. "I will trust you because I—I love you."
He suddenly swept her to his breast again and kissed her once more. But she did not return his kiss, and immediately thrust him away from her.
"Please do not do that again, Richard; at least not yet," she murmured, as she resolutely disengaged herself from his embrace. "Poor girl! you don't love her. And now good-night. I must think—it's all so strange—I don't know. We will talk over what is best in the morning."
"But you love me still? You won't let this make any difference, will you?" he pleaded, in deadly anxiety, stretching out his hands to her.
"It won't make any difference in my love,—nothing will ever change that," she answered, sadly; "but it makes a great difference in my happiness."
Poor Emily! she was just learning that the beginning of a woman's love is forgiveness.
In the oldest of Books is written, "It is not good that man should be alone," and the saying is as true as it is ancient. The human being who looks at things through but one pair of eyes—his own—is apt to receive distorted impressions, to see strange visions, and to dream fearful dreams.
To be solitary is to go mad. Society is the preserver and promoter of intelligence and all the virtues; alas! of many of the vices as well. Men—ay, and women, too—have tried to dispense with humanity, seeking something higher. They have withdrawn themselves from the world a while, and, far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, in the vast expanse of some limitless desert, or upon some rough-ribbed Sinai's rocky crest, in seclusion from the sound of tongues and the war of men, have sought to draw near to God.
And they have not found Him. Rather Satan has entered into them and they have become victims of diabolic obsession. For God is in the people. The human touch conveys the divine. The attrition of men is the outward force that makes character. Life is to fit in and be a part of daily duty among common men. So other and higher life is won.
Barry was a man, alone,—a madman now. Revere had added the finishing touch by breaking in upon the man's solitude. The admiral was becoming only a daily duty to the sailor. Habit had almost encysted his affection for his superior. As Emily had approached womanhood she had drawn away from Barry. He worshipped her from a greater and greater distance, constantly increasing. And now that she loved one of her own age and her own class, the old man felt that she had almost vanished from his sight. The last link that held him in touch with humanity was breaking. Should he not strike while there was time? Love was not for him, but hate is everybody's. He should claim his portion.
The rotting ship was his mountain, his desert, his hermitage. Its bare, gaunt timbers were his horizon. He looked, he listened, he read again the letters, he agonized, he broke, and was lost. And when the devil came to him, under the guise of good to be accomplished, he found a place ready, swept and garnished for him.
Oh, poor, blind, possessed old sailor!
CHAPTER XVI
A Cloud on the Horizon
A quickened conscience is not the best of soporifics, and Revere was a long time in getting to sleep. The miserable situation into which he had plunged himself, however, was alleviated by the consciousness, of which nothing could deprive him, that Emily loved him. And he persuaded himself that when a girl, such as he fancied her, loved, she loved forever. Which was true. There was much comfort for him in the idea. He could not, however, take the joy that should have been his in the realization of this glorious fact until his affairs with Josephine had been adjusted. As for Emily, she, too, mingled her grief at the pre-engagement with joy in Richard's love, but with less confidence in its permanence; and, like his, her hours were sorely troubled.
The next morning she carefully avoided seeing him except in the presence of others, and the topics they were both dying to discuss remained unbroached until a messenger from the village, a servant of the inn, delivered a note to Revere. The admiral and Emily were on the porch with him when the missive was handed to him. Barry was busy at something down on the ship. He had reported to the admiral early in the morning that there were some repairs that he wished to make which would probably take him the whole of the day. However, nobody, unless it was the admiral, missed him, in which lay the pity of it all.
Revere started with surprise as he glanced at the address on the envelope.
"Why!" he exclaimed, involuntarily, "it is from my mother! Can it be possible that she is here?"
"A lady guv it to me to bring to you," said the messenger. "She come to the tavern late last night, an' said as how she didn't want to disturb you until mornin'."
"Your mother!" exclaimed Emily. "Why—what can she—how does it——"
As she spoke Richard tore open the letter and glanced at its contents.
"She has heard some garbled account of my adventure," he said to Emily, "and she was worried, and has come over here to see me. That's all."
"Did she come alone?"
"Er—no; not exactly."
"Who is with her?" with dawning suspicion.
"Miss Remington."
"Oh!" with great surprise.
"Well, I must go to her at once, I suppose," said Revere, doubtfully.
"Of course," coldly and disdainfully.
"My lad," said the admiral, "the inn is but a poor place for ladies of quality and gentlefolk to stay. Present my compliments to your mother and her young friend, and beg them to honor me by accepting our hospitality while they abide in this latitude. Tell them, I beg of you, that my age and infirmities prevent me from extending the invitation in person, but that my granddaughter will call upon them later and invite them in my behalf."
"Oh, grandfather! I—I——"
"My mother will be delighted to receive Miss Emily," broke in Richard, quickly. "I have no doubt that her plans contemplate remaining here longer than a day, and I think she will be glad to accept your hospitality. She will be honored, I am sure. Meanwhile, I must go. May I have your boat, Miss Emily? I suppose that is the quickest way to the village?"
"Certainly, Mr. Revere."
"And will you not walk down to the landing with me?"
She hesitated, longing yet reluctant.
"Of course she will. Go with him, Emily," said the admiral, decisively.
"Richard," said the girl, as soon as they were out of earshot of the porch, "they have come about that letter."
"Yes," answered Revere, dejectedly, forgetting in his confusion that they had arrived the night before; "I suppose so. I didn't think it possible that it could have reached them by this time. My man must have made good time. Oh, dear; what shall I do? Was ever innocent man placed in so miserable a position?"
"Oh, Richard, you are involved innocently—you say you could not help loving me——"
"I couldn't."
"But you had no right to involve me, sir. But there, I won't reproach you. She won't give you up; you will have to keep your word, that's all."
She spoke with infinite sadness.
"You have loved me, anyway, and that's a great deal. I ought to be thankful for that, I suppose," she continued.
They were sheltered now from the observation of every one,—but Barry from the ship,—and she put her handkerchief up to her eyes and sobbed out the following in broken sentences:
"I've thought it out all night long, Richard. You saved that girl's life; she has a claim on you. I know she loves you deeply; and of course she won't give you up. I—I wouldn't myself," she wailed. "I hope you will be very hap—hap—happy with her and—you will forget all about this. Oh, Dick, Dick!"
"My heavens! Emily, you nearly drive me distracted! I tell you I couldn't be happy with an arch-angel if she were not you! She must give me up! She shall! I don't really suppose she will hesitate a moment. Why, if she could see you she would know in a glance that I could not help falling in love with you."
"Probably she thinks she's as nice as I am," she continued, through her tears. "She would look upon me as an ignorant little country girl. She would wonder how you could possibly fall in love with me. I wonder about it myself. You do love me, don't you?" anxiously.
"Of course I do. I have told you a thousand times, and I mean it! I mean it more every time I tell you, and I want to tell you more every time I see you. I won't marry Josephine Remington, and that's all there is about it!"
"You must!" decisively.
"If you say that again, Emily, we will quarrel right here," sternly.
"Perhaps that would be best. If we quarrelled it would be easier to break it off."
"Well, we won't quarrel, then. But what I am going to do I cannot say. I'll just tell the truth and stick to it. I wish—oh, I wish—they hadn't come! I do not want to see her at all."
"But you must go, and go right away!"
"Oh, very well. The sooner it is over the better, perhaps. Good-by, Emily."
"Good-by, Richard," heartbrokenly.
"Won't you kiss me good-by? You have not kissed me since last night. You have not let me see you alone this long morning," reproachfully.
"No," answered Emily, with sad decision; "I do not believe I shall kiss you. We are not yet engaged, and you may not belong to me, after all. I think I would better not."
"Oh, all right, then," with a savage simulation of unconcern.
"You are not angry, are you?" timidly.
"No, I am not angry; but I am awfully——"
"You see I am afraid it's the end and another kiss would make it—harder."
She spoke slowly, with a note of interrogation in her voice. For answer he clasped her in his arms and kissed her fervently again and again. She remained weakly struggling for a moment, but finally returned his caresses. Presently, however,—after she had been well kissed, by the way,—her determination came back to her. She burst from his arms with a violent effort, exclaiming,—
"There, go! And I suppose you will be with them all day?"
"I will come back to you as soon as I can get away."
"Oh, Dick, I suppose I will have to go over there in the afternoon and invite them here. What will your mother think of me? I don't believe I ever met a high-born, high-bred lady in my life. I wouldn't know what to do."
"Do just as you always do; be yourself; and if my experience is any criterion, she will adore you as I do. Good-by."