The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Pines of Lory, by John Ames Mitchell, Illustrated by Albert D. Blashfield This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Pines of Lory Author: John Ames Mitchell Release Date: December 4, 2009 [eBook #30600] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PINES OF LORY*** E-text prepared by Roger Frank and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) “It is no gardener’s cottage” THE PINES OF LORY By J. A. Mitchell Author of “Amos Judd,” “That First Affair,” “Gloria Victis,” etc. DECORATIONS BY ALBERT D. BLASHFIELD New York Life Publishing Company 1901 Copyright, 1901 By J. A. Mitchell New York City Entered at Stationers’ Hall, London Printed in the United States All rights reserved TO ALL LOVERS OF LOVERS AND LOVERS OF OUT-OF-DOOR THINGS AND MILDER FORMS OF FOLLY THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED There is a pleasure in the pathless wood, There is a rapture on the lonely shore. Byron. I A RELIC FROM AFRICA The Maid of the North was ready for sea. Only the touch of the engineer was wanting to send her, once again, on a homeward voyage to the St. Lawrence. Meanwhile, in solemn undertones, she was breathing forth her superabundant steam. Behind the wharf lay the city of Boston. A score of passengers, together with friends who had come aboard to see them off, were scattered about the little steamer. Among them, on the after deck, indifferent to the hot June sun, moved a gentleman of aristocratic mien. His raiment was above reproach. He gave the impression of being a distinguished person. But this impression was delusive, his distinction being merely social. He was too well provided for, too easily clever and in too many ways, to achieve renown in any field requiring serious labor. He inhaled the salt air as it came in from the sea, took out his watch, scanned the wharf, picked a thread from his sleeve, and twirled, somewhat carefully, the ends of a yellow moustache. His glance moved indifferently over various passengers and things about him until it rested on a man, not far away. The man was leaning against the railing of the deck watching the scene upon the wharf below. The extreme attenuation of this person had already rendered him an object of interest to several passengers. His clothing hung loosely from his shoulders. Both coat and vest were far too roomy for the body beneath, while the trousers bore no relation to his legs. But the emaciated face, deeply browned by exposure, told a story of hardship and starvation rather than of ordinary sickness. Two thin, dark hands that rested on the ship’s rail seemed almost transparent. The aristocratic gentleman regarded this person with increasing interest. He approached the railing himself and furtively studied the stranger’s profile. Then, with an expression in his face less blasé than heretofore, he approached the man and stood behind him. Laying a hand on one of the shoulders to prevent his victim turning, he said: “I beg your pardon, sir, but could you tell me the name of this town?” There was a short silence. Then the stranger answered, in a serious tone, and with no effort to see his questioner: “This is Boston, the city of respectability–and other delights.” “Yes?” “It is also the home of a man who doesn’t seem to have matured with the passing years.” “Well, who is that man?” “A fellow that might have been a famous tenor if he had a voice–and some idea of music.” The other man laughed, removed his hand, and his friend turned about. Then followed a greeting as between old intimates, long separated. And such was the mutual pleasure that a neighboring spectator, many years embittered by dyspepsia, so far forgot himself as to allow a smile of sympathy to occupy his face. The countenance of the attenuated person was unusual; not from any peculiarity of feature, but from its invincible cheerfulness. This cheerfulness was constitutional, and contagious. His face seemed nearly ten years younger than it was; for the unquenchable good-humor having settled there in infancy had thwarted the hand of time. No signs of discouragement, of weariness or worry had gained a footing. There were no visible traces of unwelcome experience. While distinctly a thoughtful face, good-humor and a tranquil spirit were the two things most clearly written. His eyes were gray–frank, honest, mirthful, with little wrinkles at the corners when he smiled. After many questions had been asked and answered, the more pretentious gentleman laid a hand affectionately on the other’s arm, and said: “But what has happened to you, Pats? How thin you are! You look like a ghost–a mahogany ghost.” “Fever. A splendid case of South African fever.” “Too bad! Are you well over it?” “Yes, over the fever; but still tottery. My strength has not come home yet. And the lead was a set back.” “You mean bullets?” “Yes. I caught two, but they are both out. I am getting along all right now.” “And you have just reached America?” “Landed in New York yesterday; got here this morning at half-past seven, found my family were up on the St. Lawrence, and here I am. But what are you doing on this boat?” “Oh, I just came down to see somebody off.” An excess of indifference in the manner of this reply did not escape the friend from Africa. With a sidelong glance at his companion, he said, “A man, of course.” “How clever you are, Pats!” “No need of being clever, Billy, when you advertise your secret by blushing like a girl of fifteen.” “Blush! I, blush! How old do you think I am? Ten?” “Yes all of that. But if you didn’t actually blush, old man, you did look foolish. And this explains a state-room full of flowers that I noticed. Is that her bower?” “I think so.” “Well, who is she, Billy? You might as well tell me, for I shall be sure to discover if she goes on this boat.” “Elinor Marshall.” “Elinor Marshall? Why, that name is familiar. Where have I heard it?” 9 10 11 12 13 14 “She is a friend of your sisters.” “Of course!” “And she is going to your place now, on a visit.” “Good! I’ll cut you out. Is she fond of bones?” Mr. William Townsend did not answer, but he looked at his watch. “She ought to be here now. The boat sails at ten- thirty, doesn’t it?” “Yes.” “It’s ten, now. I shall trot you up as soon as she arrives.” “Thanks. You will excuse my asking a cruel question, old man, but you certainly did not send all the flowers in that cabin?” “Oh, no!” “Then there are other–appreciators?” “Yes.” Mr. Patrick Boyd, with a slight gesture toward two carefully attired gentlemen who were pacing the wharf, raised his eyebrows interrogatively. His companion smiled. “Yes. She can also have either of them, and without the asking.” The attenuated man regarded the two gentlemen with interest. “That chap has a familiar face.” “Which? The one with the bouquet?” “No; the one with the nose.” “That’s Hamilton Goddard.” “To be sure! And I should know his friend was a lover. His anxious glances up the wharf, and those flowers give him away. Such roses are for no aunt or sister.” “Better for him if they were!” “Why? No chance?” “Well, that is not for me to say. But he is one of those fearfully earnest chaps, with a tragic soul, and a rebuff would be a dangerous thing for him.” “Poor devil!” And the man of cheerful countenance slowly wagged his head, as he added, in a sympathetic voice, “This being in love seems a painful pleasure.” Mr. William Townsend regarded his friend with half-shut eyes, and asked, “Are you still the superior person who defies the–the malady?” “Even so.” “You never had it?” “Never.” “How old are you?” “Thirty.” “Then it’s a lie.” “It’s the truth. Of course I have known very fine girls who caused the usual thrills, whose conservatory kisses I should never undervalue. But when it comes to the fatuous delirium–the celestial idiocy that queers the brain and impairs the vision–why, I have been unlucky, that’s all.” “You are a liar, Pats. Just a liar.” “Mumps have been mine, and measles; and I have fooled with grape juice, but that other drunkenness has been denied me.” His companion’s grunt of incredulity was followed by the exclamation: “There she comes!” The two men below had halted, wheeled about, and were watching an approaching carriage. Down the wharf with this equipage came an atmosphere of solidity and opulence, of luxury and perfect taste. On the box, in quiet livery, sat a driver and a footman. The driver, from his bearing and appearance, could easily have passed for the president of a college. As the carriage halted before the gang plank, the gentleman with the nose stepped forward and opened the door, while he of the roses stood by with a radiant visage, his hat in one hand, his offering in the other. First, emerged an elderly gentleman, tall, slender, and acutely respectable. After him, a girl descended, also tall and slender. She was followed by a maid, and a Catholic priest. As the young lady stood for a moment conversing with the two admirers, her glance, in running over the little steamer, encountered Mr. Townsend, and she nodded pleasantly. “Lovely! Enchanting!” murmured the man from Africa. “Of course she is! Come down, and I’ll present you.” “But, first, tell me something about her. What are the interesting facts?” “Why, there’s nothing to tell–that I can think of.” “Of course there is! There must be! Women like that don’t bloom in every garden. What a patrician type! And all that black hair! She is unusual.” “Well, she is unusual, Pats. She is a splendid girl,–an orphan; and she is giving her fortune all away.” “The devil! And to whom?” “To philanthropy; to societies for the advancement of woman; to hospitals and other bottomless pits. But above all to the Catholic Church.” “Too bad! She doesn’t look so unintelligent.” “No: and she is not. Her mother and sister, all that remained of her family, were both drowned in the same accident, 15 16 17 18 and the shock upset her for a time.” “And it was then the Church got in its work? That explains the Holy Roman Cherub who seems to be along.” “Yes; that’s Father Burke. He is a part of the comedy.” “Comedy! It’s a blood-curdling drama! Hasn’t she a brother or some relative to reach out a hand and save her?” “She doesn’t care to be saved. She is one of those women with a conscience. A big one: the sort that becomes a disease unless taken in time.” “I know. She feels guilty if she’s happy. But she doesn’t look all that. She seems a trifle earnest, perhaps, but very human, and with real blood in her veins.” Mr. Townsend sighed–a long, deep sigh that seemed to come from below his waist. “Yes, she was mighty good company and rather jolly before the vultures closed in on her.” “Is she really in the coils of the anaconda?” “I am afraid so. She won’t talk about it herself,–at least, not with Protestants,–but some of her friends say she thinks of going into a convent.” “Well,” said Patrick Boyd, with a sudden warmth, as they turned to go below, “all I can say is, that the institution, sacred or secular, that tries to lure such a girl into a convent ought to be hustled into space.” “Amen to that!” 19 II FROTH OF THE SEA An hour later, as the Maid of the North was steaming for the open sea, the man from Africa and his new acquaintance formed a group on the after deck. The day was a rare one, even for early June. Across the surface of the water–now a sparkling, joyful blue–the air came free and full of life. This air was exhilarating. It inspired Father Burke to tell a funny anecdote, and he did it well. For not only did Father Burke possess a sense of humor, but his heavy, benevolent face, white hair, and deep voice gave unusual impressiveness to whatever he chose to utter. Even Mr. Appleton Marshall, a victim of acute Bostonia, eluded for a time his own self-consciousness. He soon went below, however, to revel, undisturbed, in a conservative local paper. Mr. Patrick Boyd,–or Pats, as we may as well call him,–being always of a buoyant spirit, added liberally to the general cheer. The young lady regarded this addition to her party with a peculiar interest. She knew that the mention of his name in his own family was for years a thing forbidden. Just how bad he was, or how innocent, she had never learned. And now, as she studied, furtively, this exile of uncertain reputation, and as she recognized the open nature, the fortitude, the tranquil spirit, all unmistakably written in his emaciated, sunburnt face, her curiosity was quickened. She knew that Sally, his elder sister,–her own intimate friend,–had persisted in a correspondence with her brother against her father’s wishes. And that, perhaps, was in his favor. At least, he had a good mouth and honest eyes. His neck, his hands, and his legs were preternaturally thin, and she wondered if the gap between his collar and his throat told a truthful story of South African fever. If so, the change had been appalling. However, neither bullets nor fever had reduced his spirits. The conversation touched on many things. When she happened to say that this was her first visit to the Boyds’ Canadian house, he replied: “And mine too.” “Have you never seen it?” she asked in surprise. “Never. My father bought this place about ten years ago, and I have been away over thirteen years.” “I had forgotten you had been away so long.” With a smile and a slight inclination of his head, he replied: “That you should know of my existence is a flattering surprise. Any mention of my name, I understand, was a state’s prison offence until my father died.” “Not quite so bad as that.” “A man’s fame is not apt to flourish when corked up in a bottle and laid away in a closet, with ‘Poison’ on the label.” Here was a chance to gratify a natural curiosity, and he seemed willing to throw light on the mystery. She was about to offer the necessary encouragement, when Father Burke took the conversation into less personal fields. It may have been the contagion of this young man’s cheerfulness, or the reaction on the lady’s part from an acute religious tension, but the priest had noticed Miss Marshall was awakening to a livelier enjoyment of her surroundings. The spontaneity and freedom of her laughter, on one or two occasions, had caused him a certain uneasiness. Not that Father Burke was averse to merriment. Too much of it, however, for this particular maiden and at this critical period, might cause a divergence from the Holy Roman path along which he now was escorting her. So he gave some interesting facts concerning this summer residence of the Boyds, winding up with the information that the hunting and fishing, all about there, were unusual. “But we women cannot hunt and fish all day!” “Perhaps it’s like Heaven,” said Pats, “where there’s nothing to do except to realize what a good time you are having.” “I hope that is not your idea of a woman’s ambition.” “What better business on a summer’s day?” “Many things,” replied the priest, “if she has a soul to expand and a mind to cultivate.” “But I was speaking of the natural, unvarnished woman we all enjoy and are not afraid of.” Miss Marshall, in a politely contemptuous manner, inquired, “Then, personally, you find the intelligent woman of high ideals less congenial than–the other kind?” “I find the superior woman with a gift of language is a thing that makes brave men tremble. I think wisdom should be tempered with mercy.” After a pause, and with a touch of sarcasm, she replied: “That is quite interesting. A fresh point of view always broadens the horizon.” Ignoring her tone, he answered in an off-hand, amiable way: “Of course there is no reason why a woman should not enter politics or anything else, if she wishes. And there is no reason why a rose should not aspire to be a useful potato. But potatoes will always be cheaper than roses.” She smiled wearily and leaned back. As their eyes met he detected a look of disappointment–perhaps at her discovery of yet one more man like all the others, earthy and superficial. But she merely said, and in a gentle tone: “You forget that while all men are wise, all women are not beautiful.” With a deep sigh he replied, “The profundity of your contempt I can only guess at. Whatever it is, I share it. We are a poor lot. ‘At thirty, man suspects himself a fool; 20 21 22 23 24 25 Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan.’ Which is all true except the last line.” She smiled. “You are too severe. I consider man the highest form of animal life–after the dog and the elephant.” “Then where does woman come in?” “Oh–as man’s satellite she is hard to place. Her proper position might be anywhere between the peacock and the parrot.” Pats shook his head, slowly and sadly. “That’s an awful utterance!” “But it enables you to realize her vanity in aspiring to the wisdom of man.” Father Burke laughed. “Fighting the Boer, Captain Boyd, is a different thing from skirmishing with the American girl.” “Indeed it is! For on the battle-field there is always one chance of victory. But I have not been fighting the Boers. I was trying to help the Boers against the English.” “Ah, good!” said the priest. “You were on the right side.” But the lady shook her head. “I don’t know about that. I should have joined the English and fought against the Boers.” “But, my dear child,” exclaimed Father Burke, “the cause of the Boers is so manifestly the cause of right and justice! They were fighting for their freedom,–the very existence of their country.” “Possibly, but the English officers are very handsome, and so stylish! And the Boers are common creatures–mostly farmers.” Pats regarded her in surprise. “That doesn’t affect the principle of the thing. Even a farmer has rights.” “Principles are so tiresome!” and she looked away, as if the subject wearied her. “Does it make no difference with your sympathies,” he asked with some earnestness, “whether a man is in the right or in the wrong? Would you have had no sympathy for the Greeks at Marathon?” She raised her eyebrows, and with a faint shrug replied, “I am sure I don’t know. Was that an important battle?” “Very.” “In South Africa?” Pats thought, at first, this question was in jest. She looked him serenely in the face, however, and he saw nothing in her eyes but the expectation of a serious answer to a simple question. Before he was ready with a reply, she inquired: “Were you at that battle?” He was so bewildered by this question, and from such a woman, that for a moment he could not respond. Father Burke, however, in his calm, paternal voice, gave the required facts. “The battle of Marathon was fought about twenty miles from Athens between the Greeks and invading Persians nearly five hundred years before Christ.” “Ah, yes, to be sure!” she murmured, indifferently, her eyes looking over the sea. Pats, who was sitting in front of his two companions, regarded her in surprise. As she finished speaking, he turned away his head, but still watching her from the corners of his eyes. Her own glance, with an amused expression, went at once to his face, as he anticipated. He laughed aloud in a frank, boyish way as their eyes met. “I knew you had some sinister motive in that speech. You almost fooled me.” And she smiled as she retorted, “I was merely trying to please you. You say you are averse to intelligence in a woman.” “Well, I take it all back. I am averse to nothing in a woman, except absence.” Father Burke took all this in, and he disapproved. Captain Boyd was by no means the sort of man he would have selected for companion to this maiden. The young man’s appreciation of the lady herself was too honest and too evident. It bore, to the observant priest, suspicious resemblance to a tender passion unskilfully concealed. Perilous food for a yearning spirit! Of course she was heavenly minded, and spiritual to the last degree, at present; but she was mortal. And the soul of a girl like Elinor Marshall was too precious an object to be thrown away on a single individual– above all, on a Protestant. Was it not already the property of The Church? And then, there was little consolation in the knowledge that she was to be in constant intercourse with this man for a week, and during that time beyond all priestly influence. The Maid of the North, until she passed Deer Island, bore a cheerful band of passengers. Then, in the open sea, she turned her nose a little more to the north, and while riding the waves as merrily as ever, she did it with a greater variety of motion. And this variety of motion, a complex, unhallowed shifting of the deck, first sidewise down, then lengthwise up, then all together and further down–with a nauseating quiver–was emphasized by zephyrs from the engine-room and kitchen–zephyrs redolent with oil and cooking and bilge water. All these, in time, began to trifle with the interiors of certain passengers, and to paralyze their mirth. Among early victims was Mr. Appleton Marshall. After storing his mind with the financial news and social gossip of the morning paper, he had rejoined his friends. Sitting beside his niece, he participated, at intervals, in the conversation, his manner becoming more and more distant until, at last, it vanished altogether. To all who cared to see, it was plain that this stately and usually complacent gentleman was losing interest in external matters. He seemed annoyed when a steward, about one o’clock, appeared on deck and rang a bell, announcing dinner. At this summons Patrick Boyd took out his watch and was obviously astonished at the flight of time. “I had forgotten my friend,” he exclaimed, and he hurried below. At the dinner-table Elinor Marshall sat between her confessor and her uncle, the latter clinging bravely to his post through the soup and fish. Then, after watching for a moment the various viands as they rose and fell with the heaving of the ship, accompanied, as it seemed to him, by a similar rising and sinking of his own digestive apparatus, he remarked, 26 27 28 29 30 with some severity, that he felt no hunger. And he left the table with dignity, yet with a certain expedition. As the uncle disappeared, Patrick Boyd came in and took a seat opposite the lady and the priest. “How did you find your friend?” Father Burke inquired. “Discouraged.” “Poor fellow! Nothing serious, I hope.” “No. But he doesn’t quite understand this starting right off again on another voyage.” “Is he–er–is his mind affected?” This question appeared to surprise Captain Boyd. “No. But they have fastened him to a windlass, near the engine- room, and he resents it.” This reply merely intensified the curiosity of the questioner. “Did you say they have fastened him?” “Yes. It seems to be a rule of the boat.” The young lady also opened her eyes. After a pause, she inquired, in a low voice, “Is he dangerous?” “No, indeed! Not at all!” “Then why tie him?” “It is a rule of the boat, as I said.” “A rule of the boat to tie passengers?” At this question Pats smiled, for a light broke in upon him. “My friend is a dog. I thought I told you.” “A dog!” and she seemed to find diversion in the seriousness with which Father Burke accepted the explanation. “I love dogs. Why shouldn’t I go down and see him?” “The honor would be appreciated.” “I will go after dinner. What sort of a dog is he?” “A setter.” “And what is his name?” Pats hesitated. “Do you really wish to know?” “Of course!” “Well, his full name is Jan Bartholomeus Van Vlotens Couwenhorn Van der Helst Poffenburgh.” “Then he is Dutch.” “Yes. He was the property of four officers, and each owner bestowed a portion of his name.” “What do you call him for short?” “Solomon.” “Solomon!” “At first we called him Jan, but the other three sponsors objected. They said it was favoritism. So we all agreed on Solomon for every day use.” “And he never resented it?” “No. He understood it as a tribute to his extraordinary wisdom.” She seemed amused. “Is he so very remarkable?” “Well,” said Pats, laying down his knife and fork, and giving his whole attention to the subject, “as to general intelligence, foresight, logic, and a knowledge of human nature, he is a wonder, even for a dog. And when it comes to dignity and tact, ease of manner and freedom from personal vanity, why–the other Solomon was a beginner.” She nodded and smiled approval. “I know something of dogs and men, and I can easily believe it. Certain men exist, however, who are mentally superior to dogs. But it’s the moral gulf between the two species that is so disheartening.” “All owing to the fatal power of speech.” “Possibly.” “I am sure of it. If dogs could talk, they would abuse the power, as humans do, and soon descend to the human level. They would lose the dignity that silence alone bestows, and become bores–like the rest of us.” With a deferential movement of his head toward the priest, he added, “Except as they apply to myself, these remarks are in no way personal.” As Father Burke, with a perfunctory smile, bowed acknowledgment, the girl at his side inquired, with a serious face, “Well, what can be done?” Pats, with equal seriousness, replied, “How would it do to establish an institute for the propagation of silence?” “The millennium would be in sight!” she exclaimed. “And instead of rhetoric and declamation teach economy in words; show the pupils by illustration and example how much better they look when their mouths are not open.” “A very sensible idea! And award medals to those who attain the highest flights of silence.” “The very thought is restful,” said Pats. “And would you mind if I offered Solomon a professorship?” “Not at all! It would look rather well in the catalogue, ‘Solomon Boyd, Instructor in Moral Philosophy and Deportment.’” With a glance at the mirthless face of the reverend gentleman beside her, she added, “And on the dome of the college shall be a colossal statue of Father Burke, in solid gold. He has not uttered a word in half an hour.” The priest answered pleasantly, but the tone of the conversation had given him little pleasure. Folly was in the air, and Elinor Marshall, to his surprise, seemed in harmony with it. Heretofore he had known her as a thoughtful, serious- minded woman, with a leaning to melancholy; and this unexpected and evidently enjoyable flight–or plunge–into pure nonsense, caused him a distinct uneasiness. The girl was brightening up, even becoming merry; a state of mind that never leads to a nunnery. 31 32 33 34 In this conversation, which ran on with rare intervals of seriousness until the meal was ended, Father Burke took no part. And when the younger people had gone below for their interview with Solomon, he decided, after long reflection, that considering the gravity of the case his obvious duty was to drop a word in the lady’s ear concerning this new acquaintance. The rest of the Boyds–the two sisters–were good Catholics, and from them there was nothing to fear. But if he, Father Burke, could counteract the influence of this interesting heretic, it would be a pious work. He must find his opportunity for an earnest conversation, and before she landed. The more he meditated, the more anxious he became. But Fate, the practical joker,–the fickle, the ruthless, the forever mocking,–was only waiting to lay his enemy at his feet. 35 III A FOOL AT THIRTY Toward the end of that day it became evident, in the west, that preparations were going on for an American sunset. Preliminary colors, chiefly gold and crimson, crept swiftly across the sky. These colors, more dazzling as the sun approached the water, were caught and tossed about upon the surface of the sea until all the universe seemed ablaze. Of this gorgeous spectacle Elinor Marshall, in a sheltered corner of the deck, was an appreciative witness. Pats, in his mercy, had decided to allow the lady a respite from his society, at least during a portion of the afternoon. The lady, however, was so much more interesting than anything else aboard that he finally ignored his better judgment. And now, leaning against the rail in front of her, he found the sunset duller, more monotonous and commonplace than the human combination in the steamer-chair. She, however, her head thrown back, with half-closed eyes, seemed fascinated by the glories in the west, and almost unconscious of his presence. As too much staring might cause annoyance, he did most of it on the sly. And the opportunity was good. As a mystery, she proved an absorbing study: an irresistible blending of contradictions, of sympathy and reserve, of sadness–and of wit–of a character and temperament not half-divulged. Whenever their eyes met, he felt a mild commotion, a curious, unfamiliar excitement,– something that made him less at ease. For it invariably brought the keenest anxiety as to her good opinion. He also experienced a consciousness of guilt; why, he knew not, unless from the expression of her eyes. They seemed to be reading his thoughts, and to be a trifle saddened by the result. That, in itself, was disconcerting. He began to see why those other fellows were in love with her. Although fireproof himself, he understood, now that he knew her better, the nature of the conflagration that devoured the men in Boston. In her sensitive face, in her reserve, and in her sometimes melancholy air, he saw traces of inward struggles between a passionate, impulsive, pleasure-loving nature and standards of virtue unattainably high. And when he remembered that she was doomed to the seclusion of a convent, that this life, with every promise of being exceptionally rich and full, was to be crushed, deadened and forever lost to the outer human world, his resentment became difficult to suppress. He wondered, in a hot, disjointed way, if there was no possibility of a rescue. Awakening from a revery, she caught him in the act, regarding her with earnest eyes, and with a frown. He also came back to earth–or to the boat–suddenly, and he observed a slight movement of her eyebrows as in surprise or disapproval. With a guilty air, he looked away, and she wondered if the warmer color in his mahogany cheeks came entirely from the sunset. After an awkward silence, he said. “I beg your pardon for staring at you. You are so very contradictory, and in so many ways, that I took the liberty of guessing at your real character; whether after all you are unpleasantly perfect, or whether it is merely your luck to possess an awe-inspiring exterior.” She was unable to repress a laugh. “And what have you decided?” “I have not decided; that is, not finally. I keep arriving at new conclusions. My first impression was that you were a person of frigid altitudes,–severe, exacting, and abnormally superior. Then, later, I have thought you warm-hearted– even impulsive: that your indifference is not always real. But of that, I am not sure. Still, I believe you possess a lower and a better nature.” “You seem to have made wonderful discoveries in a very few hours.” “I have been working hard.” “I hope the verdict is favorable.” “Well, yes–in a way.” “So bad as that!” “No, not bad at all. It is merely that you have bullied your natural character. You have made it toe the mark and behave itself. Never given it any vacations, perhaps.” She regarded him intently, as if in doubt as to his meaning. “But you don’t know the cause,” he added. She made no reply. “The cause,” he said, “is the expression of your face.” “Ah!” “Yes. It is impossible for any being of earthly origin to possess the celestial qualities promised in your countenance. It is out of harmony with terrestrial things. Why, when those three men put out their hands this morning for you to touch, I held my breath at their presumption. I looked for three bolts from heaven to wither the extended arms.” “And your own face, Mr. Boyd, gives no indication of the subtleness of your irony: unkind, perhaps, but extremely clever.” “Irony! Never! I had no such thought! I am merely announcing the discovery that with a different exterior you would have been less perfect; but more comfortable.” “If this is not irony, it is something still more offensive. I gave you credit for a finer touch.” “I may be clumsy, but not malicious.” “Then explain.” “Well, you see, having a tender conscience, you have felt a sense of fraud whenever confronted by your own reflection. Being human, you have had, presumably, ambitions, envies, appetites, prejudices, vanities, and other human ills of which the face before you gave no indication. And so, feeling the preternatural excellence of that face a lie, you have tried to live up to it; that is, to avoid being a humbug. In short, your life has been a strenuous endeavor to be 36 37 38 39 40 41 unnecessarily wise and impossibly good.” As their side of the steamer rose high above the sea, after an unusual plunge, he added: “And I am afraid you have succeeded.” She remained silent, lost apparently in another revery, watching the changes in the west. The light was fading. On sea and sky a more melancholy tone had come,–dull, slaty grays crowding in from every quarter. And over the darkening waters there seemed a tragic note, half-threatening, intensified by every plunge of the steamer and by the swish of waters very near the deck. There was a touch of melancholy, also, in the steady thumping of the engines. She said at last, pleasantly, but in a serious tone: “I have been reflecting on your discourse. If ironical, it was unkind. If sincere, it was–not impertinent perhaps, but certainly not justified by our short acquaintance.” “True: and I beg your pardon. But was it correct?” “I hope not.” Something in her manner invited a discontinuance of that particular topic. He drew an attenuated hand across his mouth, changed his position, as if on the point of saying more; but he held his peace. Some minutes later, when Miss Marshall’s maid approached this silent couple, her progress, owing to the movement of the deck, consisted of rapid little runs followed by sudden pauses, during which she hung with one hand to the rail and with the other clutched her hat. She had come up to ask if her mistress needed anything. Was she warm enough? Would she have another wrap? Miss Marshall needed nothing herself, but asked for news of Mr. Appleton Marshall, and if Father Burke was feeling better. Louise had seen nothing of Mr. Marshall since dinner, but she had left Father Burke reclining in the main saloon, not very sick, nor very well, but lower in his mind. As her maid departed, the lady expressed sympathy for the suffering uncle. “And poor Father Burke! He is terribly uncomfortable, I am sure.” “Yes,” said Pats. “I saw in his face a look of uncertainty: the wavering faith that comes from meals with an upward tendency.” Pats thought this want of sympathy was resented. “He is a most lovable man,” she said, “of fine character, and with a splendid mind. You would like him if you knew him better.” Here was his opportunity; his chance for a rescue. He would snatch her from the clutches of the Romish Brute. A few stabs in the monster’s vitals might accomplish wonders. So he answered, sadly, in a tone of brotherly affection: “I like him now. That is why I regret that he should devote himself to such a questionable enterprise.” “What enterprise?” “His Church.” With a forced calmness she replied, “This is the only time I ever heard the first religion of Christendom called a ‘questionable enterprise.’” “Leo X. spoke of it as a ‘profitable fable.’ Perhaps that was better.” “Did Leo X. say that of the Catholic Church?” “Yes.” “I don’t believe it.” “Because you have too high an opinion of Leo?” “No; but he was a Pope of Rome, and I simply cannot believe it.” “Some popes of Rome have been awful examples for the young.” “So have men in all positions.” He smiled and shook his head. “Yes, but when they set up as Christ’s apostles, they really should not indulge too freely in assassination and torture: at least, not out of business hours.” Then in a reflective, somewhat sorrowful manner, he continued, “But the Roman Enterprise has two enemies that are thorns in the flesh, the bath-tub and the printing-press. Wherever they march in, she marches out. The three can’t live together.” Of this statement there was no recognition, except a straightening up in the steamer-chair. He continued pleasantly, “In England, Germany, and America, for instance, where these adversaries are in vogue, Catholicism quits. As the devil shrinks from the sign of the Cross, so does the Holy Enterprise gather up its bloody skirts and decamp.” “Perhaps you forget that in the United States alone there are more than seven million Catholics.” “But they are not victims of the bath-tub habit.” “That is not true! There are thousands of exceptions!” He laughed–an amiable, jolly, yet triumphant laugh–as he retorted, “You admit the truth of it when you call them exceptions.” In the dim light which had gathered over everything, he could see the delicate eyebrows drawing together in a frown. But he went on, cheerfully, as if giving offence had not occurred to him, “Now Spain is enthusiastically Catholic. And for ignorance,–solid, comprehensive, reliable ignorance,–there is nothing like it in the solar system. You can’t hurt it with a hammer. It defies competition. If a Spaniard were to meet a bath-tub on a lonely highway, he would cross himself and run.” “Their ignorance is their own fault. Education and progress have always been encouraged by the Catholic Church.” “Encouraged? Oh!” “Certainly.” “You mean by the stake and boiling lead?” 42 43 44 45 “I do not.” “When, for example, she notified Galileo that she would roast him alive, as she had already roasted Bruno, if he persisted in his heresy that the earth was round instead of flat?” “If you are happy in that belief, I will not destroy it.” “It is a historic fact, but I am no happier for believing it. However, too much education is a nuisance, and very likely Mamma Church was wise in toasting an astronomer now and then.” “Your conclusions are rather entertaining. I am a Catholic myself, and my own reading has brought opinions that are quite different.” She spoke calmly, but he detected a less friendly tone. In a joking, incredulous manner he replied, “Well, then, I am a Catholic, too.” “I am serious. My faith to me is a sacred thing. It has brought me a more tranquil spirit, a deeper knowledge, and a fuller conception of what I owe to others–and to myself.” She was very much in earnest. “Then I beg your pardon,” he said, “for speaking as I did.” She tried to smile. “It is more my fault than yours. Religious discussions never do any good.” Then she arose from her chair, and he knew from the exceeding dignity of her manner that his offence was serious. But this dignity met with cruel reverses. As she stood up, their side of the steamer was just starting on a downward lurch,–one of those long, deep, quivering plunges, apparently for the bottom of the sea, slow at first, but gaining in rapidity. And Elinor Marshall, instead of turning away with frigid ceremony, as she intended, first stood irresolute, as if taken unawares,–yet suspecting danger,–then tiptoed forward and rushed impetuously into the gentleman’s arms. These arms were forced to encircle the sudden arrival, otherwise both man and woman would have tumbled to the deck. Then, she pushed him hard against the rail. But even that was not the end. For there she held him, to her shame, pressing against him with the whole weight of her body. And this lasted, it seemed to her, an hour–a year–a lifetime of mortification and of helpless rage; the wind all the time screaming louder and louder with a brutish glee. Her choking exclamations of chagrin were close to his ears, and he felt her hair against his face. But he was powerless to aid in her struggles to regain the lost equilibrium. However good his wishes, he could do nothing but stand as a cushion–poorly upholstered at that–between herself and the rail. Finally, at the end of time, when the deck came up again, she backed away with flaming cheeks. Pats apologized; so did she. He wished to assist her to the cabin stairs, but the offer was ignored, and she left him. 46 47 48