CHAPTER X
FACING WORLD-OLD PROBLEMS
When the lights in the house were all out, and they had all gone totheir rest or their restlessness, to their dreams or their oblivion,the sailor returned to his ship. Lighting his lantern, that hung inthe sheltered corner aft where he slung his hammock, he pulled fromthe breast of his shirt a little bundle of water-stained papers. Onewas a long, official-looking envelope, bearing the stamp of the NavyDepartment, and evidently containing an order or an importantcommunication. Barry had often seen such envelopes addressed to theadmiral. The others, if he could judge from the outside, were privateletters, and the envelopes bore, he thought, a woman's handwriting. Hearrived at this last conclusion instinctively, for he was withoutfamiliarity with such things; he had scarcely ever received a letterin his fifty years of life.
He had found them that morning on the shore by the landing, where theyhad fallen from the pocket of Revere's coat the night before. Insteadof handing them to the young man, he had retained them; moved by whatidea that they might be of value to him some day, who could say?
The envelopes had all been opened, and nothing prevented him fromexamining the contents. He was but a rude sailor; the niceties andrefinements of other ranks of life were not for him, yet he hesitatedto read the documents. Two or three times he half drew one of theletters from its envelope only to thrust it resolutely back. MissEmily would not have read them, nor the admiral either; that he knew.Finally he gathered up the handful, put them in the locker near wherehe stood, and turned the key. He would not read them, but he would notreturn them, either.
Ah, Barry, 'tis not alone hesitant woman who loses!
He had won a partial advantage, the first skirmish in a battle whichwas to be renewed with increasing force with every passing hour. Hewould have given the world to have examined those documents andpapers. They would tell him something of the errand of the man,perhaps; but he had not reached the breaking point,--not yet,although, under the influence of his furious jealousy and consequentanimosity, he was not far from it. Unconsciously he contrasted Reverewith himself, and suffered keenly in the ever-growing realization ofhis disadvantage. Old, common, rude, lonely, faithful, that wasall,--and it was not enough.
As for Revere, the loss of the letters, which he had discovered whenhe put on his own uniform, annoyed him somewhat, although he did notconsider it serious. That afternoon he had written to the NavyDepartment detailing his accident and asking that new orders be madeout for him. He had also written to his mother, lightly mentioning hisadventure and his lost baggage, and directing that other clothing besent him immediately by his man. In this letter he had enclosed ashort note for Josephine. In neither of them did he dwell much uponEmily Sanford.
Of the trio in the house he was one to whom oblivion did not comereadily that night. He was facing a very serious crisis in his life.He had been betrothed to Josephine Remington, a far-off connection ofhis mother, since his graduation, and the betrothal was only thecarrying out of a plan which had long been agreed upon between therespective families. The engagement was a matter of general notoriety,and was an accepted fact among their many friends. In the absence ofany other affection, he had never realized that he had not lovedJosephine as he should, and never suspected, until he had felt thetouch of genuine passion, and had become thereby an authority upon thesubject, that she did not love him either.
But what was to be done was a grave question. Was it right for him tomake love to Emily Sanford, which he had certainly done, byimplication at least, and which he certainly wanted to do directly andunequivocally, under the circumstances? or, was it right to allowEmily Sanford to fall in love with him, which, without vanity, he feltshe might do, and which he fervently hoped with all his soul she woulddo, while he was engaged to Josephine? It certainly was not right.That was a conclusion about which there could be no other opinion.
He finally resolved that he would treat Emily Sanford with properreserve, and circumspectly watch his conduct toward her for thepresent. Perhaps it would be best, after all, to try to put her out ofhis heart and keep to his engagement his mind suggested faintly. Thatwas impossible he felt in his heart. It was Emily or nothing. No, hecould not and he would not. He must at once secure a release from theone so that he could have the right to woo the other honorably andopenly.
Yet, how to be free? Could he ask Josephine to release him? What wouldhis mother think of such a demand, and how would his conduct in theaffair be regarded by his friends? And yet he could not carry out hisengagement. That was final. In one moment the delusion of years whichhe had accepted--nay, even encouraged--with a youth's indifference hadbeen swept away. Love had smitten him; his eyes, too, had been opened.Whatever betided, there was but one woman in the world for him. Yet hemust conceal his feeling and make no avowal until he was free. PoorRichard! He did not realize that the man does not live who can concealfrom the woman he loves the fact that he loves her. It is in the veryair, and nature has a thousand ways to tell the tale, with each one ofwhich the most untutored woman suddenly grows familiar at the rightmoment.
They were puzzling and annoying questions, but, with a conduct quitewhat would be expected from so gallant a sailor, he at last made uphis mind. Of one thing he was certain,--that he loved Emily, and thatshe was the only woman in the world for him. And he would be free. SoRevere, like Barry, hesitated and was lost!
Even the situation with regard to the old ship was a puzzling one.There would be no evading the orders of the government. The ship mustbe sold to the best advantage and broken up. Yet to destroy the shipwas to write the admiral's death-warrant. He had to obey his orders.No sentimental considerations would be allowed to interfere with thecommand of the department. Still, how could he do it? He did not daretell the news to the admiral, he could not mention it to Emily, hewould not even like to declare it to the old sailor.
The more he considered the situation the more unfortunate the positionin which he found himself. As a lover,--of Emily, that is,--he waspledged to another woman. As a guest of the admiral, he was there totake away the ship. And, although he entered little into hiscalculations, he might have added, had he known it, that on bothcounts, ship and maiden, he was about to break the heart of the manwho had saved his life. And all of this had been brought about in themost innocent and unwitting way. He felt himself, in some strangemanner, the sport of a hard and malignant fortune.
The night was still and calm to the admiral, sleeping dreamlesslywithout foreboding; but to his granddaughter--ah, she was the dreamer.This young hero, this demigod from over the sea, how he had looked ather, how he had listened to her, how his eyes had seemed to pierce thevery depths of her maiden soul! He had not complimented her upon hersinging; he had only asked for more and still more. And howbeautifully his voice had blended with hers! Was he, indeed, the fairyprince come at last to awaken the sleeping beauty of her passion,--tokiss into life the too long dormant feeling in her heart?
There are songs without words in maidens' hearts, and one of themrippled through the innocence of her girlish soul in the still watchesof that heavenly night.
And they all forgot old Barry alone on the ship.