Woven with the Ship: A Novel of 1865

  CHAPTER XIII

  LOVE HOLDS THE YOKE-LINES

  As he anticipated, Revere found his man with a well-filled portmanteauand several letters awaiting him at the little old-fashioned countryinn of the village. The morning was far spent when Emily finished hersimple purchases, and the two lovers lunched together in the quaintold parlor of the inn. The girl, in her innocence of the customs ofthe world, was quite oblivious to the conventional necessity for achaperon; so, without the embarrassment of a third party, they greatlyenjoyed the wholesome and substantial meal provided for them by theskilful hands of the innkeeper's wife with whom Emily was a greatfavorite. They lingered a long time at the table in the coolold-fashioned room, and it was somewhat late in the afternoon whenthey started back to the Point, to which Revere had previouslydirected his man to repair with his baggage, by the land road.

  The constraint which had been put upon both of them by the necessitiesof the business which had called them to the village, and the presenceof other people wherever they went, for the officious but well-meaninglandlady had frequently interrupted the privacy of the parlor even,had been the strongest force in developing the growing passions intheir hearts.

  Emily was a simple-minded maiden, with all the attributes of a veryold-fashioned age. She had no mission to reform this world, whichindeed she had found most sweet and fair, and sweeter and fairer thatday than ever before; she stood for no so-called modern idea; she hadno deep plan or mighty purpose for the amelioration of mankind,--orwomankind either; she did not aim at the achievement of great results,the doing of mighty deeds. The complexities of her character did notmanifest themselves in these ways.

  Woman's sphere for her, if she thought of it specifically at all, wasa very simple and a very old thing. To love and to be loved, to befirst a faithful, happy wife, and second, please God, a wise, devotedmother, was the sum of her ambition.

  There were no young men with whom she came in contact who couldmeasure up to the standard of her social and intellectualrequirements, and the chances that any would present themselves hadbeen exceedingly small. So she had represented in her life a hopedeferred, but without being heart-sick with the delay; she was of sosane, so healthy, and so happy a disposition that she had been savedall that. With the optimism of youth she had confidently expected thatsome day the prince would arrive, and when he came, together hand inhand they would go "over the hills and far away, to that new landwhich is the old." And the portals of that undiscovered country werenow opening before her delighted vision.

  Barely out of her teens, she had not grown impatient in herdreaming,--life had been too sweet and pleasant for that,--but thethoughtful and somewhat lonely years had made her ready, and it was nowonder that at the touch she yielded. When Revere came to her out ofthe deep, cast up at her feet by the waves of the sea, as it were, hefitted into anticipation already old. He represented the realizationof her maidenly desires and her womanly hopes. That she should fall inlove 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 ancestryhad been tempered, modified, brightened, by his sailor life and by hisintimate contact with great and heroic men in the war which was justover. Frank, genial, generous, and not without a certain high-breddistinction in his manner, and blessed with a sufficiency of manlygood 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 forRevere, in fact, for that young man's conscience troubled him deeply,while there was no cloud on her sweet pleasure. If he had not beenengaged to Josephine he would have revelled in his love for Emily; buthe was not free. He was now bound to two women at the same time, andnot in strictly honorable relationship to either. The false positionwas almost unbearable to a man of his fine sensitiveness, and that hehad made it himself did not make it less easy to endure. He firmlyresolved to extricate himself from his dilemma by informing Josephineat the first opportunity.

  No other course was left to him. Since he had seen and known Emily hefelt that it would be impossible for him to keep his previousengagement, and yet he realized that it would have been more honorablefor him to have controlled himself as he had determined, better tohave been less precipitate and to have waited until he had gained hisrelease before he offered himself to Emily.

  Carried away by his feelings, he had proposed to her in the boat, andhe regretted, not the fact,--never that,--but that he had been solittle master of himself, that he could not have delayed his wooingfor a few days, until, being made free, he could definitely andproperly and honorably ask her for her hand. He felt, for instance,that he could not speak to the old admiral upon the subject until hehad secured his release. It would be impossible for him to approachthat soul of ancient honor other than free.

  Yet when he looked at the girl; when the clear, sweet notes of herfresh young voice thrilled in his ear; when walking by her side herdress brushed against him; when by chance or design he touched her, orher hand met his; when she looked at him out of those frank, honestblue eyes; when he saw the color come and go in her cheek, marked thebeating of her heart, caught the unconscious affection with which hereye dwelt upon him at times, when she thought herself unobserved, hevowed 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, inhis turn, counted a moment lost. He could hardly wait to get back tothe house, where he determined to write to Josephine instantly andapprise her of the situation. He felt, as a matter of course, that shewas too proud a woman to hold him to an unwilling engagement for asingle moment. Whether she loved him or not he could not say. Hethought not, he hoped not. Their engagement had been a matter-of-factaffair, and the courtship had been rather a cool one. He was perfectlycertain that she liked him, but that was very different. He had neveronce seen her breath come quicker when he approached her, the colorflush or fade in her cheek as he spoke to her. But he could not besure. The veneer of birth, custom, and environment had not been wornoff of her as it had been stripped from him, and her outward actionbeneath all this coolness afforded no infallible guide to herfeelings.

  If she loved him, that would indeed complicate the matter, but therecould be--there must be--no other issue than that the engagementshould be broken. He would be very sorry for her in that case, butthere would be nothing else to be done. He could not help it that hehad fallen in love with some one else, and the only honorable thing todo now was to tell the truth at once and break away. A man'sreasoning, certainly!

  As they approached the wharf where the boat was tied Emily noticedthat Revere looked pale and tired. The violent current of histhoughts, the acuteness of the mental struggle in which he foundhimself involved, together with his low physical condition, had wornhim out. Therefore the girl insisted upon rowing back herself.

  Even in the dependence of the first love of a young maiden there is afeeling of protection, a foreshadowing of the instinct maternal, whichis the foundation of most of the good things in this life, even of thehabit and practice of religion. Emily, while she gloried in his virilemanhood and dwelt happily upon his strength and vigor, already watchedover Revere as she might have looked after a child. And she delightedin the opportunity of doing her lover further service. So Omphalemight have considered Hercules.

  "I want to show you how beautifully I can pull an oar," she artfullysaid, in answer to his expostulation, herself only half comprehendingthe deep springs of action that lay in her being; "and you look sotired. You know you are not yet strong. I ought not to have allowedyou to come."

  The sense of ownership implied in her last words was delightful toboth 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 alifetime. Please get into the boat and take the yoke-lines."

  "No," said Emily; "you said I was
captain, and I mean to exercise theprivileges of my position. Take the yoke-lines yourself. I insist uponit."

  "Oh, very well," assented the young sailor, smiling at her; "I havebeen under orders, it seems to me, ever since I was born. Firstmother, then Josephine, and now you."

  He sat down in the stern-sheets with affected resignation and gatheredup the yoke-lines.

  Emily's face had changed somewhat at this last remark, but she saidnothing as she cast off the painter, stepped to the thwart, shoved offthe boat, broke out the oars, and pulled away. She rowed a prettystroke, quite as deft as Revere's had been, though lacking somewhat inpower. As they cleared the wharf and headed out into the bay towardthe 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 meas----"

  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 inmid-stroke, drops trickling from them.

  "Have I been bold and forward?" she cried in dismay. "Oh, what mustyou think of me?"

  "You have been perfect," he answered, fervently; "simply perfect. Iwouldn't have you changed an iota in any way. Don't let's talk aboutother people now. I'd rather talk about you. Tell me something aboutyourself, about the life you have lived, what you have done, what youhave thought, what you have dreamed; tell me everything. I want toknow 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 Ilove you."

  There was conviction in his voice which comforted her soul. Still, shesought 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," shecontinued.

  "I didn't save your life, though, Emily."

  The boat was in the shadow of the island trees, where it had been whenhe had first spoken of love to her that morning. She let it drift;again the water made sweet music lipping along the side; they wouldassociate it forever with these ineffable moments.

  "No," she murmured, her honesty and innocence giving her courage tosay 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 ofyesterday. Ferdinand had come to Miranda; and Ariel had opened theeyes of the maiden to new things on the old island more wonderful thanthose revealed by Prospero's magic wand. And to Revere, too, thecomplexion of the world suddenly and swiftly altered.

  "Oh, Emily, you don't mean it!" he cried in exultant surprise. He hadnot hoped so soon for this revelation of the woman's heart.

  Her face was averted now, but she spoke distinctly enough for him tohear every whispered word.

  "Yes, I think--I believe--I do. I have thought about it a great dealsince 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. Ido not dare to look at you. I love you so! Come, let us hurry back tothe 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, naively.

  "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 onething of you. Do not say anything about--to-day. That is, tograndfather or Captain Barry,--not just yet."

  "I'm not likely to say anything about it to Captain Barry now or atany other time," he laughed; "and as for the admiral, it will do noharm 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 himtime to write and get his freedom.

  "I want to enjoy it first alone," she went on, dreamily. "I want tohave 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 littlewhile."

  She laid her hand upon her heart with the sweetest gesture as shespoke.

  "It shall be so," he answered, frankly, adoring her. "Whatever youwish 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 notthink me foolish?"

  "Not all to yourself, for, though I do not speak, I must still shareit, 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 topass, bowing low before her with all the chivalry of his race, all theardor of his youth, all the devotion of his manhood in his look andattitude.

  The sweetness of the present reality so far transcended her sometimeimagination of it that the girl, on leaving him, walked away as ifborne by seraph's wings through the air of heaven. Yet there was anote athwart her joy,--not exactly one of sadness or of heaviness, buta feeling, as it were, of maidenly awe before the bright vistas ofhappiness which had opened before her eyes, in her lover's presence,in his love. Unconsciously she put her hand to her face, as if thesight dazzled her.

  A little distance away Revere, having fastened the boat, followed herup the hill. She did not look back, but she could hear his feet uponthe steps. He was there, then. He was looking at her as he had lookedat 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 gazingat the ship and dreaming as usual. She bent low and kissed him as shehad never kissed him before. He awoke from his reverie with a start,half comprehending, and gazed from the girl entering the door toRevere coming up the walk.

  "You have been a long time, lad," he said, as the latter stoppedbefore him.

  "Yes, sir. We took luncheon together at the old inn and rowed backslowly. Your granddaughter--I shall have something to say to you in aday or two, sir."

  "I hope so," said
the admiral, quietly. "I thought so. But don't waittoo many days. Days are as moments to the young; to the aged they areas years."

  That day Barry had not left the ship. With a long, old-fashioned glassthat was chief among his treasures, which had belonged to the admiral,he had followed the boat across the harbor. He had divined--by whatcunning who can say?--what had been said in the pauses under thetrees. 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 theshore 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 himin the end. Hidden away in his corner of the old vessel, he opened thebundle of letters and orders. And as he painfully deciphered them, oneby one, it all became clear to him. This cursed officer had come tosell the ship over their heads. He had stolen Emily's heart, and yethe was engaged to be married to another woman. The letters fromJosephine Remington puzzled him; but as he slowly blundered throughthem, with their casual references to an engagement, with their quietassumption that all was understood between the two, Barry becameconvinced that Revere was simply amusing himself with the admiral'sgranddaughter.

  And was he to stand idle, indifferent, impotent, while these thingswere 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 thechief treasure of her womanhood and he do nothing? Was she to berobbed of her happiness, too, while he was there? No, never!

  His brain reeled under the pressure of his thoughts. What should hedo? What could he do? In what way might he compass the destruction ofthis man? Save the ship and save the girl, too!

  Ah! Like to one of old in his blindness, there flashed an idea intohis mind, as he stood there with the crumpled letters in his clinchedhand. At first it startled him. It was so bold; in a way it was soterrible. But he had brooded too long to look at that idea in morethan one light. With the one thought of revenge upon the man who heimagined intended to sell the ship, and who would gain Emily Sanford,he brooded upon the notion until it took entire possession of him, andthen, although it involved his own destruction, he grimly prepared toput it in practice.