Woven with the Ship: A Novel of 1865

  CHAPTER XV

  FORGIVENESS THE FIRST LESSON

  "That kiss, sweetest," said Revere, gravely, as they walked up thehill, "has made the ship immortal in my heart. It shall stand until itfalls away. I was sent here by the government to sell the ship. It wasto 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, areyou rich enough to buy a whole ship yourself?"

  "My darling," he answered, "since you kissed me I think I have themines 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 Iwant; that is, anything in reason that is buyable. No fortune couldput 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; hecould not exactly comprehend why. "Does it disappoint you?"

  "No, I believe not," she answered, doubtfully. "I never dreamed ofsuch a thing, I'll admit. I always thought we would have a littlecottage somewhere----"

  "We?" joyfully.

  "Of course. We. I was waiting for you, you know."

  "Well, dearest, I hope you will become accustomed to something largerthan a cottage. Money has some advantages, you know."

  "I doubt not I shall if you will teach me. Oh, Dick, I am so happy! Ifeel 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 hadto tell her the truth. They were by this time sitting side by side onthe gun-carriage on the little platform overlooking the brow of thehill.

  "Emily, dearest," said Revere, desperately. He hated to do it; he toldhimself that he was a fool to say anything, yet her presence and hertrust compelled him. "I have something to confess to you. I cannotallow 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 alifetime as it is; and you love me, don't you? It is not that you donot?"

  "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 herface in her hands, but she did not weep. That would come later. Wasshe not to be happy, after all?

  He felt so guilty and conscience-stricken that he made no attempt torestrain her movement of avoidance, although he longed to take her inhis arms again.

  "Oh, Richard, how could you?" she said at last, the misery andreproach 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, andyet the only answer that could be given; a vague reply, and yet shecomprehended.

  "I've been a mean coward," he exclaimed. "But at least I love you, andI could not help it."

  "Yes, I believe that--that you love me, I mean,--but you could havehelped it," she answered, faintly.

  "Well, I ought to have helped it," he admitted, in honest misery; "butI 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. Theincubus of the secret was lifted from him--he was another man, eventhough still bound.

  "Emily, I swear to you that my heart has never beat quicker at thethought 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 sortof family affair, and I never cared anything about it one way or theother. I thought it would be rather pleasant----"

  "Is that all?"

  "Yes, on my honor, until I met you; and then I knew it could neverbe."

  "You said you _were_ engaged to her, Richard. What do you mean bythat?"

  "As soon as I could after I had spoken to you this afternoon I wroteto her, telling her the truth about my love for you and giving her achance 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, myheart 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 myheart, myself, as I have shown them to you. She must give me up; sheshall! I tell you I will marry no woman but you, no matter whathappens!"

  "And I, Dick, will marry no one but you. But, oh, the pity of it! Whydidn'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?" pleadedthe young man, coming nearer to her.

  "No," she said at last, faintly. "I will trust you because I--I loveyou."

  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 fromher.

  "Please do not do that again, Richard; at least not yet," shemurmured, as she resolutely disengaged herself from his embrace. "Poorgirl! you don't love her. And now good-night. I must think--it's allso strange--I don't know. We will talk over what is best in themorning."

  "But you love me still? You won't let this make any difference, willyou?" he pleaded, in deadly anxiety, stretching out his hands to her.

  "It won't make any difference in my love,--nothing will ever changethat," she answered, sadly; "but it makes a great difference in myhappiness."

  Poor Emily! she was just learning that the beginning of a woman's loveis forgiveness.

  In the oldest of Books is written, "It is not good that man should bealone," and the saying is as true as it is ancient. The human beingwho looks at things through but one pair of eyes--his own--is apt toreceive distorted impressions, to see strange visions, and to dreamfearful dreams.

  To be solitary is to go mad. Society is the preserver and promoter ofintelligence and all the virtues; alas! of many of the vices as well.Men--ay, and women, too--have tried to dispense with humanity, seekingsomething higher. They have withdrawn themselves from the world awhile, and, far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, in the vastexpanse of some limitless desert, or upon some rough-ribbed Sinai'srocky crest, in seclusion from the sound of tongues and the war ofmen, have sought to draw near to God.

  And they have not found Him. Rather Satan has entered into them andthey have become victims of diabolic obsession. For God is in thepeople. The human touch conveys the divine. The attrition of men isthe outward force that makes character. Life is to fit in and be apart 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 finishingtouch by breaking in upon the man's solitude. The admiral was becomingonly a daily duty to the sailor. Habit had almost
encysted hisaffection for his superior. As Emily had approached womanhood she haddrawn away from Barry. He worshipped her from a greater and greaterdistance, constantly increasing. And now that she loved one of her ownage and her own class, the old man felt that she had almost vanishedfrom his sight. The last link that held him in touch with humanity wasbreaking. Should he not strike while there was time? Love was not forhim, but hate is everybody's. He should claim his portion.

  The rotting ship was his mountain, his desert, his hermitage. Itsbare, gaunt timbers were his horizon. He looked, he listened, he readagain the letters, he agonized, he broke, and was lost. And when thedevil came to him, under the guise of good to be accomplished, hefound a place ready, swept and garnished for him.

  Oh, poor, blind, possessed old sailor!