CHAPTER XIV.
FERDINAND:... Full many a lady I have eyed with best regard; and many a time The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage Brought my too diligent ear; for several virtues Have I liked several women; never any With so full a soul but some defect in her Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed, And put it to the foil; but you, O you So perfect and so peerless, are created Of every creature's best.
_The Tempest._
The "old roadster" had a busy time of it the next morning preparing forthe visit to the islands. She was steaming up and down the river for along while before our friends knew it was time to get up. At eleveno'clock she took on board the Canadians, and away they went--not at"better" than twenty miles an hour, but pretty fast. Mr. Cowper's hintthat the Ideal was magnificent in its fittings had pleased theDusenalls. They thought he had been somewhat impressed by a swingingchandelier over the cabin table. Mr. Cowper had examined this, found itdid not contain the last improvements, said it was splendid, and theDusenalls were pleased. But their pleasure was damped when they were ledinto the main cabin of the "old roadster." The crimson silk-plushcushions covering the divan around the apartment, into which they sanksomewhat heavily, did not at first afford them complete repose. Thewindow curtains and _portieres_ throughout the vessel were all of thickcorded silk or silk plush. The walls and ceilings in the cabins weresimply a museum of the rarest woods, and in the main cabin was a littletiled fireplace with brass dogs and andirons, its graceful curtainsreined in with chains. The cabins alone had cost a fortune, and theDusenalls were for once completely taken aback. Mrs. Dusenall did notget her head over on one side _a la duchesse_ any more that day, and itended in her coming to the conclusion that Americans in theirhospitalities may frequently have no other motive than to give pleasure.This could only be realized by Britons able to denationalize themselvesso far as to understand that there may be a life on earth which is notalternate patronage and sponging. It is to be feared though that most ofthem receive attentions from Americans only as that which should, in theordinary course of things, be forthcoming from a people blessed with aproper power to appreciate those excellent qualities of head and heartwith which the visitor represents his incomparable nation.
Mr. Cowper did not do things by halves. As they sped about among themany islands the strains of harps and violins came pleasantly from someplace about the boat where the musicians could not be seen. A number ofpeople from the hotels and islands were also among Mr. Cowper's guests,and Mr. Withers, as a sort of aid-de-camp, assisted the host in bringingeverybody together and in seeing that the colored waiters with trays oficed liquids did their duty. One room down below was reserved for theinspection of "the boys," a room which had received a good deal ofpersonal attention and in which any drink known to the civilized worldcould be procured. Mr. Withers confidentially invited our friends toname anything liquid under the sun they fancied--from nectar to nitricacid. For himself, he said that "that champagne and stuff" going roundon deck was not to his taste, and he had the deft-handed "barkeep" mixone of his own cocktails. His own invention in this direction wascomposed of eight or ten ingredients, and the Canadians were politeenough to praise the mixture; but, afterward, when among themselves,Jack's confession met with acquiescence when he said it seemed nothingbut hell-fire and bitters.
The long, narrow craft threaded its tortuous way like a smooth-glidingfish through the little channels between the islands, passing up smallnatural harbors or coming alongside a precipitous rock. They severaltimes disembarked to see how much art had assisted nature on thedifferent islands, and viewed the fishponds, summer houses, awnings, andhammocks, and the taste displayed in the picturesque dwellings. Mr.Cowper's assurances that the owners of the islands would not object tobe caught in any kind of occupation or garment were corroborated by thewarm welcomes extended to them. Such is the freedom of the Americancitizen, that a good many of the islanders who heard Mr. Cowper washaving a picnic "guessed they'd go along, too." It was evidentlyexpected that they would do just as they liked, without being invited;in fact, Mr. Cowper loudly objected in several cases, declaring he hadno provisions for them. "Never mind, old man, we're not proud. We'llwhack up with your last crust, and bring a pocket-flask for ourselves."
This seemed friendly.
Of course the lunch, which was found to be spread under a large marqueeon a distant island, was really another banquet. The hotel retinue hadbeen up all night preparing for it. The waiters, glass, table-linen,flowers, and everything else showed what money could do in the way oftransformation scenes. The only fault about it was that it was toomagnificent for a picnic. It can not be a picnic when there is no chanceof eating sand with your game-pie, no chance of carrying pails of waterhalf a mile, no difficulty in keeping stray cows, dogs, and your ownfeet out of the table-cloth spread upon the ground. And when the trip inthe steamer had ended and most of our crew were having a little doze onthe Ideal during the latter part of the afternoon, the curiosity whichMr. Cowper had awakened was still at its height.
After dinner that evening, about eight o'clock, a pretty picture mighthave been made of the Ideal, as she lay in the shadows, moored to awell-wooded island where the rock banks seemed to dive perpendicularlyinto blue fathomless depths. The party were taking their coffee in theopen air for greater coolness, and all had arrayed themselves for thedance in the evening. The delicately shaded muslins and such thinfabrics as the ladies wore blended pleasantly with the soft eveningafter-glow that fell upon the rustling trees and running water. Seatedon the overhanging rocks beside the yacht, or perched up on the stowedmainsail, they not only supplied soft color to the darkling eveninghues, but seemed to have a glow of their own, and reminded one ofChinese lanterns lit before it is dark. This may have been only a fancy,helped out by radiant faces and the slanting evening lights, but, evenif the simile fails, they were certainly prepared to shine as brightlyas they knew how at the ball later on.
The little basswood canoe, with its comfortable rugs and cushions, laybeside the yacht, bobbing about in the evening breeze, and Margaret satdreamily watching its wayward movements.
"A penny for your thoughts?" asked somebody.
"I was thinking," answered Margaret, "that the canoe is the only craftthat ought to be allowed in these waters, and that the builders ofhouses on these islands ought to realize that the only dwellingartistically correct should be one that either copies or suggests thewigwam. No one can come among these islands without wondering how longthe Indians lived here. All the Queen Anne architecture we have seento-day has seemed to me to be altogether misplaced."
"What you suggest could hardly be expected here," said Geoffrey,"because, putting aside the difficulty of building a commodious housewhich would still resemble a wigwam, there remains the old difficulty ofgetting people to see in imagination what is not before them--the olddifficulty that gave us the madonnas, saints, and heroes as Dutch,Italian, or English, according to the nationality of the painter. Of allthe pictures of Christ scattered over Europe, none that I have seencould have been like a person living much in the open air of the HolyLand. They will paint Joseph as brown as the air there will makeanybody, because it does not matter about Joseph, but the Christs arealways ideal."
"Still, I am sure something might be done to carry out my idea," saidMargaret, keeping to the subject. "Surely localities have the same rightto be illustrated according to their traditions that nations have toexpect that their heroes shall be painted so as to show theirnationality. No one would paint the Arab desert and leave out the squatblack tent, the horse, and all the other adjuncts of the Bedouin. Why,then, build Queen Anne houses in a place where the mind refuses to thinkof anything but the Indian?"
"Perhaps," said Hampstead, "the case here is unique. It is difficult tofind a parallel. But the same idea would present itself if one attemptedto build an English Church in the Moorish style instead of the Gothic orsomething similar. I fancy that the subscribers would feel that thetraditio
ns of their race and native land were not being properlyrepresented, as you say, in their architecture--that they would resentan Oriental luxury of outline suggesting only Mohammed's luxuriousreligion, and that nothing would suit them but the high, severe, andmoral aspect of their own race, religion, and churches. By the way, didyou ever consider how the moral altitude of each religion throughout theworld is indelibly stamped in the very shape of each one's houses ofworship. Begin at the whimsical absurdities of the Chinese, and comewestward to the monstrosities of India, then to the voluptuous domes ofthe Moor and the less voluptuous domes of Constantinople, then to thestill less Oriental domes of Rome, then to the fortress-like rectangularNorman, then to the lofty, refined, severe, upward-pointing Gothic ofGermany and England. Each church along the whole line, by its mereexternal shape, will tell of the people and religion that built itbetter than a host of words."
"If that be so, it would seem like retrograding in architecture tosuggest the Indian wigwam here," said Jack. "What do you say, Margaret?"
"I think that this is not a place where national aspirations inmonuments need be looked for. Its claims must always be on the side ofsimple nature and the picturesque--a place for hard workers torecuperate in, and, therefore, the poetry of all its early traditionsshould in every way be protected and suggested."
"Of course, I suppose, Miss Margaret, the Indian you wish to immortalizeis John Fenimore Cooper's Indian, and that you have no reference toBatoche half-breeds. Perhaps after a while we may see the genius of thisplace suggested further, but I think the Americans have had too muchtrouble in exterminating 'Lo, the poor Indian' to wish to be reminded ofhis former existence, and that the savagery of Queen Anne is sufficientfor them. 'Lo' has, for them, no more poetry than a professional tramp.Out West, you know, they read it 'Loathe the poor Indian.'"
"They don't loathe the poor Indian everywhere," said Rankin, as heremembered an item about the dusky race. "You know our act forbiddingpeople to work on Sunday makes a provision for the unconverted heathen,and says 'this act shall not apply to Indians.' Some time ago a man atthe Falls of Niagara was accustomed to run an elevator on Sunday tocarry tourists up and down the cliff to the Whirlpool Rapids. Hisemployes were prosecuted for carrying on their business on the Sabbathday. When the following Sunday arrived, a quite civilized remnant of theTuscarora tribe were running the entire business at splendid profits,and claimed, apparently with success, that the law could not touchthem."
While this desultory talk was going on, Margaret was still watching thelittle canoe bobbing about on the water. Geoffrey said to her: "Thoserugs and cushions in the canoe look very inviting, do they not?"
Margaret nodded.
"I know what you are thinking about," he whispered. "You want to go awayin the canoe, and dream over the waters and glide about from island toisland and imagine yourself an Indian princess."
She nodded again brightly.
"Well, if my dress-coat will not interfere with your imagining me a'great brave,' you might get your gloves, fan, and shawl, and we can gofor a sail, and come in later on at the dance. If the coat spoils me youcan think of me as John Smith, and of yourself as Pocahontas."
As Margaret nestled down into the cushions of the canoe, Geoffreystepped a little mast that carried a handkerchief of a sail, and,getting in himself, gave a few vigorous strokes with the paddle, whichsent the craft flying from under the lee of the island. As the sailfilled and they skimmed away, he called out to Mrs. Dusenall that theywould go and see the people at the hotels, and would meet them at thedance about nine o'clock. From the course taken by the butterfly of aboat, which was in any direction except toward the hotels, thisexplanatory statement appeared to be a mere transparency.
Nina's spirits sank to low ebb when she saw these two going offtogether.
They sailed on for some distance in open water, and then, as the sailproved unsatisfactory, Margaret took it down, and they commenced asinuous course among small islands. The dusk of the evening had stillsome of the light of day in it, but the moon was already up andendeavoring to assert her power. Everybody had given up wearing hats,which had become unnecessary in such weather. As they glided about,Geoffrey sometimes faced the current with long, silent strokes that gaveno idea of exertion foreign to the quiet charm of the scene, and atother times the paddle dragged lazily through the water as he sat backand allowed the canoe to drift along on the current close to the rockyislands. They floated past breezy nooks where the ferns and mossesfilled the interstices between rocks and tree roots, where trees hadgrown up misshapenly between the rocks, under wild creeping vines thatdrooped from the overhanging boughs and swept the flowing water. Hardlya word had been spoken since they left the yacht. For Margaret, therewas enough in the surroundings to keep her silent. She had yieldedherself to the full enjoyment of the balmy air and faint evening glows,changing landscape, and sound of gurgling water. Her own appearance asseen from the other end of the canoe did not tend to spoil the view. Herhappy face and graceful lines, and the full neck that tapered out of theopen-throated evening dress did not seem out of harmony with anything.Reclining on one elbow against a cushioned thwart, she leaned forwardand altered the course of the light bark by giving a passing rock alittle push with her fan.
They were now passing a sort of natural harbor on the shore of one ofthe islands. It had been formed by the displacement of a huge block ofgranite from the side of the rock wall, and the roots and trunks oftrees had roofed it in.
Geoffrey pointed it out for inspection, and they landed lower down sothat they could walk back to a spot like that to which Shelley'sRosalind and Helen came.
To a stone seat beside a stream, O'er which the columned wood did frame A rootless temple, like a fane Where, ere new creeds could faith obtain, Man's early race once knelt beneath The overhanging Deity.
Here they rested, while Margaret, lost in the charm of the surroundings,exclaimed:
"Could anything be more delightful than this?"
Geoffrey had always been conscious of something in Margaret's presencewhich, seemingly without demand, exacted finer thought and led him tosome unknown region which other women did not suggest. When with her hedivined that it was by some such influence that men are separatelycivilized, and that, with her, his own civilization was possible. Everyshort-lived, ill-considered hope for the future seemed now so entangledwith her identity that her existence had become in some way necessary tohim. He had come to know this by discovering how unfeigned was theearnestness with which he angled for her good opinion, and he was ratherpuzzled to note his care lest "a word too much or a look too long" mightspoil his chances of arriving at some higher, happier life that herpresence assisted him vaguely to imagine. Nevertheless, so great was hisdoubt as to his own character that all this seemed to him as if he mustbe merely masquerading in sheep's clothing to gain her consideration,and that it must in some way soon come to an end from his own sheerinability to live up to it. All he knew was that this living up to anideal self was a civilizing process, and if he did not count upon itspermanency it certainly, he thought, did him no harm while it lasted."After all, was it not possible to continue in the upper air?"
While his thoughts were running in this channel, such a long pauseelapsed, that Margaret had forgotten what he was answering to when hesaid decisively: "Yes. It is pleasant."
She looked around at him because his voice sounded as if he had beenweighing other things than the scenery in his head.
"Oh, it is more than pleasant," she said. "It is something never toforget." Margaret looked away over earth, water, and sky, as if to pointthem out to interpret her enthusiasm. Her range of view apparently didnot include Geoffrey. Perhaps he was to understand from this that he,personally, had little or nothing to do with her pleasure. But a glimpseof one idea suggested more serious thought, and the next moment she waswondering how much he had to do with her present thorough content.
Geoffrey, who was watching her thoughts by noticing the half smile andha
lf blush that came to her face, felt his heart give a little bound. Heimagined he divined the presence of the thought that puzzled her, but heanswered in the off-hand way in which one deals with generalities.
"I believe, Miss Margaret, this whole trip provides you with greathappiness."
"I believe it does," said Margaret. To conceal a sense of consciousnessshe uprooted a rush growing at the edge of the rock seat.
"Well, that is a great thing, to know when you are happy. Happiness is adifficult thing to get at."
"Do you find it so hard to be happy?"
"I think I do," said Geoffrey. "That is, to be as much so as I wouldlike."
"You must be rather difficult to please."
"No doubt it is a mistake not to be happy all the time," repliedGeoffrey. "There is such a thing, however, as chasing happiness aboutthe world too long. She shakes her wings and does not return, and leavesus nothing but not very exalting memories of times when we seem, as faras we can recollect, to have been only momentarily happy."
"For me, I think that I could never forget a great happiness, that itwould light up my life and make it bearable no matter what the afterconditions might be," said Margaret thoughtfully.
"Just so," answered Geoffrey lightly. "There's the rub. How's a fellowto cultivate a great happiness when he never can catch up to it. I don'tknow of any path in which I have not sought for the jade, but I can lookback upon a life largely devoted to this chase and honestly say thatbeyond a few gleams of poor triumph I never think of my existence exceptas a period during which I have been forced to kill time."
"That is because you are not spiritually minded," said Margaret,smiling.
"I suppose you mean consistently spiritually minded," said Geoffrey. "Nodoubt some who live for an exalted hereafter may sometimes know whatactual joy is, but this can only approach continuity where one has greatimaginative ambition and weak primitive leanings. For most people thechances of happiness in spirituality are not good. Happily, the savagemind can not grasp the intended meaning of either the promised rewardsor punishments continually, if at all; and this inability saves themfrom going mad. Of course the more men improve themselves the more theymay rejoice, both for themselves and their posterity, but mere varnishedsavages like myself have a poor chance to gain happiness in consistentspirituality. It is foolish to suppose that we are free agents. A highmorality and its own happiness are an heirloom--a desirable thing--whichour forefathers have constructed for us."
"I have sometimes thought," said Margaret, "that if happiness dependsupon one's goodness it is not necessarily that goodness which we aretaught to recognize as such. Goodness seems to be relative and quitechangeable among different people. Some of the best people under the OldTestament would not shine as saints under the New Testament, yet theolder people were doubtless happy enough in their beliefs. Desirableobservances necessary to a Mohammedan's goodness are not made requisitein any European faith, and yet our people are not unhappy on thisaccount. Nobody can doubt that pagan priests were, and are, completelyhappy when weltering in the blood of their fellow-creatures, and, if itbe true that conscience is divinely implanted in all men, that underdivine guidance it is an infallible judge between good and evil, thatone may be happy when his conscience approves his actions, and thattherefore happiness comes from God, how is it that the pagan priestwhile at such work is able to think himself holy and to rejoice in itwith clearest conscience? It would seem, from this, that there must bedifferent goodnesses diametrically opposed to each other which areequally-pleasing to Him and equally productive of happiness toindividuals."
Geoffrey smiled at her, as they talked on in their usual random way, forit seemed that she was capable of piecing her knowledge together in thesame sequence (or disorder) that he did himself. One is well-disposedtoward a mind whose processes are similar to one's own. He smiled, too,at her attempts to reconcile facts with the idea of beneficence towardindividuals on the part Of the powers behind nature. For his part, hehad abandoned that attempt.
"I have a rule," he said, "which seems to me to explain a good deal,namely, if a person can become persuaded that he is rendered better ormore spiritual by following out his natural desires, he is one of thehappiest of men. The pagan priest you mentioned was gratifying hisnatural desires, his love of power and love of cruelty--which inconjunction with his beliefs made him feel more godly. Mohammed builthis vast religion on the very corner-stone of this rule. Priests aretaught from the beginning to guard and increase the power of the Church.This is their first great trust, and it becomes a passion. Their naturallove of power is utilized for this purpose. For this object, historytells us that no human tie is too sacred to be torn asunder and trampledon. Natural love of dominion in a man can be trained into such perfectaccord with the desired dominion of a priesthood that he may feel notonly happy but spiritually improved in carrying out anything his Churchrequires him to do--no matter what that may be."
Geoffrey-stopped, as he noticed that Margaret shuddered. "You arefeeling cold," he said.
"No, I was only thinking of some of the priests' faces. They terrify meso. I don't want to interrupt you, but what do you think makes them looklike that?"
Geoffrey shrugged his shoulders.
"I don't know," he answered. "Perhaps interpreting the supernatural haswith some of them a bad effect upon the countenance. All one can say isthat many of them bear in their faces what in other classes of men Iconsider to be unmistakable signs that their greatest happiness consistsin something which must be concealed from the public." Hampstead spokewith the tired smile of one who on an unpleasant subject thinks morethan he will say.
"Let us not speak of them. They make me think of Violet Keith, and allthat sort of thing. Go back to what you were saying. It seems to me thatthe most refined and educated followers of different faiths do not gainhappiness in spirituality in the way you suggest. Your rule does notseem to apply to them."
"I think it does," answered Geoffrey, with some of that abruptness whichin a man's argument with a woman seems to accept her as a worthyantagonist from the fact that politeness is a trifle forgotten. "Yourefer to men whose mental temperament is stronger in controlling theirdaily life than any other influence--men with high heads, who seem madeof moral powers--ideality, conscientiousness, and all the rest of them.They have got the heirloom I spoke of. They are gentle from theirfamily modification. These few, indeed, can, I imagine, be happy inreligion, for this reason. There has been in their families for manygenerations a production of mental activity, which exists more easily incompany with a high morality than with satisfactions which would onlydetract from it. With such men it may be said that their earlier naturehas partly changed into what the rule applies to equally well. Withordinary social pressure and their own temperaments they would still,even without religion, be what they are; because any other mode of lifedoes not sufficiently attract them. Their ancestors went through what weare enduring now."
"But," said Margaret--and she continued to offer some objections,chiefly to lead Geoffrey to talk on. However incomplete his reasoningmight be, his strong voice was becoming music to her. She did not wishit to stop. Both her heart and her mind seemed impelled toward both himand his way of thinking by the echo of the resonant tones which sheheard within herself. Being a woman, she found this pleasant. "But," shesaid, "people who are most imperfect surely may have great happiness intheir faith?"
"At times. Yes," replied he. "But their happiness is temporary, andnecessarily alternates with an equal amount of misery. The loss of ahope capable of giving joy must certainly bring despair in the sameproportion, inversely, as the hope was precious. All ordinary men withany education alternate more or less between the enjoyment of theenergetic mental life and the duller following of earlier instincts, andwhen, in the mental life, they allow themselves to delight in immaterialhopes and visions, there is unhappiness when the brain refuses toconjure up the vision, and most complete misery after there has occurredthat transition to their older natures which
must at times supervene,unless they possess the great moral heirloom, or perhaps a refiningbodily infirmity to assist them. Ah! this struggle after happiness hasbeen a long one. Solomon, and all who seek it in the way he did, findtheir mistake. Pleasure without ideality is a paltry thing and leads todisgust. Religion-makers have hovered about the idea contained in myrule to make their creeds acceptable. In this idea Mohammed pleasedmany. Happiness in spirituality can only be continuous for men when theycome to have faces like some passionless but tender-hearted women, andstill retain the wish to imagine themselves as something like gods."
Geoffrey paused.
"Go on," said Margaret, turning her eyes slowly from looking at therunning water without seeing it. She said very quietly: "Go on; I liketo hear you talk." The spell of his presence was upon her. There was thesoft look in her eyes of a woman who is beginning to find it pleasant tobe in some way compelled, and for a moment her tones, looks, and wordsseemed to be all a part of a musical chord to interpret her response tohis influence. Geoffrey looked away. The time for trusting himself tolook into the eyes that seemed very sweet in their new softness had notarrived. For the first time he felt certain that he had affected herfavorably. Almost involuntarily he took a couple of steps to the water'sedge and back again.
"What is there more to say?" said he, smiling. "We neither hope verymuch nor fear very much nowadays. Men who have no scientific discoveryin view or who can not sufficiently idealize their lives gradually ceaseexpecting to be very happy. To men like myself religions are a more orless developed form of delusion, bringing most people joy and despairalternately and leading others to insanity. We know that religionscommenced in fear and in their later stages have been the result of aseeking for happiness and consolation. To us the idea of immortality isbut a development of the inherent conceit we notice in the apes. We donot allow ourselves the pleasing fantasy that because brain powermultiplies itself and evolves quickly we are to become as gods in thefuture. If we do not hope much neither do we despair. Still, there is acapacity for joy within us which sometimes seems to be cramped by thelevel and unexciting mediocrity of existence. We do not readily forgetthe beautiful hallucinations of our youth; and for most of us therewill, I imagine, as long as the pulses beat, be an occasional and toofrequent yearning for a joy able to lift us out of our humdrum selves."
Margaret felt a sort of sorrow for Geoffrey. Although he spoke lightly,something in his last words struck a minor chord in her heart. "Yourwords seem too sad," she said after a pause.
"I do not remember speaking sadly," said he.
"No; but to believe all this seems sad when we consider the joyfulprospects of others. You seem to put my vague ideas into coherent shape.The things you have said seem to be correct, and yet" (here she lookedup brightly) "somehow they don't seem to exactly apply to me. I neverhad strong hopes nor visions about immortality. They never seemednecessary for my happiness. Small things please me. I am nearly alwaysfairly happy. Small things seem worth seeking and small pleasures worthcultivating."
"Because you have not lived your life. Do you imagine that you willalways be content with small pleasures?" asked Geoffrey quickly as hewatched her thoughtful face.
Margaret suddenly felt constraint. After the many and long interviewsshe had had with Geoffrey she had always come away feeling as if she hadlearned something. What it was that she had learned might have been hardfor her to say. His conversation seemed to her to have a certain widthand scope about it, and to her he seemed to grasp generalities andpresent them in his own condensed form; but she had been unconsciouslylearning more than was contained in his conversation. His wordsgenerally appealed in some way to her intellect; but tones of voice gofor a good deal. Perhaps in making love the chief use of words is firstto attract the attention of the other person. Perhaps they do not amountto much and could be dispensed with entirely, for we see that a dozensuitors may unsuccessfully plead their cause with a young woman insimilar words until some one appears with tones of voice to which shevibrates. Perhaps it matters little what he says if he only continues tospeak--to make her vibrate. Certainly Cupid studied music before he everstudied etymology. Hampstead had never said a word to her about love,but the resonant tones, his concentration, and the magnetism of hispresence, were doing their work without any usual formulas.
The necessity of answering his question now brought the idea to her witha rush that Geoffrey had taught her perhaps too much--that he had taughther things different from what she thought she was learning--that thesimplicity of her life would never be quite the same again. She becameconscious of a movement in her pulses before unknown to her that madeher heart beat like a prisoned bird against its cage, that made herwhole being seem to strain forward toward an unknown joy which left allthe world behind it. In the whirl of feeling came the impulse to concealher face lest he should detect her thoughts, and she bent her head toarrange her lace shawl, as if preparatory to going away. She looked offover the water, so that she could answer more freely. Her answer camehaltingly.
"Something tells me," she said, "that the small pleasures I have knownwill not always be enough for me." Then faster: "But, of course, allyoung people feel like this now and then. I think our conversation hasexcited me a little."
She arose, and walked a step or two, trying to quell the tumult withinher.
"We must be going. It is late," she said in a way that showed herself-command.
Geoffrey arose also, to go away, and they walked to the higher ground.Suddenly Margaret felt that for some reason she wished to remember theappearance of this place for all her life, and she turned to view itagain. The moon was silvering the tracery of vines and foliage and thesurface of the twisting water, and giving dark-olive tones to theshadowed underbrush close by. The large hotels could be seen through agap in the islands with their many lights twinkling in the distance; alighthouse, not far off, sent a red gleam twirling and twisting acrossthe current toward them, and a whip-poor-will was giving forth itsnotes, while the waltz music from the far-away island floated dreamilyon the soft evening breeze. Geoffrey said nothing. He, too, was underthe influence of the scene. For once he was afraid to speak to awoman--afraid to venture what he had to say--to win or lose all. Hethought it better to wait, and stood beside her almost trembling. ButMargaret had had no experience in dealing with the new feelings thatwarred for mastery within her, and she showed one of her thoughts, as ifin soliloquy. She was too innocent. The vague pressures were too greatto allow her to be silent, and the words came forth with hasty fervor.
"No, no! You must be wrong when you say there is nothing in the worldworth living for?"
"No, not so," interrupted Geoffrey. "I did not say that. I said thatlife, for many of us, was mediocre, because ideals were scarce andimaginations did not find scope. But there is a better life--I knowthere is--the better life of sympathy--of care--of joy--of love."
As she listened, each deep note that Geoffrey separately brought forthfilled her with an overwhelming gladness. When he spoke slowly ofsympathy, care, joy, and love, the words were freighted with the musicalnotes of a strong man's passion, and they seemed to bring a new meaningto her, one deeper than they had ever borne before.
Earth and heaven seemed one, Life a glad trembling on the outer edge Of unknown rapture.
What a transparent confession the love of a great nature may be suddenlybetrayed into! The tears welled up into Margaret's eyes, and, partly tocheck the speech that moved her too strongly, and partly to steadyherself, and chiefly because she did not know what she was doing, shelaid her hand upon his arm.
He trembled as he tried to continue calmly with what he had been saying.He did not move his arm or take her hand, but her touch was likeelectricity.
"I know there is such a life--a perfect life--and that there might besuch a life for me, a life that more than exhausts my imagination toconceive of. You were wrong in saying that I said--that is, I onlysaid--oh, I can't remember what I said--I only know that I wors
hip you,Margaret--that you are my heaven, my hereafter--the only good Iknow--with power to make or mar, to raise me from myself and to gild thewhole world for me--"
Margaret put up her hand to stay the torrent of his utterance. She hadto. For, now that he gave rein to his wish, the forceful words seemed tooverwhelm her and seize and carry off her very soul. He took her handbetween both of his, and, still fearful lest she might give some reasonfor sending him away, he pleaded for himself in low tones that seemed tobring her heart upon her lips, and when he said: "Could you care for meenough to let me love you always, Margaret?" she looked half away andover the landscape to control her voice. Her tall, full figure rose,like an Easter lily, from the folds of the lace shawl which had fallenfrom her shoulders. Her eyes, dewy with overmuch gladness and wide withnew emotions, turned to Geoffrey's as she said, half aloud--as ifwondering within herself:
"It must be so, I suppose."
When she looked at him thus, Geoffrey was beyond speech. He drew hernearer to him, touching her reverently. He did not know himself in thefullness Of the moment. To find himself incoherent was new to him. Shewas so peerless--such a vision of loveliness in the moonlight! Thethought that he now had a future before him--that soon she would be withhim for always--that soon they would be the comfort, the sympathy, thecheer, and the joy of one another! It was all unspeakable.
Margaret placed both her hands upon his shoulder as he drew her nearer,and, as she laid her cheek upon her wrists, she said again, as if stillwondering within herself:
"It must be so, I suppose. I did not know that I loved you, Geoffrey.Oh, why are you so masterful?"
* * * * *
A little while after this they approached the island, where the ball wasat its height, and it seemed to Margaret that all this illumination ofChinese lanterns, ascending in curving lines to the tree tops--that allthe music, dancing, and gayety were part of the festival going on withinher. As Geoffrey strode into the ball-room with Margaret on his arm hecarried his head high. A man who appeared well in any garb, in eveningdress he looked superb. Some who saw him that night never forgot how heseemed to typify the majesty of manhood, and how other people seemeddwarfed to insignificance when Margaret and he entered. If only amodified elasticity appeared in her step, the wonder was she did notskip down the room on her toes. They went toward Mrs. Dusenall, who cameforward and took Margaret by the elbows and gave them a little shake.
"You naughty girl, how late you are! Dear child, how beautiful you look!Where--?"
Some imp of roguery got into Margaret. She bent forward and whispered toher motherly friend.
"Dear mother," she whispered, "we landed on an island, and Geoffreykissed me."
"Heavens!" cried Mrs. Dusenall, not knowing what to think. "Why--but ofcourse it's all right. Of course he did, my dear--he could not doanything else--and so will I. And so you are engaged?"
At this Margaret tried to look grave and to shock Mrs. Dusenall again.
"I don't know. I don't think we got as far as saying anything aboutthat." Then, turning to Geoffrey, with simplicity, "Are we engaged?"
"Girl! are my words but as wind that you should mock me with theiremptiness? Come and let us dance, for it is advocated by the preacher."And they danced.
When Nina had seen Mrs. Dusenall kiss Margaret on her late arrival, sheknew its meaning at once, and her heart sickened.
Pretty playthings seemed in some way rather degrading to Geoffrey thatnight, and Nina was able to speak to him only for a moment, just beforeall were going away. She then pretended to know nothing about theengagement, and said, with cat-like sweetness:
"I thought you did not care for Margaret's dancing much? I see she musthave improved, as you have been with her all the evening."
Geoffrey answered gravely; "I believe you are right; there is adifference. Yes, I did not think of it before, but, now you speak of it,there does seem to have been an improvement in her dancing."
"Ah!" said Nina.
As Geoffrey paddled the canoe back to the yacht that night, or rathermorning, and the Yankee band had finished a complimentary God save theQueen, and after the last cheer had been exchanged, Margaret said to himin the darkness, just before they parted:
"If there were no more happiness to follow, Geoffrey, to-night wouldlast me all my life!"
CHAPTER XV.
How like a younker, or a prodigal, The scarfed bark puts from her native bay, Hugged and embraced by the wanton wind. How like the prodigal doth she return, With over-weathered ribs and ragged sails. Lean, rent, and beggared by the wanton wind.
_Merchant of Venice._