CHAPTER XLII.
THE SONG THE OCEAN SANG.
The stay of the party in New York was short. Norton was busy with tradethat could not wait. He stole a part of a day, stuffed the pocketbooksof the ladies with gold, showed them around and then at last they lookedfrom the deck of a "greyhound" and saw the slopes of Staten island andthe highlands sink low upon the horizon.
The first night at sea! The traveler never forgets it. Scenes of thepast may shine through it like ink renewed in the dimmed lines of apalimpsest through later records, but this night stands supreme as if itwere the sum of all. For in this night the fatherland behind and theheart grown tender in the realization of its isolation, come back againthe olden experiences. Dreams that have passed into the seas of eternitymeet it and shine again. Old loves return and fold their wings, andhopes grown wrinkled with disappointment throw off dull Time's imprintsand are young once more.
To the impressionable heart of the girl, the vastness and the solemnitybrought strange thoughts. She stood by the rail, silenced, sad, but notwith the sadness that oppresses. By her was the man who through life'shidden current had brought her all unknowing into harmony with theeternal echos rising into her consciousness.
At last she came back to life's facts. She found her hand in his again,and gently, without protest, disengaged it. Her face was white and fixedupon nothingness.
"Of what are you thinking?" she asked, gently. He started and drewbreath with a gasp.
"I do not know--of you, I suppose." And then, as she was silent andembarrassed: "There is a tone in the ocean, a note I have never heardbefore, and I have listened on all seas. But here is the new songdifferent from all. I could listen forever."
"I have read somewhere," she said, "that all the sound waves escape tothe ocean. They jostle and push against each other where men abound, thenew crowding out the old; but out at sea there is room for all. It maybe that you hear only as your heart is attuned."
He nodded his head, pleased greatly.
"Then I have heard to-night," he said, earnestly, "a song of a woman tothe man she loves."
"But you could not have heard it unless your heart was attuned to love'smelodies. Have you ever loved a woman, Mr. Morgan?"
He started and his hand tightened upon the guard.
"I was a boy in heart when I went abroad," he said. "I had never known awoman's love and sympathy. In Switzerland a little girl gave me a glassof goat's milk at a cottage door in the mountains. She could not havebeen more than 12 years old. I heard her singing as I approached, hervoice marvelous in its power and pathos. Her simple dress was artistic,her face frank and eyes confiding. I loved her. I painted her pictureand carried her both in my heart and my satchel for three years. I didnot love her and yet I believed I did. But I think that I must haveloved at some time. As you say, I could not have heard if it were notso." He drew her away and sought the cabin. But when he said good-nighthe came and walked the deck for an hour, and once he tossed his armsabove him and cried out in agony: "I cannot! I cannot! The heart was notmade for such a strain!"
* * * * *
Six times they saw the sun rise over the path ahead, ascend to thezenith and sink away, and six times the endless procession of starsglinted on the myriad facets of the sea. The hundreds of strange facesabout them grew familiar, almost homelike. The ladies madeacquaintances; but Edward none. When they were accessible he never lefttheir presence, devoting himself with tender solicitude to theirservice, reading to them, reciting bits of adventure, explaining thephenomena of the elements, exhibiting the ship and writing in theirjournals the record for the father at home. When they were gone hewalked the deck silent, moody, sad; alone in the multitude.
People had ceased to interest him. Once only did he break the silence;from the ship's orchestra he borrowed a violin, and standing upon thedeck, as at first, he found the love-song again and linked it foreverwith his life. It was the ocean's gift and he kept it.
He thought a great deal, but from the facts at home he turnedresolutely. They should not mar the only summer of his heart. "Not now,"he would say to these trooping memories. "After a while you may come andbe heard."
But of the future he thought and dreamed. He pictured a life with thewoman he loved, in every detail; discounting its pleasures, denying thepossibility of sorrow. There were times when with her he found himselfwishing to be alone that he might review the dream and enlarge it. Itceased to be a dream, it became a fact, he lived with it and he lived byit. It was possible no longer; it was certain. Some day he would beginit; he would tell it to her and make it so beautiful she would consent.
All this time the elder lady thought, listened and knitted. She was oneof those gentle natures not made for contentions, but for soothing. Shewas never idle. Edward found himself watching the busy needles as theyfought for the endless thread, and marveled. What patience! Whatcontinuity! What endurance!
The needles of good women preach as they labor. He knew the history ofthese. For forty years they had labored, those bits of steel in thevelvet fingers. Husband, children, slaves, all had felt upon their feetthe soft summings of their calculations. One whole company of soldiers,the gallant company her husband had led into Confederate service, hadthreaded the Wilderness in her socks, and died nearly all at MalvernHill. Down deep under the soil of the old Mother State they planted herwork from sight, and the storms of winter removed its imprints where,through worn and wasted leather, it had touched virgin soil as thebleeding survivors came limping home. Forty years had stilled thethought on which it was based. It was strong and resolute still. Someday the needles would rust out of sight, the hands be folded in rest andthe thought would be gone. Edward glanced from the woman to the girl.
"Not so," he said, softly; "the thought will live. Other hands trainedunder its sweet ministry will take up the broken threads; the needleswill flash again. Woman's work is never done, and never will be whilelove and faith and courage have lodgment upon earth.
"Did you speak, Mr. Morgan?"
"Possibly. I have fallen into the habit of thinking aloud. And I wasthinking of you; it must have been a great privilege to call you mother,Mrs. Montjoy." She smiled a little.
"I am glad you think so."
"I have never called any by that name," he said, slowly, looking away."I never knew a mother."
"That will excuse a great many things in a man's life," she said, insympathy. "You have no remembrance, then?"
"None. She died when I was an infant, I suppose, and I grew up,principally, in schools."
"And your father?"
"He also--died." He was reckless for the moment. "Sometimes I think Iwill ask you to let me call you--mother. It is late to begin, but thinkof a man's living and dying without once speaking the name to a woman."
"Call me that if you will. You are certainly all that a son could be tome."
"Mother," he said, reflectively, "mother," and then looking toward Maryhe saw that, though reading, her face was crimson; "that gives me asister, does it not?" he added, to relieve the situation. She glancedtoward him, smiling.
"As you will, brother Edward--how natural."
"I like the mother better," he said, after a pause. "I have observedthat brothers do not wear well. I should hate to see the day when itwould not be a pleasure to be with you, Miss Montjoy." He could notcontrol nor define his mood.
"Then," she said, with eyes upon the book, "let it not be brother. Iwould be sorry to see you drift away--we are all your friends."
"Friends!" He repeated the word contemplatively. "That is another word Iam not fond of. I have seen so many friends--not my own, but friends ofothers! Friends steal your good name, your opportunities, yourhappiness, your time and your salvation. Oh, friendship!"
"What is the matter with you to-day, Mr. Morgan?" said Mary. "I don'tthink I ever saw you in just such a frame of mind. What has made youcynical?"
"Am I cynical? I did not know it. Possibly I am undergoing ametamorphosis. Such
things occur about us every day. Have you ever seenthe locust, as he is called, come up out of the earth and attach himselfto a tree and hang there brooding, living an absolutely worthless life?Some day a rent occurs down his own back and out comes the green cicada,with iridescent wings; no longer a dull plodder, but now a swiftwanderer, merry and musical. So with the people about you. Useless andunpicturesque for years, they some day suffer a change; a piece of goodluck, success in business; any of these can furnish sunlight, and thechange is born. Behold your clodhopper is a gay fellow."
"But," said the girl, laughing, "the simile is poor; you do not see thecicada go back from the happy traveler stage and become a cynic."
"True. What does become of him? Oh, yes; along comes the ichneumon flyand by a skillful blow on the spine paralyzes him and then thrusts underhis skin an egg to be warmed into life by its departing heat. That isthe conclusion; your gay fellow and careless traveler gets anoverwhelming blow; an idea or a fact, or a bit of information to broodupon; and some day it kills him."
She was silent, trying to read the meaning in his words. What idea, whatfact, what overwhelming blow were killing him? Something, she was sure,had disturbed him. She had felt it for weeks.
Mrs. Montjoy expressed a desire to go to her stateroom, and Edwardaccompanied her. The girl had ceased reading and sat with her chin inhand, revolving the matter. After he had resumed his position she turnedto find his gaze upon her. They walked to the deck; the air was cold andbracing.
"I am sorry you are so opposed to sisters," she said, smiling. "If Iwere a sister I would ask you to share your trouble with me."
"What trouble?"
"The trouble that is changing the careless traveler to a cynic--iskilling his better self."
He ceased to speak in metaphor. "There is a trouble," he said, afterreflection; "but one beyond your power to remedy or lighten. Some day Iwill tell it to you--but not now."
"You do not trust me."
"I do not trust myself." She was silent, looking away. She said no more.Pale and trembling with suppressed emotion, he stood up. A look ofdetermination came into his eyes, and he faced her. At that moment afaint, far cry was heard and every one in sight looked forward.
"What is it?" asked a passenger, as the captain passed.
"The cliffs of England," he said. Edward turned and walked away, leavingher leaning upon the rail. He came back smoking. His mood had passed.
The excitement had begun at once. On glided the good ship. Taller grewthe hills, shipping began to appear, and land objects to take shape. Andthen the deep heart throbbing ceased and the glad voyagers poured forthupon the shore.