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 for
the visit to the islands. She was steaming up and down the river for a
long while before our friends knew it was time to get up. At eleven
o'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 hint
that the Ideal was magnificent in its fittings had pleased the
Dusenalls. They thought he had been somewhat impressed by a swinging
chandelier over the cabin table. Mr. Cowper had examined this, found it
did not contain the last improvements, said it was splendid, and the
Dusenalls were pleased. But their pleasure was damped when they were led
into the main cabin of the "old roadster." The crimson silk-plush
cushions covering the divan around the apartment, into which they sank
somewhat heavily, did not at first afford them complete repose. The
window curtains and _portieres_ throughout the vessel were all of thick
corded silk or silk plush. The walls and ceilings in the cabins were
simply a museum of the rarest woods, and in the main cabin was a little
tiled fireplace with brass dogs and andirons, its graceful curtains
reined in with chains. The cabins alone had cost a fortune, and the
Dusenalls were for once completely taken aback. Mrs. Dusenall did not
get her head over on one side _a la duchesse_ any more that day, and it
ended in her coming to the conclusion that Americans in their
hospitalities may frequently have no other motive than to give pleasure.
This could only be realized by Britons able to denationalize themselves
so far as to understand that there may be a life on earth which is not
alternate patronage and sponging. It is to be feared though that most of
them receive attentions from Americans only as that which should, in the
ordinary course of things, be forthcoming from a people blessed with a
proper power to appreciate those excellent qualities of head and heart
with which the visitor represents his incomparable nation.
Mr. Cowper did not do things by halves. As they sped about among the
many islands the strains of harps and violins came pleasantly from some
place about the boat where the musicians could not be seen. A number of
people 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 bringing
everybody together and in seeing that the colored waiters with trays of
iced liquids did their duty. One room down below was reserved for the
inspection of "the boys," a room which had received a good deal of
personal attention and in which any drink known to the civilized world
could be procured. Mr. Withers confidentially invited our friends to
name anything liquid under the sun they fancied--from nectar to nitric
acid. For himself, he said that "that champagne and stuff" going round
on deck was not to his taste, and he had the deft-handed "barkeep" mix
one of his own cocktails. His own invention in this direction was
composed of eight or ten ingredients, and the Canadians were polite
enough to praise the mixture; but, afterward, when among themselves,
Jack's confession met with acquiescence when he said it seemed nothing
but hell-fire and bitters.
The long, narrow craft threaded its tortuous way like a smooth-gliding
fish through the little channels between the islands, passing up small
natural harbors or coming alongside a precipitous rock. They several
times disembarked to see how much art had assisted nature on the
different islands, and viewed the fishponds, summer houses, awnings, and
hammocks, and the taste displayed in the picturesque dwellings. Mr.
Cowper's assurances that the owners of the islands would not object to
be caught in any kind of occupation or garment were corroborated by the
warm welcomes extended to them. Such is the freedom of the American
citizen, that a good many of the islanders who heard Mr. Cowper was
having a picnic "guessed they'd go along, too." It was evidently
expected that they would do just as they liked, without being invited;
in fact, Mr. Cowper loudly objected in several cases, declaring he had
no provisions for them. "Never mind, old man, we're not proud. We'll
whack 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 marquee
on a distant island, was really another banquet. The hotel retinue had
been up all night preparing for it. The waiters, glass, table-linen,
flowers, and everything else showed what money could do in the way of
transformation scenes. The only fault about it was that it was too
magnificent for a picnic. It can not be a picnic when there is no chance
of eating sand with your game-pie, no chance of carrying pails of water
half a mile, no difficulty in keeping stray cows, dogs, and your own
feet out of the table-cloth spread upon the ground. And when the trip in
the steamer had ended and most of our crew were having a little doze on
the Ideal during the latter part of the afternoon, the curiosity which
Mr. Cowper had awakened was still at its height.
After dinner that evening, about eight o'clock, a pretty picture might
have been made of the Ideal, as she lay in the shadows, moored to a
well-wooded island where the rock banks seemed to dive perpendicularly
into blue fathomless depths. The party were taking their coffee in the
open air for greater coolness, and all had arrayed themselves for the
dance in the evening. The delicately shaded muslins and such thin
fabrics as the ladies wore blended pleasantly with the soft evening
after-glow that fell upon the rustling trees and running water. Seated
on the overhanging rocks beside the yacht, or perched up on the stowed
mainsail, they not only supplied soft color to the darkling evening
hues, but seemed to have a glow of their own, and reminded one of
Chinese lanterns lit before it is dark. This may have been only a fancy,
helped out by radiant faces and the slanting evening lights, but, even
if the simile fails, they were certainly prepared to shine as brightly
as they knew how at the ball later on.
The little basswood canoe, with its comfortable rugs and cushions, lay
beside the yacht, bobbing about in the evening breeze, and Margaret sat
dreamily watching its wayward movements.
"A penny for your thoughts?" asked somebody.
"I was thinking," answered Margaret, "that the canoe is the only craft
that ought to be allowed in these waters, and that the builders of
houses on these islands ought to realize that the only dwelling
artistically correct should be one that either copies or suggests the
wigwam. No one can come among these islands without wondering how long
the Indians lived here. All the Queen Anne architecture we have seen
to-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 house
which would still resemble a wigwam, there remains the old difficulty of
getting people to see in imagination what is not before them--the old
difficulty that gave us the madonnas, saints, and heroes as Dutch,
Italian, or English, according to the nationality of the painter. Of all
the pictures of Christ scattered over Europe, none that I have seen
could have been like a person living much in the open air of the Holy
Land. They will paint Joseph as brown as the air there will make
anybody, because it does not matter about Joseph, but the Christs are
always ideal."
"Still, I am sure something might be done to carry out my idea," said
Margaret, keeping to the subject. "Surely localities have the same right
to be illustrated according to their traditions that nations have to
expect that their heroes shall be painted so as to show their
nationality. No one would paint the Arab desert and leave out the squat
black 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 think
of anything but the Indian?"
"Perhaps," said Hampstead, "the case here is unique. It is difficult to
find a parallel. But the same idea would present itself if one attempted
to build an English Church in the Moorish style instead of the Gothic or
something similar. I fancy that the subscribers would feel that the
traditions of their race and native land were not being properly
represented, as you say, in their architecture--that they would resent
an Oriental luxury of outline suggesting only Mohammed's luxurious
religion, and that nothing would suit them but the high, severe, and
moral aspect of their own race, religion, and churches. By the way, did
you ever consider how the moral altitude of each religion throughout the
world is indelibly stamped in the very shape of each one's houses of
worship. Begin at the whimsical absurdities of the Chinese, and come
westward to the monstrosities of India, then to the voluptuous domes of
the Moor and the less voluptuous domes of Constantinople, then to the
still less Oriental domes of Rome, then to the fortress-like rectangular
Norman, then to the lofty, refined, severe, upward-pointing Gothic of
Germany and England. Each church along the whole line, by its mere
external shape, will tell of the people and religion that built it
better than a host of words."
"If that be so, it would seem like retrograding in architecture to
suggest the Indian wigwam here," said Jack. "What do you say, Margaret?"
"I think that this is not a place where national aspirations in
monuments need be looked for. Its claims must always be on the side of
simple nature and the picturesque--a place for hard workers to
recuperate in, and, therefore, the poetry of all its early traditions
should in every way be protected and suggested."
"Of course, I suppose, Miss Margaret, the Indian you wish to immortalize
is John Fenimore Cooper's Indian, and that you have no reference to
Batoche half-breeds. Perhaps after a while we may see the genius of this
place suggested further, but I think the Americans have had too much
trouble in exterminating 'Lo, the poor Indian' to wish to be reminded of
his former existence, and that the savagery of Queen Anne is sufficient
for 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 he
remembered an item about the dusky race. "You know our act forbidding
people 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 at
the Falls of Niagara was accustomed to run an elevator on Sunday to
carry tourists up and down the cliff to the Whirlpool Rapids. His
employes were prosecuted for carrying on their business on the Sabbath
day. When the following Sunday arrived, a quite civilized remnant of the
Tuscarora tribe were running the entire business at splendid profits,
and claimed, apparently with success, that the law could not touch
them."
While this desultory talk was going on, Margaret was still watching the
little canoe bobbing about on the water. Geoffrey said to her: "Those
rugs 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 away
in the canoe, and dream over the waters and glide about from island to
island 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 go
for a sail, and come in later on at the dance. If the coat spoils me you
can think of me as John Smith, and of yourself as Pocahontas."
As Margaret nestled down into the cushions of the canoe, Geoffrey
stepped a little mast that carried a handkerchief of a sail, and,
getting in himself, gave a few vigorous strokes with the paddle, which
sent the craft flying from under the lee of the island. As the sail
filled and they skimmed away, he called out to Mrs. Dusenall that they
would go and see the people at the hotels, and would meet them at the
dance about nine o'clock. From the course taken by the butterfly of a
boat, which was in any direction except toward the hotels, this
explanatory statement appeared to be a mere transparency.
Nina's spirits sank to low ebb when she saw these two going off
together.
They sailed on for some distance in open water, and then, as the sail
proved unsatisfactory, Margaret took it down, and they commenced a
sinuous course among small islands. The dusk of the evening had still
some of the light of day in it, but the moon was already up and
endeavoring 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 gave
no idea of exertion foreign to the quiet charm of the scene, and at
other times the paddle dragged lazily through the water as he sat back
and allowed the canoe to drift along on the current close to the rocky
islands. They floated past breezy nooks where the ferns and mosses
filled the interstices between rocks and tree roots, where trees had
grown up misshapenly between the rocks, under wild creeping vines that
drooped from the overhanging boughs and swept the flowing water. Hardly
a word had been spoken since they left the yacht. For Margaret, there
was enough in the surroundings to keep her silent. She had yielded
herself to the full enjoyment of the balmy air and faint evening glows,
changing landscape, and sound of gurgling water. Her own appearance as
seen from the other end of the canoe did not tend to spoil the view. Her
happy face and graceful lines, and the full neck that tapered out of the
open-throated evening dress did not seem out of harmony with anything.
Reclining on one elbow against a cushioned thwart, she leaned forward
and altered the course of the light bark by giving a passing rock a
little push with her fan.
They were now passing a sort of natural harbor on the shore of one of
the islands. It had been formed by the displacement of a huge block of
granite from the side of the rock wall, and the roots and trunks of
trees had roofed it in.
Geoffrey pointed it out for inspection, and they landed lower down so
that they could walk back to a spot like that to which Shelley's
Rosalind 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 presence
which, seemingly without demand, exacted finer thought and led him to
some unknown region which other women did not suggest. When with her he
divined that it was by some such influence that men are separately
civilized, and that, with her, his own civilization was possible. Every
short-lived, ill-considered hope for the future seemed now so entangled
with her identity that her existence had become in some way necessary to
him. He had come to know this by discovering how unfeigned was the
earnestness with which he angled for her good opinion, and he was rather
puzzled to note his care lest "a word too much or a look too long" might
spoil his chances of arriving at some higher, happier life that her
presence assisted him vaguely to imagine. Nevertheless, so great was his
doubt as to his own character that all this seemed to him as if he must
be 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 sheer
inability to live up to it. All he knew was that this living up to an
ideal self was a civilizing process, and if he did not count upon its
permanency 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 pause
elapsed, that Margaret had forgotten what he was answering to when he
said decisively: "Yes. It is pleasant."
She looked around at him because his voice sounded as if he had been
weighing other things than the scenery in his head.
"Oh, it is more than pleasant," she said. "It is something never to
forget." Margaret looked away over earth, water, and sky, as if to point
them out to interpret her enthusiasm. Her range of view apparently did
not include Geoffrey. Perhaps he was to understand from this that he,
personally, had little or nothing to do with her pleasure. But a glimpse
of one idea suggested more serious thought, and the next moment she was
wondering how much he had to do with her present thorough content.
Geoffrey, who was watching her thoughts by noticing the half smile and
half blush that came to her face, felt his heart give a little bound. He
imagined he divined the presence of the thought that puzzled her, but he
answered in the off-hand way in which one deals with generalities.
"I believe, Miss Margaret, this whole trip provides you with great
happiness."
"I believe it does," said Margaret. To conceal a sense of consciousness
she 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 a
difficult 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 would
like."
"You must be rather difficult to please."
"No doubt it is a mistake not to be happy all the time," replied
Geoffrey. "There is such a thing, however, as chasing happiness about
the world too long. She shakes her wings and does not return, and leaves
us nothing but not very exalting memories of times when we seem, as far
as we can recollect, to have been only momentarily happy."
"For me, I think that I could never forget a great happiness, that it
would light up my life and make it bearable no matter what the after
conditions might be," said Margaret thoughtfully.
"Just so," answered Geoffrey lightly. "There's the rub. How's a fellow
to cultivate a great happiness when he never can catch up to it. I don't
know of any path in which I have not sought for the jade, but I can look
back upon a life largely devoted to this chase and honestly say that
beyond a few gleams of poor triumph I never think of my existence except
as 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. "No
doubt some who live for an exalted hereafter may sometimes know what
actual joy is, but this can only approach continuity where one has great
imaginative ambition and weak primitive leanings. For most people the
chances of happiness in spirituality are not good. Happily, the savage
mind can not grasp the intended meaning of either the promised rewards
or punishments continually, if at all; and this inability saves them
from going mad. Of course the more men improve themselves the more they
may rejoice, both for themselves and their posterity, but mere varnished
savages like myself have a poor chance to gain happiness in consistent
spirituality. It is foolish to suppose that we are free agents. A high
morality and its own happiness are an heirloom--a desirable thing--which
our forefathers have constructed for us."
"I have sometimes thought," said Margaret, "that if happiness depends
upon one's goodness it is not necessarily that goodness which we are
taught to recognize as such. Goodness seems to be relative and quite
changeable among different people. Some of the best people under the Old
Testament would not shine as saints under the New Testament, yet the
older people were doubtless happy enough in their beliefs. Desirable
observances necessary to a Mohammedan's goodness are not made requisite
in any European faith, and yet our people are not unhappy on this
account. Nobody can doubt that pagan priests were, and are, completely
happy when weltering in the blood of their fellow-creatures, and, if it
be true that conscience is divinely implanted in all men, that under
divine guidance it is an infallible judge between good and evil, that
one may be happy when his conscience approves his actions, and that
therefore happiness comes from God, how is it that the pagan priest
while at such work is able to think himself holy and to rejoice in it
with clearest conscience? It would seem, from this, that there must be
different goodnesses diametrically opposed to each other which are
equally-pleasing to Him and equally productive of happiness to
individuals."
Geoffrey smiled at her, as they talked on in their usual random way, for
it seemed that she was capable of piecing her knowledge together in the
same sequence (or disorder) that he did himself. One is well-disposed
toward a mind whose processes are similar to one's own. He smiled, too,
at her attempts to reconcile facts with the idea of beneficence toward
individuals on the part Of the powers behind nature. For his part, he
had 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 or
more spiritual by following out his natural desires, he is one of the
happiest of men. The pagan priest you mentioned was gratifying his
natural desires, his love of power and love of cruelty--which in
conjunction with his beliefs made him feel more godly. Mohammed built
his vast religion on the very corner-stone of this rule. Priests are
taught from the beginning to guard and increase the power of the Church.
This is their first great trust, and it becomes a passion. Their natural
love of power is utilized for this purpose. For this object, history
tells us that no human tie is too sacred to be torn asunder and trampled
on. Natural love of dominion in a man can be trained into such perfect
accord with the desired dominion of a priesthood that he may feel not
only happy but spiritually improved in carrying out anything his Church
requires him to do--no matter what that may be."
Geoffrey-stopped, as he noticed that Margaret shuddered. "You are
feeling cold," he said.
"No, I was only thinking of some of the priests' faces. They terrify me
so. I don't want to interrupt you, but what do you think makes them look
like that?"
Geoffrey shrugged his shoulders.
"I don't know," he answered. "Perhaps interpreting the supernatural has
with some of them a bad effect upon the countenance. All one can say is
that many of them bear in their faces what in other classes of men I
consider to be unmistakable signs that their greatest happiness consists
in something which must be concealed from the public." Hampstead spoke
with the tired smile of one who on an unpleasant subject thinks more
than he will say.
"Let us not speak of them. They make me think of Violet Keith, and all
that sort of thing. Go back to what you were saying. It seems to me that
the most refined and educated followers of different faiths do not gain
happiness in spirituality in the way you suggest. Your rule does not
seem to apply to them."
"I think it does," answered Geoffrey, with some of that abruptness which
in a man's argument with a woman seems to accept her as a worthy
antagonist from the fact that politeness is a trifle forgotten. "You
refer to men whose mental temperament is stronger in controlling their
daily life than any other influence--men with high heads, who seem made
of moral powers--ideality, conscientiousness, and all the rest of them.
They have got the heirloom I spoke of. They are gentle from their
family modification. These few, indeed, can, I imagine, be happy in
religion, for this reason. There has been in their families for many
generations a production of mental activity, which exists more easily in
company with a high morality than with satisfactions which would only
detract from it. With such men it may be said that their earlier nature
has partly changed into what the rule applies to equally well. With
ordinary social pressure and their own temperaments they would still,
even without religion, be what they are; because any other mode of life
does not sufficiently attract them. Their ancestors went through what we
are enduring now."
"But," said Margaret--and she continued to offer some objections,
chiefly to lead Geoffrey to talk on. However incomplete his reasoning
might be, his strong voice was becoming music to her. She did not wish
it to stop. Both her heart and her mind seemed impelled toward both him
and his way of thinking by the echo of the resonant tones which she
heard within herself. Being a woman, she found this pleasant. "But," she
said, "people who are most imperfect surely may have great happiness in
their faith?"
"At times. Yes," replied he. "But their happiness is temporary, and
necessarily alternates with an equal amount of misery. The loss of a
hope capable of giving joy must certainly bring despair in the same
proportion, inversely, as the hope was precious. All ordinary men with
any education alternate more or less between the enjoyment of the
energetic mental life and the duller following of earlier instincts, and
when, in the mental life, they allow themselves to delight in immaterial
hopes and visions, there is unhappiness when the brain refuses to
conjure up the vision, and most complete misery after there has occurred
that transition to their older natures which must at times supervene,
unless they possess the great moral heirloom, or perhaps a refining
bodily infirmity to assist them. Ah! this struggle after happiness has
been a long one. Solomon, and all who seek it in the way he did, find
their mistake. Pleasure without ideality is a paltry thing and leads to
disgust. Religion-makers have hovered about the idea contained in my
rule to make their creeds acceptable. In this idea Mohammed pleased
many. Happiness in spirituality can only be continuous for men when they
come to have faces like some passionless but tender-hearted women, and
still retain the wish to imagine themselves as something like gods."
Geoffrey paused.
"Go on," said Margaret, turning her eyes slowly from looking at the
running water without seeing it. She said very quietly: "Go on; I like
to hear you talk." The spell of his presence was upon her. There was the
soft look in her eyes of a woman who is beginning to find it pleasant to
be in some way compelled, and for a moment her tones, looks, and words
seemed to be all a part of a musical chord to interpret her response to
his influence. Geoffrey looked away. The time for trusting himself to
look into the eyes that seemed very sweet in their new softness had not
arrived. For the first time he felt certain that he had affected her
favorably. Almost involuntarily he took a couple of steps to the water's
edge and back again.
"What is there more to say?" said he, smiling. "We neither hope very
much nor fear very much nowadays. Men who have no scientific discovery
in view or who can not sufficiently idealize their lives gradually cease
expecting to be very happy. To men like myself religions are a more or
less developed form of delusion, bringing most people joy and despair
alternately and leading others to insanity. We know that religions
commenced in fear and in their later stages have been the result of a
seeking for happiness and consolation. To us the idea of immortality is
but a development of the inherent conceit we notice in the apes. We do
not allow ourselves the pleasing fantasy that because brain power
multiplies itself and evolves quickly we are to become as gods in the
future. If we do not hope much neither do we despair. Still, there is a
capacity for joy within us which sometimes seems to be cramped by the
level and unexciting mediocrity of existence. We do not readily forget
the beautiful hallucinations of our youth; and for most of us there
will, I imagine, as long as the pulses beat, be an occasional and too
frequent 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. "Your
words 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 joyful
prospects 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 looked
up brightly) "somehow they don't seem to exactly apply to me. I never
had strong hopes nor visions about immortality. They never seemed
necessary for my happiness. Small things please me. I am nearly always
fairly happy. Small things seem worth seeking and small pleasures worth
cultivating."
"Because you have not lived your life. Do you imagine that you will
always be content with small pleasures?" asked Geoffrey quickly as he
watched her thoughtful face.
Margaret suddenly felt constraint. After the many and long interviews
she had had with Geoffrey she had always come away feeling as if she had
learned something. What it was that she had learned might have been hard
for her to say. His conversation seemed to her to have a certain width
and scope about it, and to her he seemed to grasp generalities and
present them in his own condensed form; but she had been unconsciously
learning more than was contained in his conversation. His words
generally appealed in some way to her intellect; but tones of voice go
for a good deal. Perhaps in making love the chief use of words is first
to attract the attention of the other person. Perhaps they do not amount
to much and could be dispensed with entirely, for we see that a dozen
suitors may unsuccessfully plead their cause with a young woman in
similar words until some one appears with tones of voice to which she
vibrates. Perhaps it matters little what he says if he only continues to
speak--to make her vibrate. Certainly Cupid studied music before he ever
studied etymology. Hampstead had never said a word to her about love,
but the resonant tones, his concentration, and the magnetism of his
presence, were doing their work without any usual formulas.
The necessity of answering his question now brought the idea to her with
a rush that Geoffrey had taught her perhaps too much--that he had taught
her things different from what she thought she was learning--that the
simplicity of her life would never be quite the same again. She became
conscious of a movement in her pulses before unknown to her that made
her heart beat like a prisoned bird against its cage, that made her
whole being seem to strain forward toward an unknown joy which left all
the world behind it. In the whirl of feeling came the impulse to conceal
her face lest he should detect her thoughts, and she bent her head to
arrange her lace shawl, as if preparatory to going away. She looked off
over the water, so that she could answer more freely. Her answer came
haltingly.
"Something tells me," she said, "that the small pleasures I have known
will not always be enough for me." Then faster: "But, of course, all
young people feel like this now and then. I think our conversation has
excited me a little."
She arose, and walked a step or two, trying to quell the tumult within
her.
"We must be going. It is late," she said in a way that showed her
self-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 the
appearance of this place for all her life, and she turned to view it
again. The moon was silvering the tracery of vines and foliage and the
surface of the twisting water, and giving dark-olive tones to the
shadowed underbrush close by. The large hotels could be seen through a
gap in the islands with their many lights twinkling in the distance; a
lighthouse, not far off, sent a red gleam twirling and twisting across
the current toward them, and a whip-poor-will was giving forth its
notes, while the waltz music from the far-away island floated dreamily
on the soft evening breeze. Geoffrey said nothing. He, too, was under
the influence of the scene. For once he was afraid to speak to a
woman--afraid to venture what he had to say--to win or lose all. He
thought it better to wait, and stood beside her almost trembling. But
Margaret had had no experience in dealing with the new feelings that
warred for mastery within her, and she showed one of her thoughts, as if
in soliloquy. She was too innocent. The vague pressures were too great
to 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 world
worth living for?"
"No, not so," interrupted Geoffrey. "I did not say that. I said that
life, for many of us, was mediocre, because ideals were scarce and
imaginations did not find scope. But there is a better life--I know
there is--the better life of sympathy--of care--of joy--of love."
As she listened, each deep note that Geoffrey separately brought forth
filled her with an overwhelming gladness. When he spoke slowly of
sympathy, care, joy, and love, the words were freighted with the musical
notes of a strong man's passion, and they seemed to bring a new meaning
to 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 suddenly
betrayed into! The tears welled up into Margaret's eyes, and, partly to
check the speech that moved her too strongly, and partly to steady
herself, and chiefly because she did not know what she was doing, she
laid 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 like
electricity.
"I know there is such a life--a perfect life--and that there might be
such a life for me, a life that more than exhausts my imagination to
conceive of. You were wrong in saying that I said--that is, I only
said--oh, I can't remember what I said--I only know that I worship you,
Margaret--that you are my heaven, my hereafter--the only good I
know--with power to make or mar, to raise me from myself and to gild the
whole world for me--"
Margaret put up her hand to stay the torrent of his utterance. She had
to. For, now that he gave rein to his wish, the forceful words seemed to
overwhelm her and seize and carry off her very soul. He took her hand
between both of his, and, still fearful lest she might give some reason
for sending him away, he pleaded for himself in low tones that seemed to
bring her heart upon her lips, and when he said: "Could you care for me
enough to let me love you always, Margaret?" she looked half away and
over the landscape to control her voice. Her tall, full figure rose,
like an Easter lily, from the folds of the lace shawl which had fallen
from her shoulders. Her eyes, dewy with overmuch gladness and wide with
new emotions, turned to Geoffrey's as she said, half aloud--as if
wondering within herself:
"It must be so, I suppose."
When she looked at him thus, Geoffrey was beyond speech. He drew her
nearer to him, touching her reverently. He did not know himself in the
fullness Of the moment. To find himself incoherent was new to him. She
was so peerless--such a vision of loveliness in the moonlight! The
thought that he now had a future before him--that soon she would be with
him for always--that soon they would be the comfort, the sympathy, the
cheer, 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 still
wondering 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 was
at its height, and it seemed to Margaret that all this illumination of
Chinese lanterns, ascending in curving lines to the tree tops--that all
the music, dancing, and gayety were part of the festival going on within
her. As Geoffrey strode into the ball-room with Margaret on his arm he
carried his head high. A man who appeared well in any garb, in evening
dress he looked superb. Some who saw him that night never forgot how he
seemed to typify the majesty of manhood, and how other people seemed
dwarfed to insignificance when Margaret and he entered. If only a
modified elasticity appeared in her step, the wonder was she did not
skip down the room on her toes. They went toward Mrs. Dusenall, who came
forward 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 to
her motherly friend.
"Dear mother," she whispered, "we landed on an island, and Geoffrey
kissed me."
"Heavens!" cried Mrs. Dusenall, not knowing what to think. "Why--but of
course it's all right. Of course he did, my dear--he could not do
anything 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 about
that." Then, turning to Geoffrey, with simplicity, "Are we engaged?"
"Girl! are my words but as wind that you should mock me with their
emptiness? 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, she
knew its meaning at once, and her heart sickened.
Pretty playthings seemed in some way rather degrading to Geoffrey that
night, and Nina was able to speak to him only for a moment, just before
all were going away. She then pretended to know nothing about the
engagement, and said, with cat-like sweetness:
"I thought you did not care for Margaret's dancing much? I see she must
have improved, as you have been with her all the evening."
Geoffrey answered gravely; "I believe you are right; there is a
difference. 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 rather
morning, and the Yankee band had finished a complimentary God save the
Queen, and after the last cheer had been exchanged, Margaret said to him
in the darkness, just before they parted:
"If there were no more happiness to follow, Geoffrey, to-night would
last me all my life!"