Mr. Cooke had had a sloop yacht built at Far Harbor, the completion
of which had been delayed, and which was but just delivered. She was,
painted white, with brass fittings, and under her stern, in big,
black letters, was the word Maria, intended as a surprise and delicate
conjugal compliment to Mrs. Cooke. The Maria had a cabin, which was
finished in hard wood and yellow plush, and accommodations for keeping
things cold. This last Mr. Cooke had insisted upon.
The skipper Mr. Cooke had hired at Far Harbor was a God-fearing man with
a luke warm interest in his new billet and employer, and had only been
prevailed upon to take charge of the yacht for the month after the offer
of an emolument equal to half a year's sea pay of an ensign in the navy.
His son and helper was to receive a sum proportionally exorbitant.
This worthy man sighted Mohair on a Sunday morning, and at nine
o'clock dropped his anchor with a salute which caused Mr. Cooke to
say unpleasant things in his sleep. After making things ship-shape and
hoisting the jack, both father and son rowed ashore to the little church
at Asquith.
Now the butler at Mohair was a servant who had learned, from long
experience, to anticipate every wish and whim of his master, and from
the moment he descried the white sails of the yacht out of the windows
of the butler's pantry his duty was clear as daylight. Such was the
comprehension and despatch with which he gave his commands that the
captain returned from divine worship to find the Maria in profane hands,
her immaculate deck littered with straw and sawdust, and covered to the
coamings with bottles and cases. This decided the captain, he packed
his kit in high dudgeon, and took the first train back to Far Harbor,
leaving the yacht to her fate.
This sudden and inconsiderate departure was a severe blow to Mr. Cooke'
who was so constituted that he cared but little about anything until
there was danger of not getting it. My client had planned a trip to Bear
Island for the following Tuesday, which was to last a week, the party to
bring tents with them and rough it, with the Maria as headquarters. It
was out of the question to send to Far Harbor for another skipper, if,
indeed, one could be found at that late period. And as luck would have
it, six of Mr. Cooke's ten guests had left but a day or so since, and
among them had been the only yacht-owner. None of the four that remained
could do more than haul aft and belay a sheet. But the Celebrity, who
chanced along as Mr. Cooke was ruefully gazing at the graceful lines of
the Maria from the wharf and cursing the fate that kept him ashore with
a stiff wind blowing, proposed a way out of the difficulty. He, the
Celebrity, would gladly sail the Maria over to Bear Island provided
another man could be found to relieve him occasionally at the wheel, and
the like. He had noticed that Farrar was a capable hand in a boat, and
suggested that he be sent for.
This suggestion Mr. Cooke thought so well of that he hurried over to
Asquith to consult Farrar at once, and incidentally to consult me.
We can hardly be blamed for receiving his overtures with a moderate
enthusiasm. In fact, we were of one mind not to go when the subject was
first broached. But my client had a persuasive way about him that was
irresistible, and the mere mention of the favors he had conferred
upon both of us at different periods of our lives was sufficient. We
consented.
Thus it came to pass that Tuesday morning found the party assembled on
the wharf at Mohair, the Four and the Celebrity, as well as Mr. Cooke,
having produced yachting suits from their inexhaustible wardrobes.
Mr. Trevor and his daughter, Mrs. Cooke and Miss Thorn, and Farrar
and myself completed the party. We were to adhere strictly to primeval
principles: the ladies were not permitted a maid, while the Celebrity
was forced to leave his manservant, and Mr. Cooke his chef. I had,
however, thrust into my pocket the Minneapolis papers, which had been
handed me by the clerk on their arrival at the inn, which happened just
as I was leaving. 'Quod bene notandum!'
Thereby hangs a tale!
For the northern lakes the day was rather dead: a little wind lay in the
southeast, scarcely enough to break the water, with the sky an intense
blue. But the Maria was hardly cast and under way before it became
painfully apparent that the Celebrity was much better fitted to lead
a cotillon than to sail a boat. He gave his orders, nevertheless, in
a firm, seamanlike fashion, though with no great pertinence, and thus
managed to establish the confidence of Mr. Cooke. Farrar, after setting
things to rights, joined Mrs. Cooke and me over the cabin.
“How about hoisting the spinnaker, mate?” the Celebrity shouted after
him.
Farrar did not deign to answer: his eye was on the wind. And the boom,
which had been acting uneasily, finally decided to gybe, and swept
majestically over, carrying two of the Four in front of it, and all but
dropped them into the water.
“A common occurrence in a light breeze,” we heard the Celebrity reassure
Mr. Cooke and Miss Thorn.
“The Maria has vindicated her sex,” remarked Farrar.
We laughed.
“Why don't you sail, Mr. Farrar?” asked Mrs. Cooke.
“He can't do any harm in this breeze,” Farrar replied; “it isn't strong
enough to get anywhere with.”
He was right. The boom gybed twenty times that morning, and the
Celebrity offered an equal number of apologies. Mr. Cooke and the Four
vanished, and from the uproarious laughter which arose from the cabin
transoms I judged they were telling stories. While Miss Thorn spent the
time profitably in learning how to conn a yacht. At one, when we had
luncheon, Mohair was still in the distance. At two it began to cloud
over, the wind fell flat, and an ominous black bank came up from the
south. Without more ado, Farrar, calling on me to give him a hand, eased
down the halliards and began to close reef the mainsail.
“Hold on,” said the Celebrity, “who told you to do that?”
“I am very sure you didn't,” Farrar returned, as he hauled out a reef
earing.
Here a few drops of rain on the deck warned the ladies to retire to the
cabin.
“Take the helm until I get my mackintosh, will you, Farrar?” said the
Celebrity, “and be careful what you do.”
Farrar took the helm and hauled in the sheet, while the Celebrity, Mr.
Cooke, and the guests donned their rain-clothes. The water ahead was
now like blue velvet, and the rain pelting. The Maria was heeling to the
squall by the time the Celebrity appeared at the cabin door, enveloped
in an ample waterproof, a rubber cover on his yachting cap. A fool
despises a danger he has never experienced, and our author, with a
remark about a spanking breeze, made a motion to take the wheel. But
Farrar, the flannel of his shirt clinging to the muscular outline of
his shoulders, gave him a push which sent him sprawling against the lee
refrigerator. Well Miss Thorn was not there to see.
“You will have to answer for this,” he cried, as he scrambled to his
feet and clutched the weather wash-board with one hand, while he shook
the other in Farrar's face.
“Crocker,” said Farrar to me, coolly, “keep that idiot out of the way
for a while, or we'll all be drowned. Tie him up, if necessary.”
I was relieved from this somewhat unpleasant task. Mr. Cooke, with his
back to the rain, sat an amused witness to the mutiny, as blissfully
ignorant as the Celebrity of the character of a lake squall.
“I appeal to you, as the owner of this yacht, Mr. Cooke,” the Celebrity
shouted, “whether, as the person delegated by you to take charge of it,
I am to suffer indignity and insult. I have sailed larger yachts than
this time and again on the coast, at--” here he swallowed a portion of a
wave and was mercifully prevented from being specific.
But Mr. Cooke was looking a trifle bewildered. It was hardly possible
for him to cling to the refrigerator, much less quell a mutiny. One who
has sailed the lakes well knows how rapidly they can be lashed to fury
by a storm, and the wind was now spinning the tops of the waves into a
blinding spray. Although the Maria proved a stiff boat and a seaworthy,
she was not altogether without motion; and the set expression on
Farrar's face would have told me, had I not known it, that our situation
at that moment was no joke. Repeatedly, as she was held up to it, a
precocious roller would sweep from bow to stern, until we without coats
were wet and shivering.
The close and crowded cabin of a small yacht is not an attractive
place in rough weather; and one by one the Four emerged and distributed
themselves about the deck, wherever they could obtain a hold. Some
of them began to act peculiarly. Upon Mr. Cooke's unwillingness or
inability to interfere in his behalf, the Celebrity had assumed an
aggrieved demeanor, but soon the motion of the Maria became more and
more pronounced, and the difficulty of maintaining his decorum likewise
increased. The ruddy color left his face, which grew pale with effort.
I will do him the justice to say that the effort was heroic: he whistled
popular airs, and snatches of the grand opera; he relieved Mr. Cooke of
his glasses (of which Mr. Cooke had neglected to relieve himself), and
scanned the sea line busily. But the inevitable deferred is frequently
more violent than the inevitable taken gracefully, and the confusion
which at length overtook the Celebrity was utter as his humiliation was
complete. We laid him beside Mr. Cooke in the cockpit.
The rain presently ceased, and the wind hauled, as is often the case,
to the northwest, which began to clear, while Bear Island rose from the
northern horizon. Both Farrar and I were surprised to see Miss Trevor
come out; she hooked back the cabin doors and surveyed the prostrate
forms with amusement.
We asked her about those inside.
“Mrs. Cooke has really been very ill,” she said, “and Miss Thorn is
doing all she can for her. My father and I were more fortunate. But you
will both catch your deaths,” she exclaimed, noticing our condition.
“Tell me where I can find your coats.”
I suppose it is natural for a man to enjoy being looked after in this
way; it was certainly a new sensation to Farrar and myself. We assured
her we were drying out and did not need the coats, but nevertheless she
went back into the cabin and found them.
“Miss Thorn says you should both be whipped,” she remarked.
When we had put on our coats Miss Trevor sat down and began to talk.
“I once heard of a man,” she began complacently, “a man that was
buried alive, and who contrived to dig himself up and then read his own
epitaph. It did not please him, but he was wise and amended his life. I
have often thought how much it might help some people if they could read
their own epitaphs.”
Farrar was very quick at this sort of thing; and now that the steering
had become easier was only too glad to join her in worrying the
Celebrity. But he, if he were conscious, gave no sign of it.
“They ought to be buried so that they could not dig themselves up,” he
said. “The epitaphs would only strengthen their belief that they had
lived in an unappreciative age.”
“One I happen to have in mind, however, lives in an appreciative age.
Most appreciative.”
“And women are often epitaph-makers.”
“You are hard on the sex, Mr. Farrar,” she answered, “but perhaps
justly so. And yet there are some women I know of who would not write an
epitaph to his taste.”
Farrar looked at her curiously.
“I beg your pardon,” he said.
“Do not imagine I am touchy on the subject,” she replied quickly; “some
of us are fortunate enough to have had our eyes opened.”
I thought the Celebrity stirred uneasily.
“Have you read The Sybarites?” she asked.
Farrar was puzzled.
“No,” said he sententiously, “and I don't want to.”
“I know the average man thinks it a disgrace to have read it. And you
may not believe me when I say that it is a strong story of its kind,
with a strong moral. There are men who might read that book and be a
great deal better for it. And, if they took the moral to heart, it would
prove every bit as effectual as their own epitaphs.”
He was not quite sure of her drift, but he perceived that she was still
making fun of Mr. Allen.
“And the moral?” he inquired.
“Well,” she said, “the best I can do is to give you a synopsis of the
story, and then you can judge of its fitness. The hero is called Victor
Desmond. He is a young man of a sterling though undeveloped character,
who has been hampered by an indulgent parent with a large fortune.
Desmond is a butterfly, and sips life after the approved manner of his
kind,--now from Bohemian glass, now from vessels of gold and silver. He
chats with stage lights in their dressing-rooms, and attends a ball in
the Bowery or a supper at Sherry's with a ready versatility. The book,
apart from its intention, really gives the middle classes an excellent
idea of what is called 'high-life.'
“It is some time before Desmond discovers that he possesses the gift of
Paris,--a deliberation proving his lack of conceit,--that wherever he
goes he unwittingly breaks a heart, and sometimes two or three. This
discovery is naturally so painful that he comes home to his chambers and
throws himself on a lounge before his fire in a fit of self-deprecation,
and reflects on a misspent and foolish life. This, mind you, is where
his character starts to develop. And he makes a heroic resolve, not to
cut off his nose or to grow a beard, nor get married, but henceforth
to live a life of usefulness and seclusion, which was certainly
considerate. And furthermore, if by any accident he ever again involved
the affections of another girl he would marry her, be she as ugly as sin
or as poor as poverty. Then the heroine comes in. Her name is Rosamond,
which sounds well and may be euphoniously coupled with Desmond; and,
with the single exception of a boarding-school girl, she is the only
young woman he ever thought of twice. In order to save her and himself
he goes away, but the temptation to write to her overpowers him, and
of course she answers his letter. This brings on a correspondence.
His letters take the form of confessions, and are the fruits of much
philosophical reflection. 'Inconstancy in woman,' he says, because of
the present social conditions, is often pardonable. In a man, nothing
is more despicable.' This is his cardinal principle, and he sticks to
it nobly. For, though he tires of Rosamond, who is quite attractive,
however, he marries her and lives a life of self-denial. There are men
who might take that story to heart.”
I was amused that she should give the passage quoted by the Celebrity
himself. Her double meaning was, naturally, lost on Farrar, but he
enjoyed the thing hugely, nevertheless, as more or less applicable to
Mr. Allen. I made sure that gentleman was sensible of what was being
said, though he scarcely moved a muscle. And Miss Trevor, with a
mirthful glance at me that was not without a tinge of triumph, jumped
lightly to the deck and went in to see the invalids.
We were now working up into the lee of the island, whose tall pines
stood clean and black against the red glow of the evening sky. Mr. Cooke
began to give evidences of life, and finally got up and overhauled one
of the ice-chests for a restorative. Farrar put into the little cove,
where we dropped anchor, and soon had the chief sufferers ashore; and
a delicate supper, in the preparation of which Miss Thorn showed her
ability as a cook, soon restored them. For my part, I much preferred
Miss Thorn's dishes to those of the Mohair chef, and so did Farrar. And
the Four, surprising as it may seem, made themselves generally useful
about the camp in pitching the tents under Farrar's supervision. But the
Celebrity remained apart and silent.