The _Maid of the North_ was ready for sea.
Only the touch of the engineer was wanting to send her, once again, on a
homeward voyage to the St. Lawrence. Meanwhile, in solemn undertones,
she was breathing forth her superabundant steam.
Behind the wharf lay the city of Boston.
A score of passengers, together with friends who had come aboard to see
them off, were scattered about the little steamer. Among them, on the
after deck, indifferent to the hot June sun, moved a gentleman of
aristocratic mien. His raiment was above reproach. He gave the
impression of being a distinguished person. But this impression was
delusive, his distinction being merely social. He was too well provided
for, too easily clever and in too many ways, to achieve renown in any
field requiring serious labor.
He inhaled the salt air as it came in from the sea, took out his watch,
scanned the wharf, picked a thread from his sleeve, and twirled,
somewhat carefully, the ends of a yellow moustache. His glance moved
indifferently over various passengers and things about him until it
rested on a man, not far away. The man was leaning against the railing
of the deck watching the scene upon the wharf below.
The extreme attenuation of this person had already rendered him an
object of interest to several passengers. His clothing hung loosely from
his shoulders. Both coat and vest were far too roomy for the body
beneath, while the trousers bore no relation to his legs. But the
emaciated face, deeply browned by exposure, told a story of hardship and
starvation rather than of ordinary sickness. Two thin, dark hands that
rested on the ship's rail seemed almost transparent.
The aristocratic gentleman regarded this person with increasing
interest. He approached the railing himself and furtively studied the
stranger's profile. Then, with an expression in his face less blase than
heretofore, he approached the man and stood behind him. Laying a hand on
one of the shoulders to prevent his victim turning, he said:
"I beg your pardon, sir, but could you tell me the name of this town?"
There was a short silence. Then the stranger answered, in a serious
tone, and with no effort to see his questioner:
"This is Boston, the city of respectability--and other delights."
"Yes?"
"It is also the home of a man who doesn't seem to have matured with the
passing years."
"Well, who is that man?"
"A fellow that might have been a famous tenor if he had a voice--and
some idea of music."
The other man laughed, removed his hand, and his friend turned about.
Then followed a greeting as between old intimates, long separated. And
such was the mutual pleasure that a neighboring spectator, many years
embittered by dyspepsia, so far forgot himself as to allow a smile of
sympathy to occupy his face.
The countenance of the attenuated person was unusual; not from any
peculiarity of feature, but from its invincible cheerfulness. This
cheerfulness was constitutional, and contagious. His face seemed nearly
ten years younger than it was; for the unquenchable good-humor having
settled there in infancy had thwarted the hand of time. No signs of
discouragement, of weariness or worry had gained a footing. There were
no visible traces of unwelcome experience. While distinctly a thoughtful
face, good-humor and a tranquil spirit were the two things most clearly
written. His eyes were gray--frank, honest, mirthful, with little
wrinkles at the corners when he smiled.
After many questions had been asked and answered, the more pretentious
gentleman laid a hand affectionately on the other's arm, and said:
"But what has happened to you, Pats? How thin you are! You look like a
ghost--a mahogany ghost."
"Fever. A splendid case of South African fever."
"Too bad! Are you well over it?"
"Yes, over the fever; but still tottery. My strength has not come home
yet. And the lead was a set back."
"You mean bullets?"
"Yes. I caught two, but they are both out. I am getting along all right
now."
"And you have just reached America?"
"Landed in New York yesterday; got here this morning at half-past seven,
found my family were up on the St. Lawrence, and here I am. But what are
you doing on this boat?"
"Oh, I just came down to see somebody off."
An excess of indifference in the manner of this reply did not escape the
friend from Africa. With a sidelong glance at his companion, he said, "A
man, of course."
"How clever you are, Pats!"
"No need of being clever, Billy, when you advertise your secret by
blushing like a girl of fifteen."
"Blush! I, blush! How old do you think I am? Ten?"
"Yes all of that. But if you didn't actually blush, old man, you did
look foolish. And this explains a state-room full of flowers that I
noticed. Is that _her_ bower?"
"I think so."
"Well, who is she, Billy? You might as well tell me, for I shall be sure
to discover if she goes on this boat."
"Elinor Marshall."
"Elinor Marshall? Why, that name is familiar. Where have I heard it?"
"She is a friend of your sisters."
"Of course!"
"And she is going to your place now, on a visit."
"Good! I'll cut you out. Is she fond of bones?"
Mr. William Townsend did not answer, but he looked at his watch. "She
ought to be here now. The boat sails at ten-thirty, doesn't it?"
"Yes."
"It's ten, now. I shall trot you up as soon as she arrives."
"Thanks. You will excuse my asking a cruel question, old man, but you
certainly did not send _all_ the flowers in that cabin?"
"Oh, no!"
"Then there are other--appreciators?"
"Yes."
Mr. Patrick Boyd, with a slight gesture toward two carefully attired
gentlemen who were pacing the wharf, raised his eyebrows
interrogatively.
His companion smiled. "Yes. She can also have either of them, and
without the asking."
The attenuated man regarded the two gentlemen with interest. "That chap
has a familiar face."
"Which? The one with the bouquet?"
"No; the one with the nose."
"That's Hamilton Goddard."
"To be sure! And I should know his friend was a lover. His anxious
glances up the wharf, and those flowers give him away. Such roses are
for no aunt or sister."
"Better for him if they were!"
"Why? No chance?"
"Well, that is not for me to say. But he is one of those fearfully
earnest chaps, with a tragic soul, and a rebuff would be a dangerous
thing for him."
"Poor devil!"
And the man of cheerful countenance slowly wagged his head, as he added,
in a sympathetic voice, "This being in love seems a painful pleasure."
Mr. William Townsend regarded his friend with half-shut eyes, and asked,
"Are you still the superior person who defies the--the malady?"
"Even so."
"You never had it?"
"Never."
"How old are you?"
"Thirty."
"Then it's a lie."
"It's the truth. Of course I have known very fine girls who caused the
usual thrills, whose conservatory kisses I should never undervalue. But
when it comes to the fatuous delirium--the celestial idiocy that queers
the brain and impairs the vision--why, I have been unlucky, that's all."
"You are a liar, Pats. Just a liar."
"Mumps have been mine, and measles; and I have fooled with grape juice,
but that other drunkenness has been denied me."
His companion's grunt of incredulity was followed by the exclamation:
"There she comes!"
The two men below had halted, wheeled about, and were watching an
approaching carriage. Down the wharf with this equipage came an
atmosphere of solidity and opulence, of luxury and perfect taste. On the
box, in quiet livery, sat a driver and a footman. The driver, from his
bearing and appearance, could easily have passed for the president of a
college. As the carriage halted before the gang plank, the gentleman
with the nose stepped forward and opened the door, while he of the roses
stood by with a radiant visage, his hat in one hand, his offering in the
other.
First, emerged an elderly gentleman, tall, slender, and acutely
respectable. After him, a girl descended, also tall and slender. She was
followed by a maid, and a Catholic priest. As the young lady stood for a
moment conversing with the two admirers, her glance, in running over the
little steamer, encountered Mr. Townsend, and she nodded pleasantly.
"Lovely! Enchanting!" murmured the man from Africa.
"Of course she is! Come down, and I'll present you."
"But, first, tell me something about her. What are the interesting
facts?"
"Why, there's nothing to tell--that I can think of."
"Of course there is! There must be! Women like that don't bloom in every
garden. What a patrician type! And all that black hair! She is unusual."
"Well, she _is_ unusual, Pats. She is a splendid girl,--an orphan;
and she is giving her fortune all away."
"The devil! And to whom?"
"To philanthropy; to societies for the advancement of woman; to
hospitals and other bottomless pits. But above all to the Catholic
Church."
"Too bad! She doesn't look so unintelligent."
"No: and she is not. Her mother and sister, all that remained of her
family, were both drowned in the same accident, and the shock upset her
for a time."
"And it was then the Church got in its work? That explains the Holy
Roman Cherub who seems to be along."
"Yes; that's Father Burke. He is a part of the comedy."
"Comedy! It's a blood-curdling drama! Hasn't she a brother or some
relative to reach out a hand and save her?"
"She doesn't care to be saved. She is one of those women with a
conscience. A big one: the sort that becomes a disease unless taken in
time."
"I know. She feels guilty if she's happy. But she doesn't look all that.
She seems a trifle earnest, perhaps, but very human, and with real blood
in her veins."
Mr. Townsend sighed--a long, deep sigh that seemed to come from below
his waist. "Yes, she was mighty good company and rather jolly before the
vultures closed in on her."
"Is she really in the coils of the anaconda?"
"I am afraid so. She won't talk about it herself,--at least, not with
Protestants,--but some of her friends say she thinks of going into a
convent."
"Well," said Patrick Boyd, with a sudden warmth, as they turned to go
below, "all I can say is, that the institution, sacred or secular, that
tries to lure such a girl into a convent ought to be hustled into
space."
"Amen to that!"
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