"I have not decided; that is, not finally. I keep arriving at new
conclusions. My first impression was that you were a person of frigid
altitudes,--severe, exacting, and abnormally superior. Then, later, I
have thought you warm-hearted--even impulsive: that your indifference is
not always real. But of that, I am not sure. Still, I believe you
possess a lower and a better nature."
"You seem to have made wonderful discoveries in a very few hours."
"I have been working hard."
"I hope the verdict is favorable."
"Well, yes--in a way."
"So bad as that!"
"No, not bad at all. It is merely that you have bullied your natural
character. You have made it toe the mark and behave itself. Never given
it any vacations, perhaps."
She regarded him intently, as if in doubt as to his meaning.
"But you don't know the cause," he added.
She made no reply.
"The cause," he said, "is the expression of your face."
"Ah!"
"Yes. It is impossible for any being of earthly origin to possess the
celestial qualities promised in your countenance. It is out of harmony
with terrestrial things. Why, when those three men put out their hands
this morning for you to touch, I held my breath at their presumption. I
looked for three bolts from heaven to wither the extended arms."
"And your own face, Mr. Boyd, gives no indication of the subtleness of
your irony: unkind, perhaps, but extremely clever."
"Irony! Never! I had no such thought! I am merely announcing the
discovery that with a different exterior you would have been less
perfect; but more comfortable."
"If this is not irony, it is something still more offensive. I gave you
credit for a finer touch."
"I may be clumsy, but not malicious."
"Then explain."
"Well, you see, having a tender conscience, you have felt a sense of
fraud whenever confronted by your own reflection. Being human, you have
had, presumably, ambitions, envies, appetites, prejudices, vanities, and
other human ills of which the face before you gave no indication. And
so, feeling the preternatural excellence of that face a lie, you have
tried to live up to it; that is, to avoid being a humbug. In short, your
life has been a strenuous endeavor to be unnecessarily wise and
impossibly good."
As their side of the steamer rose high above the sea, after an unusual
plunge, he added: "And I am afraid you have succeeded."
She remained silent, lost apparently in another revery, watching the
changes in the west.
The light was fading. On sea and sky a more melancholy tone had
come,--dull, slaty grays crowding in from every quarter. And over the
darkening waters there seemed a tragic note, half-threatening,
intensified by every plunge of the steamer and by the swish of waters
very near the deck. There was a touch of melancholy, also, in the steady
thumping of the engines.
She said at last, pleasantly, but in a serious tone:
"I have been reflecting on your discourse. If ironical, it was unkind.
If sincere, it was--not impertinent perhaps, but certainly not justified
by our short acquaintance."
"True: and I beg your pardon. But was it correct?"
"I hope not."
Something in her manner invited a discontinuance of that particular
topic. He drew an attenuated hand across his mouth, changed his
position, as if on the point of saying more; but he held his peace.
Some minutes later, when Miss Marshall's maid approached this silent
couple, her progress, owing to the movement of the deck, consisted of
rapid little runs followed by sudden pauses, during which she hung with
one hand to the rail and with the other clutched her hat. She had come
up to ask if her mistress needed anything. Was she warm enough? Would
she have another wrap? Miss Marshall needed nothing herself, but asked
for news of Mr. Appleton Marshall, and if Father Burke was feeling
better. Louise had seen nothing of Mr. Marshall since dinner, but she
had left Father Burke reclining in the main saloon, not very sick, nor
very well, but lower in his mind. As her maid departed, the lady
expressed sympathy for the suffering uncle. "And poor Father Burke! He
is terribly uncomfortable, I am sure."
"Yes," said Pats. "I saw in his face a look of uncertainty: the wavering
faith that comes from meals with an upward tendency."
Pats thought this want of sympathy was resented.
"He is a most lovable man," she said, "of fine character, and with a
splendid mind. You would like him if you knew him better."
Here was his opportunity; his chance for a rescue. He would snatch her
from the clutches of the Romish Brute. A few stabs in the monster's
vitals might accomplish wonders. So he answered, sadly, in a tone of
brotherly affection:
"I like him now. That is why I regret that he should devote himself to
such a questionable enterprise."
"What enterprise?"
"His Church."
With a forced calmness she replied, "This is the only time I ever heard
the first religion of Christendom called a 'questionable enterprise.'"
"Leo X. spoke of it as a 'profitable fable.' Perhaps that was better."
"Did Leo X. say that of the Catholic Church?"
"Yes."
"I don't believe it."
"Because you have too high an opinion of Leo?"
"No; but he was a Pope of Rome, and I simply cannot believe it."
"Some popes of Rome have been awful examples for the young."
"So have men in all positions."
He smiled and shook his head. "Yes, but when they set up as Christ's
apostles, they really should not indulge too freely in assassination and
torture: at least, not out of business hours."
Then in a reflective, somewhat sorrowful manner, he continued, "But the
Roman Enterprise has two enemies that are thorns in the flesh, the
bath-tub and the printing-press. Wherever they march in, she marches
out. The three can't live together."
Of this statement there was no recognition, except a straightening up in
the steamer-chair.
He continued pleasantly, "In England, Germany, and America, for
instance, where these adversaries are in vogue, Catholicism quits. As
the devil shrinks from the sign of the Cross, so does the Holy
Enterprise gather up its bloody skirts and decamp."
"Perhaps you forget that in the United States alone there are more than
seven million Catholics."
"But they are not victims of the bath-tub habit."
"That is not true! There are thousands of exceptions!"
He laughed--an amiable, jolly, yet triumphant laugh--as he retorted,
"You admit the truth of it when you call them exceptions."
In the dim light which had gathered over everything, he could see the
delicate eyebrows drawing together in a frown. But he went on,
cheerfully, as if giving offence had not occurred to him, "Now Spain is
enthusiastically Catholic. And for ignorance,--solid, comprehensive,
reliable ignorance,--there is nothing like it in the solar system. You
can't hurt it with a hammer. It defies competition. If a Spaniard were
to meet a bath-tub on a lonely highway, he would cross himself and run."
"Their ignorance is their own fault. Education and progress have always
been encouraged by the Catholic Church."
"Encouraged? Oh!"
"Certainly."
"You mean by the stake and boiling lead?"
"I do not."
"When, for example, she notified Galileo that she would roast him alive,
as she had already roasted Bruno, if he persisted in his heresy that the
earth was round instead of flat?"
"If you are happy in that belief, I will not destroy it."
"It is a historic fact, but I am no happier for believing it. However,
too much education is a nuisance, and very likely Mamma Church was wise
in toasting an astronomer now and then."
"Your conclusions are rather entertaining. I am a Catholic myself, and
my own reading has brought opinions that are quite different."
She spoke calmly, but he detected a less friendly tone. In a joking,
incredulous manner he replied, "Well, then, I am a Catholic, too."
"I am serious. My faith to me is a sacred thing. It has brought me a
more tranquil spirit, a deeper knowledge, and a fuller conception of
what I owe to others--and to myself."
She was very much in earnest.
"Then I beg your pardon," he said, "for speaking as I did."
She tried to smile. "It is more my fault than yours. Religious
discussions never do any good."
Then she arose from her chair, and he knew from the exceeding dignity of
her manner that his offence was serious. But this dignity met with cruel
reverses. As she stood up, their side of the steamer was just starting
on a downward lurch,--one of those long, deep, quivering plunges,
apparently for the bottom of the sea, slow at first, but gaining in
rapidity. And Elinor Marshall, instead of turning away with frigid
ceremony, as she intended, first stood irresolute, as if taken
unawares,--yet suspecting danger,--then tiptoed forward and rushed
impetuously into the gentleman's arms. These arms were forced to
encircle the sudden arrival, otherwise both man and woman would have
tumbled to the deck. Then, she pushed him hard against the rail. But
even that was not the end. For there she held him, to her shame,
pressing against him with the whole weight of her body. And this lasted,
it seemed to her, an hour--a year--a lifetime of mortification and of
helpless rage; the wind all the time screaming louder and louder with a
brutish glee.
Her choking exclamations of chagrin were close to his ears, and he felt
her hair against his face. But he was powerless to aid in her struggles
to regain the lost equilibrium. However good his wishes, he could do
nothing but stand as a cushion--poorly upholstered at that--between
herself and the rail.
Finally, at the end of time, when the deck came up again, she backed
away with flaming cheeks. Pats apologized; so did she. He wished to
assist her to the cabin stairs, but the offer was ignored, and she left
him.
[Illustration]