NORTHWARD

Not since her change of faith--never in fact--had Elinor Marshall

listened to such open abuse of a sacred institution. And the memory of

it kept her wide awake during a portion of the night.

Although she had decided to ignore that argument of the printing-press

and bath-tub, it wormed itself into the inner chambers of her brain; and

it refused to make way for better thoughts. As the possessor of a

depositic conscience she suffered the miseries of guilt. For despite all

reasoning of her own, she began to feel that unless those arguments were

refuted, her faith might suffer: and, with her, an untarnished faith was

vital.

The motion of her berth, the rhythmic pounding of the engines, the

muffled sound, at intervals, of feet upon the deck, all were soothing;

but the remembrance of that discussion, with its mortifying climax, made

sleep impossible. This childish sensitiveness she fully realized,--and

despised,--but nerves achieved an easy victory over reason.

She was glad when daylight came. Long before the breakfast hour she left

her state-room and sought the deck for fresh air, and for Father Burke.

He, also an early riser, was discovered in the lee of the upper cabins,

his little prayer-book in his hand. Sitting close beside him she gave,

in detail, the story of her conversation with Mr. Boyd. It was in the

nature of a confession, but delivered in the hope and in the faith of

the enemy's discomfiture. She felt, of course, that the statements

concerning the press and tub were false and foolish, and she knew that

Father Burke could tell her why.

Her confidence was not misplaced. This was not the first time Father

Burke had been called upon to stiffen the faith of wavering converts.

Considerable experience and a perfect familiarity with the subject

rendered the task an easy one. The tones of Father Burke's voice were,

in themselves, almost sufficient for the purpose. Deep, calm, mellow,

ravishingly sympathetic, they played like celestial zephyrs upon the

chords of the maiden's heart. They filled the inmost recesses of her

soul with security and peace. His arguments were the old, familiar

things, considerably damaged by Protestants and other heretics; but he

knew his audience. And when the spell had worked, when the wings beside

him ceased to flutter, he drove the final bolt.

"You know, my child, that the value of a statement depends largely upon

the character of him who utters it. I have no desire to injure this

young man, nor to prejudice you in any way against him. But it is

clearly my duty to warn you that he is not a person with whom it would

be safe for you to permit a very close acquaintance."

"You need have no anxiety on that point."

"I am very glad to hear it."

"But tell me what you know about him, Father Burke. His family never

mentions his name, and I supposed there was something to conceal. Was it

anything very bad?"

"Yes, bad enough. He is a wilful man, of a perverse and violent temper.

His utterances of yesterday are in perfect accord with the spirit he

displayed in youth. He broke his father's heart."

"From his face one would never suspect that part of it--the violent

temper. He appears to be a person of unusual cheerfulness and

serenity,--most _offensively_ serene at times."

"Very possible, my child. One of the hardest things to learn, and we

seldom achieve it in youth, is that outward appearances often bear no

relation to the inner man,--that the most inviting face can hide a

vicious nature."

"Do you really think him a bad man? I mean thoroughly unprincipled and

wicked? I don't like him, but somehow it doesn't seem as if he could be

utterly bad, with such a face."

"Ah, my daughter, be on your guard against those very things! Heed the

voice of experience. Remember his career."

"But what especial thing did he do? What drove him away from home?"

"In a fit of temper he tried to kill his father."

"Really!"

"As an old friend of the family, I knew the circumstances."

"Awful! How did it happen?"

"They were in the garden in an arbor, engaged in a controversy. In his

anger he struck the old gentleman and knocked him down, and would have

killed him had not others interfered."

A silence followed, not broken by Father Burke. He desired his listener

to realize the iniquity of the deed.

At last she inquired half timidly:

"And there was no provocation?"

"None whatever."

After another pause she said, reflectively:

"The father had a temper too, I fancy, from what I know of him."

Toward the face beside him the priest cast a sidelong look, which was

detected.

"I am not defending the son," she said hastily. "Heaven forbid! I almost

hate him. But you must admit that the father was not an especially

lovable character, nor very gentle in his ways."

"He had his faults, like the rest of us; but he was a rare man,--a

religious man of deep convictions, and the soul of honor."

"Yes, I suppose so, but I was always afraid of him."

Father Burke laid his hand on her arm and said, very gently but with

unusual seriousness:

"I should regret exceedingly, my child, to have you listen to the

flippant sacrilege of this young man, or be subjected to his influence

in any way."

"There is no cause for alarm. I shall have as little to do with him as

possible."

"An excellent resolve. And now, will you grant me a request?"

"Certainly."

"I have no right to exact a promise. I only suggest that while on this

boat you avoid, as far as possible, his companionship."

"I promise."

They both arose. His voice and manner were always impressive, even in

ordinary conversation. But now a moisture gathered in the maiden's eyes

as he gazed benignly into her face, and murmured in tones tremulous with

feeling:

"May Heaven bless you, my daughter, for your noble spirit, and for your

unswerving devotion to a holy cause."

Then they went below to breakfast.

The girl was hungry; Father Burke was not. The undulations of the boat

so tempered his appetite that food had lost its charm. A cup of tea and

a bite of toast were the limits of his endeavor. Even these descended

under protest and threatened to return. When the heretic--the victim of

the plot--appeared soon after and took his seat at the table, he noticed

that the greetings he received, while friendly and all that etiquette

required, were less cordial than on the day before.

And this was emphasized later, when he joined Miss Marshall on the deck.

After a moment's conversation, she spoke of letters to be written, and

went below.

And once again, to make sure that this disgrace was no fancy of his own,

he approached her as she sat reading, or at least, with a book in her

hand. In his best and most easy manner, he inquired:

"Did you ever hear of the Magdalen Islands, Miss Marshall?"

She looked up, and nodded pleasantly.

"Well, we are passing them now."

"Indeed!"

"They are off there to the westward, between twenty and thirty miles

away, but out of sight, of course."

Amiably she inclined her head in recognition of the news, but made no

reply.

It began to be awkward for Pats. But he resolved to suppress any outward

manifestations of that state. This task was all the harder, as his legs

embarrassed him. He knew them to be thin,--of a thinness that was

startling and unprecedented,--and now, as he confronted the northeast

wind, their shrunken and ridiculous outlines were cruelly exposed. He

was sensitive about these members, and he thought she had glanced

furtively in their direction. However, with his usual buoyancy he

continued:

"And now we leave land behind us until we reach the northern shore of

the Gulf."

"Yes?"

Although she gazed pensively over the water, and with conspicuous

amiability, something seemed to suggest that the present conversation

had reached a natural end. So the skeleton moved away.

With Pats a hint was enough. During the remainder of the voyage, at

meals, and the few occasions on which he met the lady, he also was

genial and outwardly undisturbed; but he took every care that she should

be subjected to no annoyance from his companionship. This outward

calmness, however, bore no resemblance to his inward tribulation. Such

was his desire for her good opinion that this sudden plunge from favor

to disgrace--or at least, to a frigid toleration--brought a keen

distress. Moreover, he was mortified at having allowed himself, under

any pretext, to jeer at her religion.

"Ass, ass! Impossible ass!" he muttered a dozen times that day.

Meanwhile, the _Maid of the North_ was driving steadily along,

always to the north and east. On the morning of the second day her

passengers had caught glimpses, to the larboard, of the shores of Nova

Scotia. Later they rounded Cape Breton, and then, against a howling wind

and a choppy sea, headed north into the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The

_Maid of the North_ was a sturdy boat, and though she pitched and

tossed in a way that disarranged the mechanism of her passengers, she

did nothing to destroy their confidence.

It was the evening of this last day of the voyage, when Pats, feeling

the need of companionship in his misery, descended for a final interview

with Solomon. Through a dismal part of the steamer he groped his way,

until his eyes became accustomed to the gloom. Solomon heard his step

and knew him from afar. He whined, pulled hard at his chain, and stood

up on his hind legs, waving his front ones in excited welcome.

"There is _somebody_ glad to see me, anyway," thought Pats, as he

sat on an anchor bar with the dog's head between his knees. There had

always been more or less conversation between these two: not that

Solomon understood the exact meaning of all the words, but he did

thoroughly understand that trust and affection formed the bulk of the

sentiments expressed. And these things being the basis of Solomon's

character rendered him a sympathetic and grateful listener. The

monologue, address, oration, confidence--or whatever--was delivered in a

low tone, accompanied by strokings of the listener's head, taps,

friendly pinches, and wandering of fingers about the ears.

"Bad place for a dog, old chap. Lots of motion here, and smells, but

'twill soon be over. So cheer up. Any way, you are lots better off than

I am. In a single interview I have secured the contempt of an

exceptionally fine woman. Yes, your Pats has done well."

He smiled in the darkness, a melancholy smile.

"She probably told everything to the priest, and he has explained to her

satisfaction wherein I am a fool,--a malicious, blaspheming, dangerous

villain, and a stupendous ass. And he is right. Perhaps, in time,--a

long time,--I may learn that insulting people's religion isn't the

shortest road to popularity."

In his abstraction the hand, for an instant, was withdrawn. Solomon

protested, and the attentions were resumed. "Keep still, old man, I am

not going. And don't get that chain around your legs. But she is a fine

girl, Sol: _too_ fine, perhaps. Just a little, wee bit too

everlastingly high-minded and superior for ordinary dogs like us."

While administering these pearls of wisdom the speaker had become

interested in two approaching figures, dimly visible in the obscurity.

As they came nearer, he saw that one, the older of the two, a man with

gray chin whiskers and a blue jersey, was drunk. This man stopped, and

holding the other by the arm exclaimed:

"It's so, damn it! It's so, I tell yer! What's he doin' this minute?

He's blind drunk in his cabin. Why, the jag on him would sink a

man-o'-war. Oh, he's a daisy cap'n, he is! He's the champion navigator."

"He'll be all right in the mornin'."

"All right in the mornin'! It'll be a week! And where'll _we_ be

to-morrer mornin'? Where are we--hic--now? God knows, and _he_

ain't tellin'."

With a maudlin gesture and a reverberating hiccup, the speaker,

following the motion of the boat, pushed his friend against the wall and

held him there. "I'll tell yer where we are; we are more'n fifty miles

east of where we think we are. We ain't sighted Anticosti yet. And we

ain't goin' to."

The other man laughed, "Oh, shut up, Bart. You are gettin' a jag on

yerself."

"Yes, sir! We are fifty miles too far to easterd now, and by to-morrer

mornin' it'll be a hundred miles."

They passed on, the older man still holding forth. "I've been this

cruise a dozen times, but, by God! this is the first time I ever tried

to get there by--hic--headin' for Labrador."

They disappeared in the darkness, in the direction of the forecastle,

the sound of their footsteps dying away among the other noises of the

boat.

Here was food for thought. But, then, the man was exceeding drunk. And

his companion, who probably knew him well, paid no attention to his

words. However, Pats took a look about the boat when he got on deck. The

pilot and second officer were in the wheelhouse, both silent, serious,

and attending to their duty. The watches were all at their posts and the

_Maid of the North_ was ploughing bravely through the night as if

she, at least, had no misgivings. By the time Pats went to bed, an hour

later, the drunken sailor was forgotten.

It was a long time before he slept; and the sleep, when it came, was

fitful. Perhaps he had brooded too much over his fall from grace. As the

night wore on he was not sure, half the time, whether he was dreaming or

awake. And so eventful were his slumbers, and so real the events

therein, that his dreams and his waking moments became painfully

intermingled. As, for instance, when he entered the cathedral. For a

moment he stood still, overcome by its vastness and by the size of the

congregation. Truly an imposing assemblage! And the great edifice was

ablaze with light. A wedding, apparently, for there, before the altar,

stood the bride, awaiting the groom.

As Pats sauntered up the nave she turned about and smiled. And, lo! it

was Miss Marshall, more beautiful than ever, more stately and more

patrician, if possible, than in her travelling dress. For now she was

all in white with a long veil--and orange blossoms. She smiled at him

and beckoned.

Yes! He was to be the groom! It was for him they waited!

He strove to get ahead. His feet refused to budge. The harder he tried,

the tighter he stuck. He opened his mouth to explain, but no sound came

forth. Again and again he tried. Again and again he failed. The huge

congregation began to murmur and he could hear them whispering, "What a

fool!"

Then, from behind him came three men: Billy Townsend, the man with the

nose, and the other fellow with the flowers. They walked by him, easily,

all in wedding array, and they lined up by the bride. Pats tried to

raise his voice and stop it, but in vain. The Pope stepped forward and

performed the ceremony, uniting them all in marriage. The four bowed

their heads and received a blessing.

And when the happy grooms with their bride came down the main aisle,

they gave Pats a look,--a look so triumphant and so contemptuous, that

it set his soul afire. He boiled with fury and humiliation. But stir he

could not, nor speak. The bride's contempt, and she showed it, was

beyond endurance. Gasping with passion, he tried to rush forward and

smite the grooms--to scream--to do anything. But he could only

stand--immovable.

Suddenly the music changed. From a stately march it galloped into the

air of a comic song that he had always hated. The Pope, as he marched

by, stopped in front of him and cursed him for a Protestant. And now,

beneath the jewelled tiara, Pats recognized the drunken old sailor with

the chin beard.

But in the midst of these curses came tremendous blows against the outer

walls, resounding through the whole interior of the Cathedral; then an

awful voice, as from The Almighty, reverberated down the aisle:

"Time to get up! We are there!"

The martyr, in the violence of his struggle, banged his head against the

berth above, and shouted:

"Where?"

"At Boyd's Island, sir, where you get off."

[Illustration]

V