IN A FOOL'S PARADISE.
"The boatie rows, the boatie rows,
The boatie rows fu' weel;
And mickle lighter is the boat
When love bears up the creel."--_Old Song._
In the interests of truth, I have now to record that my hero, Captain
Jack Mackenzie, formed one of the most ridiculous resolutions any young
man could have been guilty of making. It is all very well building
castles in the air--indeed, it is rather a pretty pastime than
otherwise, and may at times be productive of good; but when it comes to
building for one's self, willingly and with wide-open eyes, a whole
paradise--fool's, of course--and quietly taking up one's abode therein,
the absurdity of the speculation must be apparent to every one.
But this is just what our Jack now set about doing. For many a long
month back he had worked and slaved, and fought battles, and sailed his
ship, and did all he could, it must be confessed, to make everybody
around him happy, while a load of sorrow, which felt as big as a bag of
shrapnel or a kedge anchor, lay at his own heart. He now determined to
get rid of this incubus, to leave it, or creep out from under it
somehow. During all these months he had tried, and tried hard, to forget
his lost love Gerty, but all in vain. Trying to forget her made matters
infinitely worse, so now he meant to indulge himself in the sweet belief
that she still was his, still loved him; that there was no such
individual in the world as silly old Sir Digby; and that he, Jack, had
only to go home, if it pleased Heaven to spare him, and claim the dear
girl as his wife.
He certainly did not mean to force himself to think about her, only he
would do nothing to impede the flow of happy thoughts whenever they
showed a tendency to come stealing over his soul. These are his own
words, spoken to himself in the privacy of his state-room. And between
you and me and the binnacle, reader, not to let it go any further, I
believe it was poor Mary's letter, with its "dear luv" and its "sweet
kisses," that was at the bottom of Jack's resolve. For had she not
written, as plain as quill can write, the magical sentence, "Yes, missus
misses you; so do I"? It didn't matter a spoonful of tar about the "so
do I," but there was the "missus misses you." Ah! it was around these
simple, euphonious words that hope hung like a garland of forget-me-not.
Why did missus miss him? Mary wouldn't have said that missus missed him
if missus didn't. So ran Jack's thoughts as he walked up and down the
floor of his cabin. No, Mary wasn't a girl of that sort. Missus missed
him, and there was an end of it. Missus missed him, _ergo_ missus must
sometimes think about him, and upon this belief he meant to hinge his
happiness. Missus must--
"Rat--tat--tat--tat."
"Come in. Ah, Tom, there you are! Glad you've come a little before
dinner is served. Well, we're all ready for sea, I suppose?"
"Yes; as soon as you like to-morrow morning, sir."
"Well, dowse the 'sir,' Tom, else I'll send you away without a morsel of
dinner. We're not on the quarter-deck now, you know. You're Tom, and I'm
just Jack."
A few minutes afterwards, Tom, strolling carelessly towards Jack's
writing-table, picked up a sheet of paper, and to his astonishment read
as follows:--
"Missus missed thee, so do I,
Drop the tear and sigh the sigh;
Yet ne'er let sorrow cloud thy brow--
She loved thee once, she loves thee now."
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Tom aloud.
Jack got as red as a tomato, and rushed to rescue the manuscript.
"Put it down at once, Tom! How dare you?"
But Tom only laughed the more. He read Jack's inspiration from end to
end, in spite of all that Jack could do.
"Well," he said when he had finished, "I knew you could fight a bit, but
this is a revelation. 'Missus missed thee'--ha! ha! ha!"
It was well for Jack and Tom both that the steward and servants entered
at that moment with the dinner. Poetry soon gave place to soup, and
sentiment fled on the appearance of the roast-beef.
But when dessert was placed upon the table, and the servants had gone,
Jack, feeling bound to open his heart to somebody, told Tom about the
fool's paradise to which he meant to flit from Castle Despair, in which
he had dwelt so long.
Tom was a thoroughly practical kind of a young fellow, and now he shook
his head consideringly.
"M--m--m, well," he said, "the notion isn't half a bad one, you know,
perhaps. But, Jack, doesn't it savour somewhat of the reckless? Scotsmen
are all reckless, I know, especially, I believe, the Grant Mackenzies;
and your idea may be good, but--a--"
"Well, well, Tom, out with it, man. What _are_ you humming and hawing
about?"
"Why, it's like this, you see--and, mind, I speak to you as a
brother--it may be very pleasant, say, for a few friends met together to
take an extra glass of wine, and spend a happy evening, but shouldn't
they think of their heads in the morning?"
"I _have_ thought of my head in the morning, Tom; I _have_ thought of
the awakening. I do know that some day I shall see an announcement in
the _Times_ of the marriage of Sir Digby Auld and--heigh-ho! Gerty; that
then I shall have to leave my pretty paradise, and that the flaming
sword of honour will forbid my ever entering there again. But till then,
Tom, till then. Bother it all, man, you wouldn't have a fellow make
himself miserable all his life, simply because he knows he has got to go
to Davy Jones' locker at the finish?"
"Oh no," said Tom, gravely.
"Well, then, brother mine, I mean to live in my fool's paradise as long
as ever I can, and when the end comes I'll flit."
"Tom," he continued, after a pause of about a minute, "on board the old
_Ocean Pride_ I once told you the story of my love for Gerty; and I told
you also all I knew about dear father's difficulties. We both know now
how complete daddy's financial ruin is, but I have never yet told you
the true story of Gerty's engagement to Sir Digby Auld. I'll tell you
now, and you won't think so hard of the poor girl when I have finished."
Jack Mackenzie spoke for fully a quarter of an hour without
intermission, ending with these words: "So you see, brother, the dear
girl is positively immolating herself on the altar of filial love, and
what she considers duty. She loves the old man Keane surely more dearly
than daughter has any right to love a father; and her main ambition and
object in life is to see the lonely man happy and respected in his old
age. So, dear Tom, don't bid me leave my fool's paradise yet a while.
You have _your_ happiness; I--"
He paused, and sighed a weary kind of sigh.
Tom was touched to the very bottom of his heart. He stretched his arm
across the walnuts and grasped his friend's hand.
"Poor Jack!" he said. "Live in your paradise and be happy. Would that I
could give you hopes that your lease will be a very long one."
"Besides," continued Jack, excusing himself a little more, "with a light
heart I shall be able to drub the French more cheerfully."
Tom's eyes sparkled.
"Ah yes!" he said; "and for the very same reason I too feel in the
finest of form for drubbing the French."
"And we've had no single-ship action with the Dons yet."
"Their time is coming."
"Yes, their time is coming. A man never swings a sword half so well, nor
sails and fights a ship so well, as when he is in love and happy:
'For mickle lighter is the boat
When love bears up the creel.'"