When Mr. Huntington Wood, at luncheon aboard the _Shark_, had
asserted that the real explanation for the extraordinary devotion of
the Pilot-fish was a sentimental emotion, inspired by one of the
Misses Bell, Cécile found much matter for her maiden meditation.
Not for one instant did it occur to this self-satisfied young lady
that the cause of this infatuation might be one of her sisters.
Paula was not the sort of girl of whom one would think in this
connection, and Hermione was still regarded by Cécile as a mere
child, though, as a matter of fact, the younger sister's superior
height and dark colouring might readily have caused the careless
observer to consider her the elder. Cécile was apt to be somewhat
careless in her observation of anything outside of her own interests.
Wherefore, she complacently appropriated Mr. Applebo in her mind as
her own enamoured swain.
For all of her innumerable conquests, Cécile found, in the peculiar
methods of the Pilot-fish, something singularly piquant. Here was a
lover who asked absolutely nothing in return for his passion. He
merely desired to be in her general neighbourhood, to accomplish
which he put at inconvenience nobody but himself. To be sure, many
others had striven for this same result, but these had insisted on a
gradual constriction of what might be considered a "general
neighbourhood," eventually finding the length of a transome all too
wide a separation. Where Cécile had previously been compelled to
throw cold water on her all too ardent suitors, here was one who
insisted on at least a half mile of this pure element, in varying
depths, between them.
Thinking it over in the privacy of her room, Cécile decided that this
point of view was just as extreme, of its kind, as that which
demanded but a single deck-chair for two people. Moreover, for Mr.
Applebo to choose his own line of conduct in the matter was not good
discipline. Cécile was in the habit of herself outlining the régime
to be observed in affairs of this kind, and she did not care to have
it prescribed for her. In addition to this, Cécile had been very
much interested in the distant views which she had got of the poet,
and was curious to see him at close range. All that Wood had told
them of his eccentric personality had served to sharpen this
interest, and the girl found herself wondering if perhaps he might
not be the one who was to take captive her heart and her desire. She
had always felt that the man to do this would not be the ordinary
individual. It gave her a very lively emotion to picture this fair
young viking threading his way through fog and storm, reef and shoal,
drawn onward by his unselfish, unchanging devotion to her ideal self.
Cécile decided that such fidelity merited at least the reward of some
slight token of her appreciation.
Wherefore, she decided to attach Mr. Applebo forthwith, to keep him
on the end of her line until she made up her mind just what she
wanted to do with him. She came to this conclusion shortly after
awakening, and she was lazily studying out some plan for bringing the
Pilot-fish within reach of her landing-net, when there descended
through the skylight of her room the sound of the quartermaster's
voice, as in low but excited tones he conveyed to Captain Heldstrom
certain information regarding "der Bilot-vish..."
Cécile lay listening, and a moment later heard Heldstrom's gruff
voice say, "Yoomp back in der gig ... get a move on you, now ...
lower avay, dere..." followed by the squeal of the falls and the
splash of the boat as it took the water just outside her port-hole.
Cécile looked out, but could see nothing of interest. She was still
looking when she heard Olesen growl something about, "Miss Hermione
svimmin' a r'race mit der Bilot-vish..."
Cécile was "brought up all standing" at the coupling of these names.
She sprang out of bed, slipped on her kimono, and hastened to the
companionway, where she thrust up through the hatch a very lovely
face, flushed and still dewy with sleep, a heavy, opalescent
chevelure which seemed to gather all of the sunlight in its vicinity,
and two eyes of a deep, misty grey.
Even as she looked, the gig, with Heldstrom in the stern, leaped
clear of the schooner's side.
"What's the matter, Olesen?" cried Cécile, alarmed.
The quartermaster turned, with a tug at his watch-cap.
"It vas Mees Hermione out dere svimmin' ar'round mid der Bilot-vish.
Dot's mighty funny. She vent avay mit her skiff, and here she comes
back mitoudt it und der Bilot-vish. Dot's awful funny."
He handed her his glasses, which Cécile raised to her eyes. The
faces of the two swimmers were quite distinct, but as she looked
Hermione's head was eclipsed by that of Applebo. Cécile could see
that they were apparently treading water and waiting for the boat.
"How very odd!" exclaimed Cécile, sharply. "What is that mad girl up
to now, I wonder?"
Much disturbed, she laid down the glass ... just in time to miss the
cream of the performance! Had Cécile witnessed that good-bye kiss it
would have changed considerably subsequent events, and have saved
herself much wear and tear. But when she looked again, Heldstrom was
lifting Hermione into the gig, and she caught the flash of Applebo's
hand as he flourished it in farewell. Cécile then went below and
waited impatiently for her sister's arrival on board.
A few minutes later she heard outside a light step and the swish of a
wet bathing skirt as Hermione hurried to her room.
"Is that you, Hermione?" called Cécile.
"Yes." Hermione looked in at Cécile's door. Her face was quite
pale, and her eyes looked almost black.
"What _have_ you been up to?" cried Cécile.
"I'll tell you all about it when I've changed..."
"Can't you relieve my curiosity a little, at once? What became of
your boat ... and Applebo..."
"Oh, well..." Hermione gave a brief and rather impatient outline of
her adventure. Cécile listened attentively.
"How dreadful!" she exclaimed. "I hope that this will teach you not
to run about alone in that wild way. Now go and take off your wet
things and get a pot of good hot coffee. You look very badly."
It occurred to Hermione that, since she looked so badly, her sister
might have sacrificed her own curiosity and let her change before
telling her tale. But she was feeling rather gone, and with very
little fight left in her body, so she turned and hurried off without
a word.
Her maid gave her a vigorous rub-down, then put her to bed, and
brought coffee, with eggs and bacon, which Hermione devoured with
great enthusiasm, despite the varying emotions through which she had
so recently passed. Her breakfast finished, Hermione fell into a
deep and refreshing sleep, from which she was awakened a couple of
hours later by a stamping and roaring overhead, which she recognised
as proceeding from her father, and from which she gathered that he
was being put in possession of the facts concerning her adventure.
This was indeed the case, but in the meantime there had arrived from
the diplomatic superintendent of the gun club a note of apology and
regret for the too great zeal of his minion.
Wherefore, balked in his opportunity to raise a tremendous row,
Captain Bell was working off steam in storming about and vituperating
the club, Shoal Harbour, the State of Maine, the Pilot-fish,
Hermione, and generally, as sailors put it, "cursing everything a
foot high and a minute old."
This innocent pastime exhausted, it occurred to him that, after all,
he owed a duty to the Pilot-fish, but for whom Hermione would have
been subjected to great indignity. From the account given him by
Cécile, Mr. Applebo had apparently done a hammer-throw with the
game-keeper, then swum off to the schooner with Hermione trailing
from his shoulders. Captain Bell was a stickler for etiquette, and
therefore he decided to call immediately upon the poet and express
his obligation.
"You say that you have seen him somewhere?" he asked of Heldstrom.
Christian Heldstrom shook his big, shaggy head. There was a distant
brooding look in his blue eyes, usually so keen and alert.
"I am not sure. Dere vas somedings ... like an echo in his voice.
Like somebody I haf known ... long ago, in Norvay ... or some odder
place. His name, Applebo, vas Scandinavian, too. I do not know."
Bell shot him a quick, curious look. Heldstrom looked old ... and it
suddenly struck the choleric owner that his sailing-master was
getting on in years. He observed that Heldstrom's thick, curling
hair, formerly of a rich, lustrous chestnut colour, was grizzled
almost to the point of being white, while the bushy eyebrows, heavy
moustache, and thick, curling beard were fast becoming snowy. The
big Norwegian's face was very deeply lined, and at this moment the
creases looked like those of age and suffering, rather than the
result of exposure to all winds and weather. Bell was a little
startled, for Heldstrom was but slightly older than himself, and it
occurred to the ex-naval officer that if Heldstrom were becoming an
old man, then he must be doing the same.
"He seems to have given you a bad turn," said Bell, crossly. "You
look as if you'd just come from a funeral."
"Und I feel like it, too..." muttered Heldstrom. "It is a long time
since I have let myselluf t'ink of my old home. Someding about dis
yoong man br'rought back der fjords und der midnight sun und der big
fires on der heart' of my fadder's gaad..."
"You think he's a Scandinavian?" demanded Bell.
"No, zir; I t'ink he vas American like myselluf. But he is from
Scandinavian stock. It is so t'at he can find his way ar'round in
der fog..."
And his deep-set blue eyes roamed across the intervening water to
where the _Daffodil_ lay at anchor.
Bell ordered away the gig, and as he was about to set off on his
formal call, he turned to see Cécile, fresh and lovely, in pink
muslin, with a little panama hat wound about with a rose-coloured
pugaree. In her hand was a tiny parasol to match. Cécile made it a
point never to wear anything nautical.
"Huh..." snorted Bell; "where are you going?"
"With you, papa."
"But I am going to call on the Pilot-fish."
"So I imagined. As Hermione's sister I thought that I ought to go
with you. You see, in a way, I stand in _loco parentis_."
Bell wrinkled up his nose. He was, on the whole, pleased with the
idea, but he guessed that Cécile's object was less inspired by a
sense of social obligation than a feminine curiosity to see the man
reputed to be following them about through hopeless love of herself.
He determined to tease her a little.
"Oh, it ain't necessary. I'm parent enough. It would only embarrass
him if you were to go too. He's shy as a red-head duck."
Cécile bit her lip. "Very well," said she. "If you don't want me.
I merely felt that I ought to go because the situation was a rather
delicate one ... those two wandering about at daybreak in their
bathing suits. My instinct told me that some official recognition of
such an incident should be taken by a woman of the family; it seems
scarcely the thing to be left for two men..."
"Oh, well, well..." interrupted her father. "Come along then. I ...
eh ... it had never occurred to me in just that light. You are quite
correct, my dear, quite..." He ushered her to the rail with great
ceremony. Yachting etiquette requires that the owner shall be the
first one to board his vessel and the last to leave her. Bell
invariably observed these details, which are, of course, modelled
after naval etiquette. There was a little smile in the corner of
Cécile's pretty mouth as she descended the accommodation-ladder.
These three girls were all quite able to manage their father: Cécile
by guile, Paula by sweetness, and Hermione by violence. Heldstrom,
on the other hand, managed all three by the same quality: quiet,
dominant force of will which was, of course, backed by deep affection.
Off they started then, crisply and with four lusty oars. Bell would
have no "chugging stink-pot" for a gig, although not disdaining power
for errands and market work. His gig was a beautifully modelled,
diminutive man-o'-war's whaleboat, with the official arrow on the
bow, the insignia of a gig. She slipped through the water like a
barracouta, light, easy-pulling, buoyant and dry in any sea-way, and
swift under sail. The distance to the _Daffodil_ was quickly
spanned, and they drew close aboard to find Mr. Applebo, immaculately
clad in ducks, regaling himself with tea and macaroons in the
cock-pit.
As the gig shot alongside, the poet arose and saluted. In response
to his deep-toned order, the Finn squeezed out of a small hatchway up
forward in a way that suggested a crab coming out of a hole, and
sidled aft, boat-hook in hand. Cécile observed that the bow-oar, an
Irishman, crossed himself.
Mr. Applebo's manner was dignified and polite, but had he been
discovered sitting atop of an iceberg in Davis' Strait he could not
have been more cool and distant. His leonine features betrayed no
hint of any sort of emotion, and the deep, amber eyes, half hidden
behind his long, dark eyelashes, blinked sleepily at his guests.
"Good-morning," said he, and bowed again. Seeing a little hesitation
on the face of Captain Bell, he added, "Will you do me the honour to
come aboard?"
Had the words been rather, "Will you do me the honour to clear out
and not bother me," the hospitable desire behind them could not have
been more distinctly expressed. Bell was sadly taken aback. He had
expected to be met with embarrassment, which he would graciously seek
to allay. While himself the heart and soul of hospitality, he always
clung to a certain punctilious formality and detested the social
negligée of the Corinthian sailor, in spite of which it was a little
discomposing to be received aboard a little two-by-six shallop with
this, "Sir, I have the honour to request..." manner. If Cécile
shared his surprise she did not show it. Leaning slightly forward
she regarded the poet with that expression of polite inquiry which
one might bestow upon an unfamiliar entrée served at the table of a
friend.
A person familiar with good form, however, need never be more than
momentarily embarrassed. Captain Bell arose as though there were but
three joints in his body, only one of which was needed for his bow.
"Thank you," said he, and turned to Cécile, who floated up from her
cushions and gave the tips of her fingers to her father. Bell
preceded her aboard, using two joints in the manœuvre, and shook
hands with Mr. Applebo, whose expression suggested a person roused
from a beauty-sleep. "H'm ... h'm ... daughter, permit me to present
Mr. Applebo..." said Bell to Cécile, and added, turning to the
Pilot-fish, "My daughter, Miss Bell ... h'm ... huh!"
With the face of one oppressed by the recollection of a sad dream,
Mr. Applebo assisted Cécile to the deck of the _Daffodil_.
"Pray, come below," said he, "the glare is rather intense."
A one-and-a-half-jointed acknowledgment from Bell, and a swift,
curious look from Cécile, were the receipt of this invitation. The
Pilot-fish shot back the sliding hatch, and led the way down, the
others following with something of the manner of people who inspect
an apartment still occupied by a polite but greatly bored tenant.
On entering the cabin, the two guests were forcibly struck by its
peculiar atmosphere of warm and immaculate emptiness. One does not,
as a rule, associate warmth and emptiness, but the former quality
was, in this case, conveyed by the peculiar rich and mellow light
which pervaded the place, and which Cécile quickly discovered to be
due to the sun shining through amber-coloured skylights and reflected
from the yellow enamel of the paint-work. It was a peculiar effect,
but, unlike that of red, blue, or green lights, extremely restful and
agreeable.
People whose homes are on the wave usually like to surround
themselves with personal trinkets suggestive of the land, which is,
after all, their natural element. Cécile's room aboard the _Shark_
was a sans-souci of delicious luxury in exquisite taste. But here in
the _Daffodil's_ cabin, aside from a vase of yellow roses, there was
not one single object which did not have its distinct and practical
use. Not a picture, not a curio nor knick-knack of any sort. Books
there were, no doubt, in the double row of lockers on either side,
but nothing of ornamentation. There were two big nickelled lamps set
in gimbals, one over a gravity table, the other over the head of the
single bunk. A large watch hanging on the forward bulkhead furnished
noiselessly the time; above it were a telltale compass and a small
aneroid barometer, while a battered and archaic-looking sextant was
jammed against the bulkhead under a yellow leather strap.
The poet produced a couple of camp-chairs, which he opened and
offered to his guests.
"I hope that you do not object to yellow light," said he. "Yellow is
my colour. I find it intellectually stimulating."
"It is said to be the mental colour," observed Cécile.
"In France," Bell remarked, "they say that it is the symbol of a
_mauvais ménage_. But since you are not married it does not matter."
"I am wedded to my Muse," said Applebo, "and it is true that we
sometimes quarrel. Perhaps that is the reason."
Bell shot his daughter a glance which said as plainly as words,
"There! I said that he was balmy!" The poet looked sleepily
unconscious. The dreamy expression of his eyes would have led one to
believe that he was dreaming of meadows sown with asphodel. Bell
made noises in his fat throat.
"H'm ... huh ... huh ... my daughter and I have called to thank you,
Mr. Applebo, for your services rendered this morning to an indiscreet
member of our family ... h'm ... huh..."
The poet made a graceful, undulating motion with his hand, expressive
and deprecatory. Cécile, regarding him intently, decided that he was
quite correct in saying that yellow was his colour. Her eyes clung
to him, fascinated by his odd, unusual type. The yawl swung a trifle
on her cable, and a golden shaft of light which struck diagonally
through the skylight, travelled slowly across the bulkhead and bathed
the leonine head of Applebo in a golden effulgence, wreathing his
wavy hair with a true aureole. A golden man he looked. Cécile was
unable to take her eyes from him.
[Illustration: Cécile was unable to take her eyes from him]
"My sister is much to be congratulated," said she, "in finding a
champion at the critical moment."
"Oh," said the poet, "the one to be congratulated is the keeper.
Miss Bell was about to fill him full of shot."
"What!" cried Bell, much startled.
"Quite so. He meant to drag her off by force and she felt
differently about it. When I arrived she had him covered and was
promising to blow his head off." He blinked.
"What!" cried the horrified Bell.
"How terrible!" exclaimed Cécile.
"It would have served him right," said the Pilot-fish. "If she had
done so, I would have dug a hole in the sand and buried him and we
would have said nothing about it."
"But ... but ... Bless my soul..." cried the horrified Bell. "It
would have been .... eh ... manslaughter!"
"This fellow deserved to be slaughtered," observed the poet.
"However, he was so fortunate as to escape. I persuaded him to go
away. Then, while Miss Bell was recovering from her agitation, the
scoundrel stole her boat. Unfortunately, my man was ashore with my
only boat, and as I did not like to leave your daughter alone, and
she assured me that she was a strong swimmer, we decided to swim.
There was no great risk, as I could have towed her the whole distance
at a pinch."
All of this in a sleepy voice, while the screened eyes blinked
drowsily from Bell to Cécile. The girl's scrutiny was more intent
than she realised, and her soft cheeks were slightly pale. Little
lines had appeared, running vertically between her brows. One would
have said that she was agitated at thoughts suggested by the recital
of her sister's adventure, but that was not the case. Cécile was
inwardly stirred at something in the quality of the deep, monotonous
voice, low and vibrant as the purr of a great cat. The personality
of Applebo had upon her an odd, exciting influence.
In rather ridiculous contrast to the effect he produced on the inner
emotions of this accomplished coquette, the poet was sitting in the
most uninspiring manner possible to conceive. He was perched on the
extreme rim of his bunk, which, being rather low, brought his big
knees chest-high. His feet, of generous proportion and elegantly
shod in rubber-soled buckskin, were "toeing in," his forearms rested
across his thighs, and his back was domed like the shell of a
tortoise, so that the long, wavy hair clustered about his shoulders
as he turned his head from one guest to the other. Add to this a
sleepy, blinking face and a wide mouth, which seemed ever ready to
yawn, and it seems odd that Mr. Applebo should have caused any
acceleration of the pulses in a young lady who had successfully
weathered many an impassioned declaration. As a matter of fact, it
was the suggestion of swift, latent force masked in this somnolent
pose which was discomposing. There was a deep, slumberous gleam in
the amber eyes which told of a very wakeful spirit within, while the
muscular contour of the inert limbs promised an output of tireless
strength which their present laxity sought in vain to conceal. Both
Captain Bell and Cécile felt the existence of this masked vitality,
the former with the admiration of a man who had himself been athletic
in his youth, and Cécile with the aforesaid stirring of some new and
unclassified emotion.
"Fancy your being able to drag a big girl through the water for a
mile or more!" said he. "You must be a very powerful man."
"It would be easier for a good swimmer to carry a person for a mile
in the water than on the land," said Applebo. "The water takes most
of the weight. Besides, one could never tire in performing a service
for so charming a girl as your daughter."
Bell looked startled. "H'm ... huh..." he began, but Cécile
interrupted.
"If you find a service of that kind so stimulating, I should think
that you would lend yourself oftener to it."
There was the least touch of sharpness in her tone. Applebo eyed her
inquiringly.
"I do," said he, "but in spirit rather than in body. Thus, following
you" ... there was the faintest emphasis on the "you" ... "about all
summer has been a sentimental though unasked service. All services
should be unasked; otherwise they are obligations. It has been a
service ... and I have never tired of it."
Bell's jaw slightly dropped. Cécile's glance was very intense.
Applebo blinked.
"Huh..." said Bell. "It seems to me that the service was on our
part, seein' that we were doing your thinkin' for you."
"The leader must always do the thinking for the one who follows,"
murmured the poet. "The stray dog who attaches himself to your heels
follows blindly where you lead because of his unasked and often
undesired devotion. The pilot-fish does not dictate his course to
the shark."
Bell looked confused, then turned a slightly richer shade of pink.
The idea was slowly permeating his intelligence that Applebo was
chaffing them, and that so subtly that one hardly knew how to reply.
The same idea had entered the head of Cécile. To this pampered
beauty the idea that a young man should deliberately amuse himself at
her expense was maddening. Cécile had plenty of fight in her and she
was active-minded as well, and she did not propose to be set dancing
on a string like a marionette for the pleasure of this sleepy-eyed
enigma.
"After all," said she, "one might consider that we were quits. You
furnish us with some idle amusement which otherwise we might lack
while we furnish you with some of our mind, which otherwise you might
lack."
"Precisely," drawled the poet; "a fair exchange."
Bell cackled outright. The colour flared into the face of Cécile.
Applebo blinked. Captain Bell came to the rescue of his daughter.
"Aboard the _Shark_," said he, "you are a sort of benefactor. You
instil our monotonous lives with a great excitement. All hands make
bets on how long after us you will arrive in port."
"In that case," said Applebo, in a tone of dreamy regret, "I must
sometimes have thoughtlessly spoiled the game by carelessly
permitting myself to arrive before you. Hereafter, I will not follow
you out so soon."
Bell's face grew rather purple. While obliged to admit the dull
sailing qualities of the _Shark_, he had never particularly relished
comment on the topic, but to have it so "rubbed in" by a little
sixty-foot sword-fisher was infuriating.
"Of course," he snapped, "on these short runs it's not difficult for
you to pass us. But I am afraid that you may not find it so easy to
stay with us for the next fortnight or so. We're tired of mud-holing
and rottin' around with the small fry."
"If you are tired of me," observed the poet, "you know that you have
only to say so. Not for worlds would I persecute you with undesired
attentions."
"Not a bit of it!" exclaimed Cécile. "We find you very amusing. The
question is, whether you will find your occupation so amusing from
now on. As papa says, we are planning some good offshore runs. I do
hope that you will not find your duties too arduous."
Here was a challenge directly thrown down. Applebo looked as if the
mere thought of it made him overtired.
"Come, come..." said Bell, with an assumption of his hearty manner.
"'Fess up now. What is your real object in trailin' us around? Wood
says you find the proximity of three pretty girls stimulatin' to your
poetry. Is that true?"
"Quite." Applebo looked slowly at Cécile. "Huntington exaggerates.
The proximity of one of them would be quite enough. The focus of so
many romantic and sentimental aspirations must, by its mere
juxtaposition, inspire by repercussion the acme of poetic expression."
"H'm ... huh ... hough ... I don't precisely understand..." said
Bell, with perfect truth.
Cécile drew back with a little sniff. Applebo showed actual signs of
awakening. He leaned toward Bell and spread out his large,
well-shaped hands.
"We poets," he said, "are souls highly sensitised to extrinsic
emotions. We are less sentient beings than æsthetic interpreters of
the passionate vibrations of art or nature. Like the æolian harp
responding to the dalliance of a zephyr, thus do we translate
soul-talk of alien origin."
He beamed at the agonised Bell, who was panting for air.
"Just as the compass swings to meet its electric affinity," pursued
Applebo, in a rapt voice, "so doth the spirit of the Muse within us
react to the atmosphere of Love, that divinest of all motive force.
It is thus that I find your aura so stimulating" ... he looked at
Cécile... "like tabasco on an oyster." He gave her a celestial smile.
"I see," she answered. "You use us as a sort of stove."
"Less for its warmth," said Applebo, "than for the fuel with which it
is fed."
Captain Bell mopped his brow. "I am a practical sort of person
myself," said he, vaguely. "Why don't you accept our invitations and
get your inspiration at short range?"
"To do that," said the poet, "would be to sacrifice my sacred Muse
upon the altar of my own selfishness. No. All that I ask is merely
to continue as I am, a humble and devoted little pilot-fish."
Bell and Cécile both cast him glances of quick suspicion, but the
face of Mr. Applebo expressed no more than a sad and somewhat sleepy
resignation. Bell rose to his feet, and Cécile, somewhat
reluctantly, did the same. She felt that she was quitting a
considerable loser.
"Well," remarked Bell, a little snappishly, "keep on being a
pilot-fish, if that suits you better. As far as following us is
concerned, you can do that and welcome. Follow us till..."
"Oh, papa...!"
"H'm ... huh ... h'm ... but I'm afraid you'll find that you've got
some swimming cut out for you that will wear the brisket off you."
"Where the _Shark_ swims," said Applebo, "the Pilot-fish will follow."
"We will see ... h'm ... we will see," said Captain Bell, oracularly.