After the departure of his guests, Mr. Applebo returned to his yellow
cabin and remained, for some minutes, sitting upon the extreme edge
of his bunk, his eyes fixed upon infinity.
Like many men who spend much of their time alone, Mr. Applebo had
acquired the habit of audible self-communing, this custom rendered
the more spontaneous due to his practice of reciting his poetic
efforts for the sake of euphony and metre. Audible self-communing
was also a favourite employment of the Finn, so that any one
approaching the yawl at any time of the day or night might have been
surprised to hear two monologues proceeding with the tireless
monotony of a pair of phonographs.
As though to relax his mind after the lofty heights of poetic
utterance, Mr. Applebo's unofficial soliloquies were very apt to be
curt, colloquially idiomatic, which is a high-sounding way of saying
"slangy," and even at times, profane. Mr. Applebo pouring out his
soul over a sonnet or madrigal, and Mr. Applebo commenting to himself
on topical events, was scarcely to be recognised as the same person.
On the present occasion the subject of his monologue was the visit
just received.
"That must have been Hermione with the captain. She looked like a
sassy young thing. If I'd seen her face I'd never have wasted good
verse on her. The old man looks like a sun-blister in red
paint-work. He'll go 'pop' some day. So he's going to try to lose
me out. I'll fool him. Since I've met Cécile I'd follow him over
Niagara, whether I had a chart or not. Cecilia ... Cécile..." he
dwelt upon the name as if loath to leave it. "Doesn't lend itself to
verse like 'Hermione,' but the girl is a wonder. Harold, my son, I'm
afraid you've got yours at last...."
For some minutes he remained in silent contemplation of this
reluctant admission, and to look at his face one would have thought
that he had just discovered himself to be infected with malignant
smallpox. Presently he gave a sigh which suggested a porpoise coming
up to blow.
"She is a wonder, and I am not surprised that every man who sees her
goes off his chump. It is their own silly fault for presuming to
raise their eyes to such a young goddess. I shall not raise my eyes
to her ... but I shall raise my voice and send her a drool. And this
time it will be the truth...."
One long arm went to the locker beside the bunk and drew out a
writing-block of corn-coloured paper and a fountain-pen. For a few
minutes Mr. Applebo scratched away industriously, then flung himself
back on the bunk and read aloud and sonorously what he had just
written.
"Pretty rotten ... but I have no time to monkey with it. Her proud
parent has given me a dare, and honour compels that I gird myself for
the fray. He is going to lead me an offshore chase, I fancy. I had
better get busy and grub up. I must fake the address of this drivel
or Hermione might get sore. All women but one are cats."
The note, addressed in an utterly characterless copy-plate hand, Mr.
Applebo lifted up his voice in a melodious yowl, whereat the Finn
came scuffling aft and stood in the cock-pit peering into the cabin
like a gnome looking into a cave.
"Come down here..." Applebo spoke in Danish. The two always
conversed in that tongue, when they conversed at all, which was
seldom.
The Finn hooked his strong fingers over the rim of the hatch and
swung down his squat body to stand before his master, cap in hand,
and with an expression of dog-like devotion in his great brown eyes.
"We are going on a long voyage. Fill the water-tanks and the
ice-box, and take this list to the store. Bring off the stuff with
you. But first mail this letter. No drink. Dost thou understand?"
"Yes, master."
"The least sign of liquor and I leave thee on the beach and ship a
clean man in thy place. Remember."
"Yes, master."
"Very well. Go!"
The Finn swung up through the hatch like a chimpanzee. Applebo sat
for a moment thinking. Then he flung his great frame back on the
bunk, and reaching into the book-locker, took therefrom a copy of
Rostand's "Cyrano." This was his favourite of modern poems. He
began to read aloud, in sonorous tones, and with careful regard to
the scansion:--
"... Je t'aime, je suis fou, je n'en peux plus, c'est trop.
"Ton nom est dans mon cœur comme dans un grelot..."
Which, when one considers that the name at that moment tinkling in
the heart of Applebo was the name of the wrong girl, made of his
pleasure in the verses a delightful irony!
He was still half reading, half didactically reciting, when there
came the splash of oars alongside and Applebo threw down the poem,
arose, and shoved his tawny head up through the hatch to behold a
small and frightened-looking boy in a boat. The youngster handed him
a note and appeared loath to linger for the tip which the poet tossed
him. Applebo tore open the envelope to find within a sheet of paper
with the _Shark's_ heading. On it were the words:--
Sailing to-night for Halifax.
CÉCILE.
* * * * * *
The middle of the following forenoon found the _Shark_ well on her
course across the wide mouth of the Bay of Fundy. The schooner was
almost becalmed and smothered in a thick white fog, through which the
sun was trying to burn its way.
On the starboard rail were leaning Paula and Huntington Wood, trying
to look into the cottony blanket of mist. The yacht had been
threading her way through a fleet of fishing-boats, and from all
sides there came the faint or loud, but always muffled and elusive,
_dong ... dong ... dong ... dong_ ... of the fishermen's bells.
From the t'gallant forecastle of the _Shark_ there blared out at
half-minute intervals the _honk ... honk_ ... of her automatic
fog-horn. A few minutes before they had heard the shriek of a
steamer's siren as it ripped its way through the fog. Directly it
had come again, appallingly close aboard; so close, indeed, that
people could be heard talking on her decks, and a gruff voice,
apparently from the bridge, had rasped, "Lookout, wha'ar d'ye make
that fog-horn?"
The _Shark_ had answered the question for herself, when the same
voice aboard the steamer said in a sharp tone, "Starboard! He's
plumb under our baows!"
Everything was a-drip. There was scarcely breeze enough to keep
steerage-way, and the knowledge of the swift tides and eddies and the
treacherous southern extremity of Nova Scotia did not tend to have a
soothing effect on the nerves of Captain Bell. He was standing on
the weather side, just abaft the mainmast, muffled to the ears in a
heavy ulster, with a deer-stalker's hat pulled down over his eyes and
a very long cigar, which reminded one of a spinnaker-boom, sticking
straight out from his damp, rubicund face. Altogether, he looked
more like a discontented British tourist than an ex-naval officer
conning his yacht through the fog. At sea, Bell always stood
watch-and-watch with Heldstrom, and did his own navigating.
"This is the sort of weather that makes you more indulgent toward
power!" he growled, waddling up to join Paula and Huntington. "I'll
bet our bloomin' Pilot-fish wishes that _he_ had some!"
"Do you suppose that he is out in this?" Wood asked.
"Sure. He took my challenge, so the chances are that he followed us
out last night. If he'd waited until this morning, he'd have missed
the tide."
"Poor little _Daffodil_!" said Paula. "It's no place for her out
here! I hate to think of it!"
"She's all right," growled Bell. "Don't you worry about her!"
"How is the betting?" asked Wood.
Bell grinned. "The sailing-master is offering two to one that
Applebo will be in Halifax harbour within four hours of ourselves.
He used to bet against the Pilot-fish, but since he found out that he
is a square-head, he backs him. The bosun offers even money that we
get there first, and the cook has taken him on for a 'V,' but then
the cook's a fool! In light airs the yawl can out-sail us, as unless
there's half a gale, this tub is so slow that if it weren't for her
sails they'd take her for a light-vessel. But I can out-navigate the
chump, and we'll save on steering a truer course."
"Don't try to cut corners, papa," said Paula. "You might cut one off
the schooner."
"No danger. I didn't serve for twenty-five years in the U.S. Navy
for nothin'...." He glanced forward, then raised his voice:
"Lookout, there, why don't you report that bell? What d'ye think you
are ... the figger-head?"
"Bell on der poort bow, zir...!" bawled the lad.
"All right," snapped the owner. "I'm deaf already from listenin' to
it. Don't try to make me any deafer. Now keep your lugs buttoned
back and see if you can't hear the next one before I do!"
Bell stumped aft to look at the taffrail log, then to the
companionway for a peep at the barometer.
"Glass risin'," he announced. "This stuff will blow off before noon
and then we may get a bit of a breeze." He went forward, pausing at
the door of the galley to watch the cook, wishing mightily that his
watch was over that he might get to work on a ragoût. Paula looked
at Wood and laughed.
"Papa's wishing that he were inside there, warm and messy and
spoiling good food," said she. "Why don't you _get_ a fad,
Huntington?"
"Cécile intimated last night that I was rapidly doing so."
"And what is that?"
"She declined to say, but I think that it had some reference to
yourself."
Paula did not immediately reply. With both elbows on the schooner's
high rail she stared into the grey-green water eddying sluggishly
alongside. Wood watched her, and his fine eyes kindled. Experiences
of the past year had taught the young man many things about life and
character, and he was beginning to be able to tell the pure from the
alloyed metal. Never in his life had he known Cécile Bell to be as
lovely as the night before at his dinner-party, nor had he ever found
her so sweet and sympathetic. But not one flash of the old emotion
had been rekindled. His eyes had been so evidently filled with Paula
that in the end Cécile had grown slightly piqued and turned her
attentions to Mr. Poole, whom she speedily reduced to abject slavery.
Paula was sufficiently pretty, when it came to that. Her charm was
of a sweet, gentle sort, which was destined to grow with her
character. She was fuller of figure than either of her sisters, with
a great abundance of chestnut hair, which held deep, auburn tones.
Like the other two girls her complexion was clear to transparency,
and the general type was Keltic; French or Irish. In repose, Paula
was as quiet as a nun, but when she became interested in conversation
to the point of self-forgetfulness, the change to a vivid animation
was almost startling. On these occasions the rich colour flooded her
face, her words were rapid and vehement, and she gestured as freely
as a Frenchwoman. Paula was a continual surprise to those who knew
her but slightly.
She raised herself from the rail and let her clear, jade-coloured
eyes rest thoughtfully on Wood. There was a faint tinge of colour in
her cheeks, damp from the fog.
"I was wondering how long it would be before Cécile became jealous,"
said she.
"Cécile has no reason to be jealous," Wood replied. "I offered her
all that I had and she very graciously declined it, but desired to be
a sister to me. I accepted the honour with gratitude. _Eh, voilà!_"
Paula looked into the fog. Wood gave a little laugh.
"Of course," he went on, "it is one thing to offer to be a sister and
another to consent to be a sister-in-law."
[Illustration: "It is one thing to offer to be a sister and another
to consent to be a sister-in-law"]
"Don't speak in that flippant way, Huntington."
Wood stepped to her side and laid his hand upon her gloved one as it
rested on the rail.
"My dear," he said, "I do not mean to be flippant. Of course, you
know, Paula, that I was very much in love with Cécile and took it
very hard when she told me that she did not care for me in the same
way. I did not try to argue the matter, but started in to forget my
own troubles in trying to interest myself a bit in those of other
people who were much worse off. The result was most successful,
although all of my friends seem to find it very amusing...."
"You mean your charity? That was splendid, Huntington...."
"The motive was originally selfish ... but I don't think that it is
so now. Because I am cured."
He paused, as though thinking of how best to go on.
"What I wish to say now, Paula, is rather difficult. Perhaps I had
better not try any complicated self-analysis. When Cécile refused
me, I thought that my life was blasted and that I should never love
again, and most of the things, I suppose, that young men usually
think under these circumstances. I don't claim any originality. It
has not been so. My life is not in the least blasted, and I do love
again, and very, very deeply. I love you, Paula, and I want you for
my wife. Will you marry me, dear?"
Paula appeared to have some difficulty with her breathing. Perhaps
it was the fog, which, at any rate, had very evidently got into her
eyes. She turned slowly to Wood, her face very pale, and her sweet
mouth quivering. They were standing near the main rigging, and Paula
steadied herself by gripping a lanyard. This may have been due to
the very slight heave coming in from the sea.
"Huntington," she said, "do you think that you are quite sure?"
"There is no longer the slightest doubt, Paula."
The girl did not seem able to speak. As if seeking counsel she
turned again to the sea. Wood waited, his eyes upon her face. He
was impressed by the sweet purity of her profile, cut like a cameo
against the white fog. There was the family likeness to her sisters
in the short, straight-bridged nose with its seductive tip; a
frivolity of feature corrected by the straight, pretty mouth and
decisive chin. Paula's face in repose had sometimes a touch of
melancholy not to be found with her sisters. There was a touch of
the Madonna of the Italian painters.
"Paula," said Wood, with the tone of one who offers not a compliment
but a simple fact, "you are a very beautiful woman. You will grow
even more beautiful as you get older."
She turned to him with a faint smile. "I am glad that I please you,
Huntington ... but..."
He stepped forward quickly and took her hand. She twisted it away,
almost impatiently.
"Oh!" she cried, "if I could be sure! Cécile rejects you ... and you
come to me! All of Cécile's rejected suitors come to me. First they
want sympathy, then ... more! I'm sick of being _consolatrice_!"
Paula had passed with startling abruptness from her breathless
silence to an almost passionate vehemence, and as she talked she made
fierce little gestures with her hands. Yet her voice was low in
pitch and volume. "It is so easy for a man to fall in love with the
woman who pets and pities him! Hermione has the right of it; I heard
her say a few weeks ago to one of Cécile's despairing swains, 'You
had better go to Paula and have your cry out. You can't weep on my
shoulder; I've got troubles of my own ... and besides, this is a
clean shirt-waist!'" Paula laughed, semi-hysterically.
Wood looked rather hurt, but not at all irritated.
"That's not quite fair to me, Paula," said he. "I did not try to
weep on anybody's shoulder, nor am I coming to you for consolation.
I don't need it. The want of it disappeared long ago. It is
precisely as if I had never been in love with anybody...."
"Oh, Huntington ... are you sure...?"
"Positive."
"And you really love me?"
"I love you with all my heart, Paula. Can't you believe me? And
don't you think that you could manage to care yourself just the least
bit...?"
Paula threw a swift look forward. Her father, a bulky figure,
half-swaddled in the fog, was rolling aft in their direction. Behind
them, alas! was the ubiquitous man at the wheel.
"So you will tell me nothing?" Wood asked.
Paula turned to him quickly, caught up his ungloved hand, and
squeezed it between her own so tightly that it gave him a stab of
pain.
"I adore you..." she whispered, then dropped his hand and fled for
the companionway.