TOWARD THE GREAT CATARACT
Pleasant and warm shone the sun that Monday morning, the 2d of
September, warm through the greenery of oak and pine and fern-tree.
Golden it lay upon the brakes and mosses by the river-bank; silver
upon the sands.
Save for the chippering of the busy squirrels, a hush brooded over
nature. The birds were silent. A far blue haze veiled the distant
reaches of the stream. Over the world a vague, premonitory something
had fallen; it was summer still, but the first touch of dissolution,
of decay, had laid the shadow of a pall upon it.
And the two lovers felt their hearts gladden at thought of the long
migration out into the unknown, the migration that might lead them to
southern shores and to perpetual plenty, perhaps to the great boon of
contact once again with humankind.
From room to room they went, making all tight and fast for the long
absence, taking farewell of all the treasures that during their long
weeks of occupancy had accumulated there about them.
Though Stern was no sentimentalist, yet he, too, felt the tears well
in his eyes, even as Beta did, when they locked the door and slowly
went down the broad steps to the walk he had cleared to the river.
"Good-by," said the girl simply, and kissed her hand to the bungalow.
Then he drew his arm about her and together they went on down the
path. Very sweet the thickets of bright blossoms were; very warm and
safe the little garden looked, cut out there from the forest that
stood guard about it on all sides.
They lingered one last moment by the sun-dial he had carved on a flat
boulder, set in a little grassy lawn. The shadow of the gnomon fell
athwart the IX and touched the inscription he had graved about the
edge:
I MARK NO HOURS BUT BRIGHT ONES.
Beatrice pondered.
"We've never had any other kind, together--not one," said she, looking
up quickly at the man as though with a new sort of self-realization.
"Do you know that, dear? In all this time, never one hour, never one
single moment of unhappiness or disagreement. Never a harsh word, an
unkind look or thought. 'No hours but bright ones!' Why, Allan, that's
the motto of our lives!"
"Yes, of our lives," he repeated gravely. "Our lives, forever, as long
as we live. But come, come--time's slipping on. See, the shadow's
moving ahead already. Come, say good-by to everything, dear, until
next spring. Now let's be off and away!"
They went aboard the yawl, which, fully laden, now lay at a little
stone wharf by the edge of the sweet wild wood, its mast overhung by
arching branches of a Gothic elm.
Allan cast off the painter of braided leather, and with his boat-hook
pushed away. He poled out into the current, then raised the sail of
woven rushes like that of a Chinese junk.
The brisk north wind caught it, the sail crackled, filled and bellied
hugely. He hauled it tight. A pleasant ripple began to murmur at the
stern as the yawl gathered speed.
"Boston and way-stations!" cried he. But through his jest a certain
sadness seemed to vibrate. As the wooded point swallowed up their
bungalow and blotted out all sight of their garden in the wilderness,
then as the little wharf vanished, and nothing now remained but
memories, he, too, felt the solemnity of a leave-taking which might
well be eternal.
Beatrice pressed a spray of golden-rod to her lips.
"From our garden," said she. "I'm going to keep it, wherever we go."
"I understand," he answered. "But this is no time, now, for
retrospection. Everything's sunshine, life, hope--we've got a world to
win!"
Then as the yawl heeled to the breeze and foamed away down stream with
a speed and ease that bore witness to the correctness of her lines, he
struck up a song, and Beatrice joined in, and so their sadness
vanished and a great, strong, confident joy thrilled both of them at
prospect of what was yet to be.
By mid-afternoon they had safely navigated
Harlem River and the upper reaches of East River, and were well up
toward Willett's Point, with Long Island Sound opening out before them
broadly.
Of the towns and villages, the estates and magnificent palaces that
once had adorned the shores of the Sound, no trace remained. Nothing
was visible but unbroken lines of tall, blue forest in the distance;
the Sound appeared to have grown far wider, and what seemed like a
strong current set eastward in a manner certainly not produced by the
tide, all of which puzzled Stern as he held the little yawl to her
course, sole alone in that vast blue where once uncounted thousands of
keels had vexed the brine.
Nightfall found them abreast the ruins of Stamford, still holding a
fair course about five or six miles off shore.
Save for the gulls and one or two quick-scurrying flights of Mother
Carey's chickens (now larger and swifter than in the old days), and a
single "V" of noisy geese, no life had appeared all that afternoon.
Stern wondered at this. A kind of desolation seemed to lie over the
region.
"Ten times more living things in our vicinity back home on the
Hudson," he remarked to Beatrice, who now lay 'midships, under the
shelter of the cabin, warmly wrapped in furs against the keen cutting
of the night wind. "It seems as though something had happened around
here, doesn't it? I should have thought the Sound would be alive with
birds and fish. What can the matter be?"
She had no hypothesis, and though they talked it over, they reached no
conclusion. By eight o'clock she fell asleep in her warm nest, and
Stern steered on alone, by the stars, under promise to put into harbor
where New Haven once had stood, and there himself get some much-needed
sleep.
Swiftly the yawl split the waters of the Sound, for though her sail
was crude, her body was as fine and speedy as his long experience with
boats could make it. Something of the vast mystery of night and sea
penetrated his soul as he held the boat on her way.
The night was moonless; only the great untroubled stars wondered down
at this daring venture into the unknown.
Stern hummed a tune to keep his spirits up. Running easily over the
monotonous dark swells with a fair following breeze, he passed an hour
or two. He sat down, braced the tiller, and resigned himself to
contemplation of the mysteries that had been and that still must be.
And very sweet to him was the sense of protection, of guardianship,
wherein he held the sleeping girl, in the shelter of the little cabin.
He must have dozed, sitting there inactive and alone. How long? He
could not tell. All that he knew was, suddenly, that he had wakened to
full consciousness, and that a sense of uneasiness, of fear, of peril,
hung about him.
Up he started, with an exclamation which he suppressed just in time to
avoid waking Beatrice. Through all, over all, a vast, dull roar was
making itself heard--a sound as though of mighty waters rushing,
leaping, echoing to the sky that droned the echo back again.
Whence came it? Stern could not tell. From nowhere, from everywhere;
the hum and vibrant blur of that tremendous sound seemed universal.
"My God, what's that?" Allan exclaimed, peering ahead with eyes
widened by a sudden stabbing fear. "I've got Beatrice aboard, here; I
can't let anything happen to her!"
The gibbous moon, red and sullen, was just beginning to thrust its
strangely mottled face above the uneasy moving plain of waters. Far
off to southward a dim headland showed; even as Stern looked it
drifted backward and away.
Suddenly he got a terrifying sense of speed. The headland must have
lain five miles to south of him; yet in a few moments, even as he
watched, it had gone into the vague obliteration of a vastly greater
distance.
"What's happening?" thought Stern. The wind had died; it seemed as
though the waters were moving with the wind, as fast as the wind; the
yawl was keeping pace with it, even as a floating balloon drifts in a
storm, unfeeling it.
Deep, dull, booming, ominous, the roar continued. The sail flapped
idle on the mast. Stern could distinguish a long line of foam that
slid away, past the boat, as only foam slides on a swift current.
He peered, in the gloom, to port; and all at once, far on the horizon,
saw a thing that stopped his heart a moment, then thrashed it into
furious activity.
Off there in a direction he judged as almost due northeast, a tenuous,
rising veil of vapor blotted out the lesser stars and dimmed the
brighter ones.
Even in that imperfect light he could see something of the sinuous
drift of that strange cloud.
Quickly he lashed the tiller, crept forward and climbed the mast, his
night-glasses slung over his shoulder.
Holding by one hand, he tried to concentrate his vision through the
glasses, but they failed to show him even as much as the naked eye
could discern.
The sight was paralyzing in its omen of destruction. Only too well
Stern realized the meaning of the swift, strong current, the roar--now
ever increasing, ever deepening in volume--the high and shifting vapor
veil that climbed toward the dim zenith.
"Merciful Heaven!" gulped he. "There's a cataract over there--a
terrible chasm--a plunge--to what? And we're drifting toward it at
express-train speed!"