widow with a deformed child of which she was ashamed; that she was a
deserted wife; that she had once been married to a very wicked man of
title; that she was “strange”—sat for hours on the beach alone, sang,
swam, walked, did everything but flock with them.
“God bless her!” said Brassid.
The lady who snuffed arose.
“Lord help _you_!” she said grimly.
“Eh?” said Brassid.
“What were those women who lured a man into a cave and made a swine of
him?”
Her appeal was to Brassid.
“I suppose you mean the sirens.”
“Yes, that was their name. That woman is a siren!”
“And you’re in love with her!” charged the lady who was deaf, in a thick
voice.
“In love!” laughed Brassid. “Ha, ha, ha!”
“Yes, ha, ha, ha!” mimicked the lady who snuffed.
“I never saw her till to-day,” said Brassid.
“Neither did that other man see the sirens until he passed them on his
way home.”
This convicted him before the six.
And, in the solitude of his room, it went far toward convicting him
before himself, though he still laughed his hollow ha, ha, ha!
“Love at first sight! You! Old Brassid! Ha, ha, ha!”
He was speaking to the gentleman who faced him in the mirror.
At that moment she passed his door. She was softly singing:
“They sailed away
In a gallant bark.”
He had seen her but once, yet he knew the rustle of her silken skirts!
The next morning at ten Brassid was composing poems in bed, quite as he
did at home—about her! He hummed and sang the things he fetched from
within in a fashion which lent color to Mrs. Mouthon’s theory.
Some one knocked on his door.
“Come in!” sang Brassid, happily.
But it was only the colored porter.
He was winking his eyes rapidly, fancying that in that way he looked
penitent while he did not feel so. The rumor of Brassid’s infatuation
had reached the porter.
“I’m sorry, sir,” said the porter.
“Oh! What for, Bill?” So, suddenly had their comradeship grown to first
names! “Everybody is sorry now and then. Brace up!”
The porter stared.
“The six-o’clock train, sir.”
Now Brassid stared.
“I forgot it, sir.”
“Thank you,” said Brassid, and he gave the porter a dollar for
forgetting the six-o’clock train! He had forgotten it more than the
porter.
II
ON THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA
They met more formally, presently, on the bottom of the sea. Brassid
plunged in the moment he arrived at the surf, and went out and under
with a long, strong push. He saw a face on the bottom. It stared
uncannily up at him through the wavering green water. Brassid followed
it and dragged it breathlessly to the surface. There she laughed at him.
“I—I—thought you were d-dead!” gasped Brassid.
“Not at all,” smiled the Sea-Lady.
“Why, how long were you under?”
“Not long.”
“It seemed as if you had been there all day!”
“_My_ grandfather was a whaler,” said the Sea-Lady, winking the water
out of her eyes solemnly, as if that explained her.
“_My_ grandfather was an Indian-fighter,” cried Brassid, joyously, which
was his way of saying that the one was as intelligible as the other.
Her laughter broke loose.
“Look at me!” commanded Brassid, suddenly, with that savagery which he
had from his grandfather. “You are shamming—and doing it beautifully.
You _were_ in distress down there! And if I hadn’t come along—”
But by that time she was doing exactly what Brassid had asked—looking at
him with the most wonderful eyes of blue Brassid had seen since his
mother died. Brassid funked ingloriously. Think of it!
“The lady with the lorgnon has seen us, and is coming,” she warned.
“Yes!”
He was frightened, too.
“Let us swim a little.”
“Yes.”
They plunged in.
“Be careful,” said Brassid.
“_My_ grandfather was a whaler,” she laughed back as she raced away to
sea.
“Oh, you _can_ swim!” he exclaimed joyously.
“Can _you_?” she laughed.
“A little,” he answered—more carefully now.
“Come!”
After that she admitted Brassid to a precarious intimacy, based upon
swimming. In the sea she was everything Brassid could wish. On the land
she was not.
“She’s like a fish out of water,” jested the lady who took snuff.
“Do not be discouraged,” shouted she of the pepper-box. “I do not think
she knows yet that you’re courting her.”
All the ladies cackled.
“Who said I was courting her?” demanded Brassid, with ferocity.
The ladies laughed again. And when Miss Princeps came down they
surrounded her and told her Brassid’s delightful joke.
“I’ve warned him,” said one, “that you’re a siren—one of those ladies
who—”
Well, it was his first comradeship, and it happened to be an
extraordinarily perfect one. It was so very blessed that, to use the
words of Mrs. Paradigm (she was the lady with the lorgnon), he went
crazy over it. And perhaps if you had known Brassid’s Sea-Lady, you
would not have wondered—you might have commended him for going crazy.
You remember that she had the eyes of Brassid’s blessed mother.
“I never hoped to see them on earth again,” he said to the face in the
mirror.
Oh, she was rich and splendid and fragrant and melodious—I am using
Brassid’s book of adjectives—and altogether more lovely in every detail
of herself than any one else on earth! And he had constantly the
ecstatic feeling that he had discovered her, really; but he never did.
For the Sea-Lady was unlike any one he had ever known. He literally knew
that she was wonderful in every way that a lover could wish a sweetheart
to be wonderful, yet there was not a single admission to go upon.
Whenever she caught herself showing Brassid her heart,—and she would
have been fond of showing this to Brassid if he had been a woman,
perhaps,—she went to cover—and asked him to swim! And I am glad to think
that that is the only reason he never saw her heart—never really
discovered her.
Until that last day—that second time the eyes said, “Too late!”
And of that I am now to tell you.
III
SHE MAY HAVE HAD BROTHERS
“By Jove!” said Brassid, that day, as he watched her conquest of the
choppy waves, “you _are_ something nautical! I _do_ believe that your
ancestors wore scales!”
“Oh, Brassid! Thank you! Think of having such a crest as that! Eight
carp gules! And the nearest I can come to it is the whaler! Brassid, in
the sea I almost love you! And when you really begin to ‘court’ me and
feel that you must propose, do it in the water, to the diapason of the
waves, in the sight and hearing of my scaly relatives!”
“Hanged if I do!” said Brassid. “You have got to hear that; but it will
be in your own house.”
“In evening dress?”
“Very likely.”
“On your knees?”
“On my knees.”
“Horrid, Brassid!”
“It is your fate.”
“But why, Brassid? Why must it be? Isn’t this lovely enough?” Miss
Princeps mourned.
“Because I love you,” said he, stoutly.
“But, Brassid dear, that’s no reason.”
“It is. Every man who loves a woman _must_ propose to her—if for no
other reason than to be rejected. Then and then only he will see his
finish. And I won’t see _mine_ even then. And, to show you that you like
me very much, at least, let me remind you that you quite unconsciously
called me ‘dear’ just now.”
“Brassid, my grandfather was a whaler.”
“Well, what on earth has that to do with it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You love me—that’s what it means.”
“Oh!”
“Yes!”
“I may have brothers—whom I call dear—and—so—get used to it—”
“Have you?” demanded Brassid, with the ferocity that came and went so
quickly.
“No, sir,” she answered obediently.
“Oh, you are the most delicious being on earth!” laughed he. “And I
won’t wait till we get to town!”
But Brassid had forgotten to tread, and got a generous mouthful of salt
water.
“Brassid,” wailed the lady, “I’m sorry for you; but you are punished for
taking advantage of me at a time and in an element when I almost love
you.”
“Don’t you dare to pity me! I’m not done with you!” spluttered Brassid.
“This is my chance—you said it—in—the—sea.”
“In fun! Only in fun!” she cried. “Can’t you see a joke?”
Before he got his chance she said:
“Brassid, we are far enough. You are tired. Let us go back.”
“I won’t!”
“Why?”
“You are mine out here. I am going to keep you—out here.”
“Would you come and live with me in the Dragon King’s palace beneath the
sea, where it is always wet?”
“Yes. Whither thou goest I will go.”
“Brassid, I am going home. You will not be restrained.”
“And I’ll follow you. The only way to get rid of me is to marry me.”
“Then I will never, never marry you, Brassid,” said the Sea-Lady,
leaving him that riddle, which he never solved. For it was the last day,
and presently it would be the second time that her eyes of blue had
said, “Too late!”
IV
BUT SHE WAS BEST OF ALL
She pulled him out of the water, and they bathed in the sun. Not a ship
sailed the sea.
His voice spoke first, as if he dreamed—a fragment—“But you are best of
all!”
She looked up and found his eyes upon her. With her own she questioned
him.
“Nothing is in sight, nothing can be heard, but what God has made.
This!” He waved his hand at the immaculate sky. “That!” The limitless
sea. “The earth!” He pointed where it stretched away from them to the
vanishing-point. “You!”
“No—you!” she laughed.
“And it is all good. God alone knows how good. _But_,” he repeated,
while his gaze was fixed upon her upturned face, “you are best of all!”
She kept her eyes upon him in wonder; for if he had not solved the
Sea-Lady, she had not solved him. And this was very strange from savage
Brassid.
“Yes; God made nothing so perfect as a perfect woman—_you_!”
“You think _me_ perfect?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Brassid!”
But something clanged in her brain.
“I love you!”
“Don’t, Brassid!” she begged. “You have touched to-day what you have
never touched before, what no one has—don’t!”
It was a mighty occasion; but she would not have it. She fought it with
her best weapon—levity. She laughed. She made him laugh, and it was
done.
“Oh, Brassid,” she sighed, “forgive me! But it is too lovely. And
afterward we could not swim together any more.”
“Why not?”
“Why, Brassid! Who ever heard of a rejected lover taking the same walks
with his late beloved under the same trees by the light of the same
moon?”
“Walks?” questioned Brassid, dully.
“Our swims are the same as walks to other lo—”
“Aha!” cried Brassid, “you almost said ‘lovers’!”
“Did I? How stupid of me!”
“Do you mean to say that you absolutely and positively refuse me?”
shouted he, belligerently.
“Certainly not, my dear Brassid,” she hurried forth. “I can’t refuse
what you haven’t offered. And, dear Brassid,” she went on caressingly,
“I know that you won’t offer—because—because—”
“Out with it!” cried Brassid, still in his ferocity.
“Because I like you so—to swim with!”
“And when there is no swimming?”
“No Brassid—”
“I tell you there will be!” he threatened.
“Well, I’m glad to hear it; for I shouldn’t like this world so well
without its Brassid—since I know him. But, Brassid dear,—there! the
whaler again!—why _must_ you _marry_ me?”
“Because it’s every woman’s business to be married.”
“But not every man’s, then? So that I might marry some one else, and not
bother you with—”
“That is just the trouble!” cried the savage in him again. “You _will_
marry some one else if I let you get away from me.”
“As if I were game!”
“You are. The noblest game on earth.”
“Brassid!”
“Yes. You couldn’t go long uncaptured. How have you escaped? All the men
you knew must have been blind, deaf, dumb.”
“Ah, well,” Miss Princeps sighed, “if one _must_ be married some time or
other, thank God that there are Brassids! But who ever heard of two
married people swimming together!”
“We will,” still threatened Brassid.
“We?”
“Yes, we.”
“It doesn’t sound badly, Brassid.”
“Now that’s better. For you know that, though I’m a poor enough sort, no
one has ever adored you as I do, and that you—yes, you—were never such a
comrade with any one else.”
“Why, Brassid!”
“Isn’t it so? Answer me!”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
They laughed together.
“Please don’t be cross, Brassid dear, just because I can’t marry you!
I’ll keep _on_ calling you ‘dear’ if you won’t.”
V
HIS GRANDFATHER’S COURAGE MADE HER WANT TO LOVE HIM
In the sea again, whither she dragged him after that, far from land, as
they looked back at the people on the beach:
“Before you came,” laughed the girl, “I had all the fun to myself. They
would follow me with their glasses, expecting me to throw up my arms and
call for help. The hotel man actually bought a rope with straps and
buckles and things on the end to save me. They used to bring it down
every time I went in. Now Bill uses it to pull the trunks up. And no one
ever minds us. See, not a soul is looking this way! Brassid, it was
lovely of you to come. You are”—she laughed, and by a deft stroke came
so close as to touch him—“both my chaperon and palladium. Of course I
suppose if we should ever get into trouble I would have to save you. My
grandfather was a whaler. But back there they have the most beautiful
confidence in you, just because you are a man. I am not pleased with you
in that, Brassid. It is false pretence. I shall let you save
yourself—remember.”
“I wouldn’t allow you to save me.”
“What! You ungrateful—Brassid! I can swim twice as far as you can. But
I’m glad to hear that.”
“When I was taught to swim, my teacher dinned into my ears that I was
never to forget when I went out that I had to come back. See?”
For reply she raced away from him.
“My grandfather was a whaler. I wasn’t taught to go back.”
He followed as lustily until he had caught her. They laughed splendidly.
“_My_ grandfather,” he laughed, “the Virginia ranger, you remember, was
too proud to call for help when he fought his last fight within a
hundred yards of the pickets of his own regiment.”
“Brassid, I love that!” she cried breathlessly, going to his side. “What
happened to him?”
“He was killed. But when they found him he had five dead Indians to his
credit, while his hands were clutched upon the throat of another.”
“That’s why you adore him, isn’t it? Otherwise you would probably never
have heard of him. That is what makes us live in the memories of those
who love us—just that one little thing, courage!”
“No. There is another and greater thing,” said Brassid.
She looked up in her questioning way.
He smiled affectionately.
“Love,” said Brassid.
She shook her head:
“Courage.”
“Love,” he insisted.
“Let us put them both together,” she said, “courage and love.”
“Love and courage,” he acquiesced.
“You for love, I for courage.”
Brassid watched her glowing young face and her strong young arms, as
they struck out, in a new wonder. He had not yet solved the lovely
Sea-Lady.
She went on with dilated nostrils:
“Say, Brassid, that makes me _want_ to love you. An ancestor like that!
Oh, it beats the whaler! That’s why I speak so often of him. It needed
courage to be a whaler. Brassid, you never were so near winning me—isn’t
that what you men call it?—as right now. Go on, Brassid, about your
Indian-fighter!”
“My grandfather probably would have won you,” sighed Brassid.
“No; you. You are like him. I knew it from the first. Why didn’t you
tell me that at first? You would do as he did—if there were Indians.”
“And what would you do?”
“As your grandfather did, Brassid—if there were Indians.”
He retreated a little from her.
“Maybe I do _love love_ a little, Brassid dear; but I _adore_ the
courage that dies without weakening—rather than weaken. I can’t help it.
It was born in me. I wouldn’t do it. And if your grandfather had called
for help, I should have hated him—and you,” she laughed.
And, after a silence, she said again, as if that was what she had been
thinking about:
“Brassid, I love courage more than love.” And again:
“Brassid, your name _is_ Courage.”
VI
HER ANCESTORS WORE SCALES
“For immediate evidence of my pusillanimity,” laughed Brassid, “let us
return. We have never been half so far as this. And while you are a
mermaiden, I am only a walrus.”
“_Must_ we go back?”
“No,” laughed Brassid.
“Then let us go on and on and on forever! Brassid, I am mad to-day. That
about the Indian-fighter did it. And if you knew how close—close—you
are—why—come! Out there where it sparkles! It fascinates—calls to me.
Oh, dear Brassid, perhaps my ancestors _did_ wear scales! Come! Out
there ask for—anything!”
She gave him, there in the water, his first caress—only a touch, after
all.
Brassid’s tongue was loosed. He talked on almost in strophes.
And she answered presently:
“Brassid dear, that sounds like the big love. I wouldn’t have any
other—if I had to have it at all. I wish I did love you. Oh, not so much
for your sake as mine! I begin to feel, to see, to hear, what it is.
Brassid, some day I shall demand it.”
“And you shall have it.”
“But not—now—Brassid dear! Not—to-day! _Please!_”
“Look here,” said he, in his ferocity, “you do love me—and you are going
to marry me!”
“No, no, no! Brassid, really, I don’t love you. Not a bit—yet. It is
courage—courage. But out here—to-day—Brassid, I like you—courage or no
courage, I’ll confess that much—I like you a lot.” Then, presently,
“Brassid, do you really think I love you?”
He nodded.
“Why don’t you speak? It is very impolite to nod a reply to such an
important—question. I can’t—marry—you—away—out—here.”
They faced each other, and knew that they were out of breath.
“Out there is a bar. I have been watching it. We can rest there.”
But Brassid did not touch her to help.
Presently they reached it. Neither could have gone twenty yards further.
Brassid turned and looked shoreward. Something suddenly gripped his
heart. The Crazy-Quilt House was a distant blur against the horizon.
There were people on the beach, but they were as ants. He kept her face
seaward. A ship, hull down, was sailing from them.
“And presently, when we are quite rested, we shall go home.”
“I suppose so,” she said petulantly. “But, oh, it has been _so_ lovely
to-day!”
“But I am hungry.”
“Yes. Come.”
Once more he kept her eyes seaward by pointing out that the ship was
coming about.
“Brassid,” she laughed, “to-morrow we shall go out to that ship!”
“Yes,” he smiled.
She had come very close to him. She was dancing on her toes upon the
bar. The tide was running in rapidly. The sun was overhead in all its
September glory. She held by his arms and danced. Her hair was confined
under a pale-green scarf, save where it escaped. Below in the green
water he could see her loveliness foreshortened.
“Brassid, you are staring at me. Do you see the scales?
“Why are you so quiet—now?
“Brassid, I can touch bottom no longer. See! I _must_ be in your arms!
That is my only excuse—I am tired. Aha!”
She laughed gloriously.
“Brassid—dear—good—luck—to—you!” she whispered.
He kissed her.
“Brassid, what does that mean?”
“That you are engaged to me—”
“Brassid, I don’t mind being engaged—that much—out here—”
He kissed her again.
“Yes,” she said. “But remember that I do not love you, and that I shall
never marry you. It will be quite different when we land. I heard the
snuff lady say that we must be engaged, or it would be very improper to
be so much alone—out—here. So now you may tell her that—we—are
engaged—that everything is proper—and you needn’t say that it is only a
little.”
She stopped to laugh again.
“Oh, Brassid, it is glorious! And you are lovely. And I have everything
I want now—since we are engaged a little. And if I ever marry any one it
will be some one just like you, who can swim, and has the big love—and
courage. But I won’t love _you_, Brassid, I won’t. You should not expect
_that_.”
“No,” laughed happy Brassid.
“Kiss me!” she commanded. “And laugh!”
Brassid did both.
VII
STRANGE THAT LOVE SHOULD MAKE ONE AFRAID
The fierce inrush of a wave swept him from his feet. She spun around
with a little cry. Then she saw what Brassid had seen and had kept from
her. Fear touched the heart which had never feared before.
“Brassid,” she whispered, “I did not know that we had come so far!”
Brassid tried to laugh.
“The tide will help us.”
“Brassid, you kept me here—you kept me from looking—so that I might
rest—and be—strong?”
“I kept you here,” said Brassid, “to make you mine.”
“Brassid,” she whispered, “why did you do so splendid a thing? Dreadful,
too! I am afraid to drown now. I wasn’t before.”
“Why are you afraid now?”
“Because then I should never see _you_ again. That is what made the
little fear you saw. It all came in a flash. I know. But I am
not—afraid—not now.”
“Not now! My love!”
But he saw that panic had followed fear, that every nerve had slackened,
that every muscle was unstrung. She swam, panting now,—he had never seen
her do that,—and for a while conquered fear. She kept at his side. Now
and then she touched him, and always she watched him piteously.
“Brassid—you are stronger—than I thought—stronger than I—as a man ought
to be. I am—glad.”
“Yes,” gasped Brassid, “I am strong—and you are brave—”
“Brassid, I don’t mind being saved by you.”
“I should think not.”
“We will not forget the—Indian-fighter—Brassid.”
“Nor the whaler.”
“Yes; I want to live—to be—your—wife—Brassid.”
“My wife!”
Then was silence; nothing but the beating of their breath.
“Brassid—dear—if we do not—get home—stay with me! I do not want—to—stay
out here—alone! Oh! Alone! Brassid—will you—stay with me—no—matter—no
matter—”
“No matter—what!”
Perhaps it was wrong to say that. But his love was what he had called
it—the big love. She gave up.
“Then—beloved—if you—will stay—with—me—”
She could even smile at him.
“The Indian-fighter—the whaler!” pleaded Brassid.
“Yes.”
She responded, and again and again responded. But he saw her first
stroke fail. Each of his own cost what seemed a life.
“I am too—tired—Brassid.”
“Courage!” gasped Brassid.
“Yes; once more. To be your wife!”
They swam silently.
“Brassid—I am thinking—of all the dear things you—said. I didn’t notice
some of them then. But now—as the drowning do—they are all—very—sweet.”
“You are not drowning,” said Brassid, with his last ferocity.
“It is so strange—that love—should make—one—afraid! I never
was—afraid—until I loved you—Brassid—Brassid! Until I—loved—you!”
Brassid put his arm under her to float her. As he did so she sank away
from him.
“Can’t—Brassid—dear,” she whispered. “I—am—too—tired—too—tired—”
He saw the dear face with the green water between them. The sun made it
glorious—piteous.
“Too late!” said the eyes, as they had said it that first night—he could
read it now as plainly as then. And another smile, as then. Her eyes
kept upon him. She was quite still. Her arms opened to him. They closed
about him, and once more Brassid followed the lovely Sea-Lady to the
bottom.
THE LOADED GUN[3]
I THREE GENTLEMEN OF PHILADELPHIA
At three o’clock in the morning, Gast, McGill, and Ravant were going
down Twentieth street, in the vicinity of Walnut street. They were
locked together in the fashion of a Roman phalanx. And even then their
going was unsteady. With the memory of his classical studies somewhat
revived, Ravant repeated Cæsar’s commendation of the Roman formation.
A little later, and a little further down the street, where lived many
of the city’s elect, they were protesting in over-vociferous melody that
they would not go home till morning.
“Make it midday, for the sake of ver-sim-ili-tude,” begged Gast,
breathless with the word, “for it is morning now. Behold!”
And thereupon he also remembered the invocations to the rising sun, in
which the ancients abound, and produced one—according to his memory:
“Aurora leaped upon the nether hills
And flung a kiss to Bacchus—’twas a day!”
The officer on the corner of the square came and looked on amicably.
His applause made McGill realize that the voices of his comrades, unlike
his own, had never excelled in melody. He, therefore, attached himself
to a lamp-post, and, in the fashion of a precentor, proposed to instruct
them in the difficulties of “Annie Laurie.”
But, in attaching himself to the lamp-post, he had detached himself from
the critical right of the phalanx, which now floundered dismally and
then incontinently disintegrated. The officer of the peace secured
Ravant and Gast and anchored them to McGill—and “Annie Laurie” went
terribly on.
It would have been hard enough to endure if it had not been mixed with
liquors. But since it was so mixed it was not wonderful that anathema
was belched at them from the windows of that halcyon neighborhood, and
that they were then slammed violently shut.
But they were hardly prepared for a gun-shot in their direction.
“That’s right,” complained McGill; “if you can’t reform ’em, shoot ’em!”
“Mac, that man’s a pil-os-per,” argued Gast. “For, lo! these many years
the sover-eign people have sought a cure for the drink evil. Well, he
has found it. Shoot ’em. Eh, Ravey?”