TO NAHANT?
It was about three in the morning. The lights had been extinguished
in the ball-room, and the house was still. The casements of
sleeping-rooms were darkening one by one as their inmates composed
themselves to rest. A footfall on the gallery outside mingled with the
tick of the clock on the staircase, which, in the stillness of the
hour, sent monotonous vibrations through the timbers of the wooden
house.
Backward and forward the walker paced, diffusing the thin smoke of his
cigar upon the salt-smelling air. It was cool and even chilly as
morning drew near. Already the sky had grown pale low down beyond the
sea. The waters by contrast had grown more black and forbidding; and
with the regular steady growl of the rollers breaking on the beach, it
seemed like a monster watching at the portals of the day.
Backward and forth paced Joseph Naylor, too wakeful to sleep, and
without even a wish to turn in. There was nothing painful in his
ruminations, nothing to agitate; and no point of difficulty had arisen
on which it was necessary for him to decide. Looking at himself in
that state of divided consciousness in which one half the mind notes
and surveys the workings of the other, he appeared scarcely to think
at all. There was little of sequence or progress in the images among
which he drifted, and the faculties of judging, choosing, desiring,
intending, were not in use. There was rather a feeling of contented
fruition overhanging his spirit like a golden mist, in which he seemed
to bathe and be at rest.
Far back, before he had learned sorrow, he had known this sense of
peace, a glimpse of Paradise from which he had been snatched away, and
the gates closed after him with a clang. Looking seaward, the black
expanse spread out, with low reverberating sound, seemed a symbol of
his long-drawn years of desolation, a barrier between him and the
faintly brightening east. To-night he seemed to overpass that gulf,
and feel again the blessedness of a young bridegroom--without a wish,
because he touched the goal of his desires, swimming in contentment,
and breathing the scent of orange-flowers and garlands. He seemed to
be inhaling it even now.
There had been a time when to recall these feelings would have driven
him mad--when he had set his teeth, and turned his mind away from the
memory of what had grown to be an agony, and which dogged him night
and day like the remorse of some great crime. As time wore on, his
life had grown more tolerable, in grey and joyless wise, with the
aftermath of sober peace which sedulous virtue can rear even on the
stubble of youth's luxuriant crop cut down and borne away. Yet even
then, to finger the old wounds was to make them bleed anew--to
remember the past was to recall his sorrow.
To-night, what change had come over him? He seemed living again in the
happiness of the bygone time. He felt young as he had not felt in
twenty years. He could dwell on the old joys and feel no sting; recall
the image of his lost without a pang--so young and tender, with her
soft brown eyes and clinging touch lingering still so kindly on his
retentive sense. There was no feeling of loss to-night, no raging pang
of impotent hungry jealousy.
He seemed dwelling in the fragrance of her presence; and the image of
his new friend, his deliverer, was with him too, so like and yet so
different from the other. The sunny warmth in those full brown eyes
had beamed on him with a reviving and invigorating glow, which had
thawed and quickened his poor frost-bound nature like the coming of
another spring. How different the two images were! And yet, when he
strove to separate and compare them in his mind, how strangely they
ran together, and blended like fluid shapes into something vaguely
sweet and dear, which would not be resolved into either definite form!
A hand was laid lightly on his shoulder, and he turned his head,
preoccupied still with the images of his waking dream.
"I have found you at last, and at leisure," said a voice at his elbow.
"You have been so busy all the evening, and I could not turn in till I
had had a word with you."
"Walter! You? What is it?"
"What is this about going to Boston to-morrow? Margaret is as much
taken by surprise as I am."
"Going to Boston? I know nothing of it. What do you mean?"
"Mrs Naylor told Margaret in my hearing they were going to Boston
to-morrow."
"We came here intending to remain a month at least. Our rooms are
only taken for a fortnight, to be sure, in case we should not like it;
but if we do--and I thought we were getting on nicely--we were to
stay. At least that was my idea. But--ah! I see--Walter, you scamp!
This comes of your unexpected appearance. You should be ashamed
of yourself--disturbing a quiet family in this fashion. What a
dangerous character you must be, when the sight of you frightens a
middle-aged lady so much that she is going to pack up and run away,
before--before----Bless my soul! how many days have we been here? It
seems a long time, but it is not a week, not four---- We have been
here only two days!
"Yes; now I think of it, my sister has been hovering round me a good
deal this evening. I daresay she has been trying to get speech of me.
And I was conceited enough to think it was unwarrantable curiosity on
the part of Mrs Caleb, watching what I was about."
"You _were_ a little different from your usual to-night, Mr Naylor. I
never saw you mind young ladies much before. Tonight it has been
impossible to get hold of you."
"That may have been the young ladies' fault, my boy. It is not every
one of them who knows how to be good company. Naturally, a man at my
time of day is less susceptible to the pink and white in a
schoolgirl's face than you young fellows are. There is a time for
bread and butter, and a time for other things. Solomon says so."
"I don't think any one should call Margaret a bread-and-butter miss,"
Walter answered, hotly.
"Margaret is a good girl, and smart--though perhaps I should not say
so, who remember her a squealing baby--but she would not care to waste
her evening in amusing an old uncle, when the fiddlers were around,
and so many young fellows to mind her."
"And what about Boston, then? Do you mean to go? Or will you allow Mrs
Naylor to take her daughters there, and break up the very pleasant
party here?"
"I do not see that Mrs Caleb's going to Boston would break up the
party here;" and there was a tone in Joseph's voice, as he said it,
which betokened a smile, though there was not light enough to see it.
"It is natural that she should want to get her girls away from a too
fascinating detrimental.
"You are a sad fellow, Walter--running about the world to frighten
fond mothers, and compromise the prospects of young ladies."
"I can afford to marry, Mr Naylor. You know it. You know all about my
circumstances and my connections. You have admitted to me that I might
fairly enough go in and win if I could."
"I am not the girl's mother, my good fellow. If I recollect aright, I
said 'Wait.' That is what I would say to you again, after the lapse of
hardly three months. Your patience seems to me of the shortest. You
must wait, my boy--wait."
"Wait till another fellow comes forward and unsettles her mind! Stand
aside, and let him step in and win her! Would you do that yourself?"
"I don't know. You speak from the gentleman's point of view, you see.
It is from the lady's side, and with a view to her interests, that I
must consider things. Her mother's feeling is perfectly natural. It is
from no objection to yourself that she wishes to stave you off.
Margaret has seen nothing of the world. It is fair that she should
know what she is giving up if she marries a backwoodsman."
"She does not object to the backwoods."
"She has seen too little of life in the front to realise what she
would be giving up. You have influenced her fancy, and she sees with
your eyes for the moment. By-and-by she might think differently, and
if it were too late it would be bad for you both. You must really have
patience, and give her time."
"But----"
"Oh yes; there is plenty to say on the other side, Walter. You and I
might talk a long time, but I fear neither would convince the other.
Meanwhile, it is time we were both in bed. The lights are going out
all over the house. Good night."
Joseph took his candle and went up-stairs. The light from a door ajar
fell on him as he threaded the dim corridor, bordered with boots of
sleeping guests.
"Joseph!" in a vehement whisper reached his ears. He turned, and his
sister-in-law, in dressing-gown and shawl, stood before him.
"How late you are of retiring! I have watched and waited for your
passing till I am completely knocked up. Ah! my poor back! and my head
aches dreadfully."
"Get to bed. Late hours are always hurtful."
"I could not lie down till I had seen you. I _must_ speak to you. And
you have lingered so long."
"We cannot talk here--disturbing people, and being overheard. You are
scarcely in trim for the parlour. Besides, the lights are out. It is
very late, and I am awfully sleepy."
"Come in here. Improper?--Dear me!" and Mrs Naylor smiled
sarcastically. "Our age will save our characters, Joseph, I should
think. However, I will leave the door open."
"Well?" asked Joseph, following in reluctantly, "what is it--which
will not keep till morning? Let's cut it as short as possible."
"Do you know that young Blount is here?"
"Yes."
"What are we to do?"
"I see no occasion to do anything."
"He may have Margaret engaged and committed any half-hour they are
alone together."
"If she is willing, I do not see why he should not."
"Joseph Naylor! Is that the interest you take in poor Caleb's
fatherless daughter? And you call yourself her guardian!"
"Well? What would you have me do?"
"Remove us at once. Then she is not compromised by any exhibition of
intimacy there may have been this evening. I have been thinking of
Nahant. It is an extravagant place, I know; but we can stop and have a
couple of days' shopping in Boston on the way. Will you arrange for
our starting by the forenoon train?"
"To-morrow morning! Do you forget that your rooms here are engaged for
a fortnight?--could not have got them for a shorter time--and there
are still eleven days to run?"
"I know. We must pay for the fortnight, of course. Another obligation
to add to the many we owe your favourite."
"But you will find Nahant dull, I fear. It is not a place many
Canadians go to, and you have no New England friends. Will it not be
lonesome for you and the girls to look on at the gaieties, without
even a man to stand beside you in the crowd?"
His sister-in-law turned and looked at him questioningly. Joseph, as
she knew, was not aggressively self-asserting, but this was
self-effacement beyond any modesty she could have believed.
"You will do very nicely, Joseph," she said, encouragingly. "You are
presentable anywhere, and--well--almost distinguished-looking, let me
tell you; and you give our party far more weight than if you were
younger. And then you are so clever about making friends with the
nicest people within reach. We shall do capitally."
Joseph opened his eyes and smiled, to hear his sister-in-law sum him
up to his face so patronisingly. "You are too appreciative of my small
merits, Susan. Pray spare me. But I had no idea of joining in your
escapade. Clam Beach is perfectly good enough for me. I shall not
dream of leaving it before my fortnight is up; and quite likely, if I
continue to like it, I shall stay on for three or four weeks longer."
"Do you mean that you will let us roam away over the United
States--your poor dead brother's helpless widow and orphans--without a
protector? I could not have believed it, Joseph. But--ah! I can see it
all!--designing girl--this evening----"
Mrs Naylor grew disjointed and confused, and finally stuck fast in the
middle of a sentence which she could not properly be said to have
begun; having merely betrayed, in her irritation, a wish "to carry the
war into Africa"--or at least, since Joseph was so unsympathetic in
her concerns, to discuss his own in a similar spirit. But there came
the look into his face of a man who will not be trifled with, and who
chooses to introduce the subject himself, when his affairs are to be
mentioned; and between surprise, and having nothing exactly to
say--though in another mood there would have been an opening for
banter and insinuation--the thread of her ideas gave way, and she
stopped short.
Joseph's brow cleared as quickly as it had darkened, so soon as Susan
had checked herself; but he said nothing, and after waiting in silence
for a minute and a half, he turned on his heel, saying--
"That is all you have to tell me, I suppose? Good night."
"Stop, Joseph! You have told me nothing. What am I to do? Do you
really mean that you will not come with us?"
"That is what I mean."
"You propose to keep us here against our will, and to hand that poor
misguided child Margaret over to such a fate? I would not have
believed it of you, Joseph."
"I have no power to keep you here against your will, Susan, any more
than you have the right to drag me away against mine. If I can do
anything short of that to pleasure you, name it. My cheque-book is
freely at your service, if you insist on going to Nahant, where you
will find your expenses ten times as heavy as here."
"I don't want your cheque-book. Poor Caleb took care we should be
provided for. And very fortunate it is, too,"--which was an ungracious
and uncalled-for observation; but all things, as Joseph thought, are
pardonable in an angry woman.
"And what am I to do," she continued, "with this young man? He will
drive me distracted. I know he will."
"Accept what you cannot prevent, Susan; and save yourself the worry of
struggling against the inevitable. Let them have their way. Do it
soon, and make a favour of it; and you will be in a position to
stipulate for long delay. When Walter is a year or two older, he will
have had enough of the wilds, and be willing to settle down in a
civilised neighbourhood."
"But Margaret ought to do so much better. I cannot resign myself to
the idea of her sinking into a farmer's wife. I have a right to expect
position for her--the best the Province can afford. Why should she not
live in Toronto and lead society?"--which, perhaps, you may deem a
small ambition, my British reader; yet it is precisely what all
mankind are born to feel. Ambition is the same everywhere, but its
object varies with the latitude and longitude. There are actually
people as eager to be first in Timbuctoo and Bokhara, as any one you
may know to be of the best in London.
"As Blount's wife," answered Joseph, "she will be all right socially;
and between what she has from her father, and what she may look for
from her uncle, she does not need to consider whether her husband is a
rich man or not."
"I intended her to be in the middle of everything. For what else did I
take so much trouble with her education?"
"She does not seem to mind about that herself."
"And there were chances for her here, if Blount would have stayed
away. There is that clever Mr Wilkie, and young Walter Petty, both
evidently well inclined to her."
"I think Margaret's preference shows good taste and good sense. Blount
is a gentleman, and his people have a property in Wales. If you want
connection, he is the best of the three."
"He is a younger son. His prospects don't amount to much, or he would
have stayed at home; while Mr Wilkie----"
"A worthy person. A rising man, if you like----"
"Mrs Petty would give her eyes to get him for Ann."
"Very likely. But he is not to compare with Blount; though I do not
blame him for that. There is a kind of person which must be born and
bred, though it is not the kind which makes its way in the world the
best. For myself, I sympathise with Margaret's taste."
"I declare, I think that young fellow has turned your head! But he
_shan't_ be your nephew, for all his scheming, if I can prevent it....
If you will not take us to Nahant, I suppose we must stay here. We
would have to invent so many excuses if we went straight back home;
though it would be serving Margaret just right if we did. But she
shall stay at my side and under my eye while we remain here; Mr Blount
shall gain nothing by it. The worry and botheration will injure me, I
know, and may even have the worst consequences; but it will be your
fault, Joseph Naylor, and some day, when it is too late, you will
regret it. I would not have believed that it was in you to be so
unkind."
"Good night," said Joseph, getting away at last; and before many
minutes more, he too was one of the army of sleepers.