Marriage and Departure
For a little while after Mr. Stewart had communicated this important
news they all sat in perfect stillness: C. B. because he did not in the
least understand what had happened, but he could see it was something
that had tremendously upset these two people who were so dear to him.
Mr. Stewart was the first to speak.
“I can never feel sufficiently grateful,” he said, “for the impulse
to fix up that annuity for Taber on the spot and for yielding to it.
It was only in the nick of time, for this great crash came yesterday
afternoon. Had I been in San Francisco it would not have---- But there,
why should I say that, Levy is as good and keen and straight a man as
I am, and the very best of us get caught sometimes. Even now, if it
wasn’t for you, my boy, I think I should have turned to and had a fight
for it; but you’ve kinder infected me with your pleasant doctrines,
putting me out of conceit with money grubbing for its own sake.”
Mary here burst in impetuously--
“Oh, dear Daddy, that I should hear you say so makes me so glad. I feel
glad to think that we have lost our money if only we can get to this
happy land that Christmas is looking forward to so hungrily. I felt
almost jealous of it, and now I am as eager as he is.”
Just then a rap came at the door and in walked the bell-boy with a
telegram. The old gentleman tore it open and fell back in his chair,
his face ghastly. Both Mary and C. B. sprang to his assistance, but
he roused himself with an effort, and waving them back to their seats
said, in a hard, strained voice--
“Mary, my love, your poor mother couldn’t stand the strain, she’s dead.”
Mary sat as if stricken to the heart, unable to speak, but she was a
girl of great force of character, and she was rallying all her forces
to meet this quite unexpected blow.
So her father resumed, saying, “She always had a weak heart as you
know, dear, and besides she always had a dread that we should come to
poverty. And so I suppose, when some heartless fool blurted out in her
hearing that Levy and Stewart had burst up, the blow was more than
she could stand. And so she died far away from me. Poor Mary, dear
wife. There’s one consolation, she went as she had always wished to
go without a long probation of pain, instantaneously from one life to
another, thank God. And now, dear ones, I’ll get you to excuse me. I’ve
been very hard hit and I feel old and tired. I need rest and quiet,
and so I’ll go to my room and lie down a bit. Christmas, I’ll leave
you to comfort Mary as no one else can.” And he left the room, walking
heavily, almost dragging one foot after the other.
C. B. rose on the instant and strode to Mary’s side, where she sat with
lips tight shut, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright and dry.
“Dearest one,” he murmured, taking her in his strong arms, “don’t fight
against your natural feelings. It is sometimes good to cry, I feel sure
it would be good for you now. And if ever any one had reason to cry it
is at the loss of a good mother.”
The last word, softly uttered as it was by her lover, touched the
hidden spring of her tears, and they flowed, easily, gently, but
copiously, C. B. holding her in his arms and stroking her beautiful
hair as if she were a child. And at last she lifted her head and looked
him full in the face, saying--
“I do thank God, Christmas, that we’ve got you in this difficult
time. Do you know, I think even poor old dad will come to lean upon
you directly as I feel I must do now. Why is it, I wonder? I suppose
because you are really dwelling in the shadow of the Almighty God, and
the changes and chances of this mortal life seem such trivial things to
you.”
C. B. fondled her hair a moment or two longer before he replied--
“No, darling, they none of them seem trivial, but I know in whom I have
believed, and because He is infinitely wise I do not worry, being sure
that He will do His part. I only try to do mine without hitting my head
against a brick wall, as I now know some people do if they want to get
it down, instead of waiting to hear from God whether it is good that
the wall shall come down or not.”
“Ah,” she said in reply, “I’m afraid I shall never come to your
standard. Even now you don’t seem to worry at all about getting back
home, yet I feel you must be longing to see your mother and father
again and all your friends as well. And it is so far away as well
as being a difficult place to get to. I have not heard you say one
impatient word about getting back, and, do you know, dearest (I’m going
to tell you everything), I can’t help wondering sometimes whether you
are not just a little callous, unfeeling in some things.”
As she said this she looked at him keenly to see how he would take it.
His face lit up with a beautiful smile as he replied, “No, dearest,
I don’t think so. I do feel very keenly, more keenly than I wish,
all that goes on around me, but if I have understood anything of the
character of Jesus, its principal feature was that in His love for
others He had no room for thinking about Himself. All that concerned
His personal welfare He left to His Father, and in that I do try, I
have always tried to imitate Him, because I have found it the easiest
thing to do, I suppose. What seems so strange to me is that any one
should wonder at me doing this or trying to do it. The Gospels are full
of instructions about it, Christianity seems to be built on the words
‘trust in God,’ and yet you, dearest, and others whom I have met who
are like-minded, look upon me as a being whom they cannot understand
for practising what is so continually preached.”
All she answered was--
“Forgive me, dear, if I can help it I will never allude to it again,
but try as hard as I can to imitate the practice, knowing from your
example how good it is. But I can tell you one thing that will surprise
you,” she went on. “If any of my friends, however Christian their
profession, had been in our position, you would have heard worrying and
weeping enough, I can assure you. People don’t cast all their care upon
the Lord in practice, only in theory, at least no people that I’ve ever
met but you. And it seems to me that you don’t get any care, that is
you don’t let things become a care to you.”
Just then Mr. Stewart came in, looking perceptibly older and seeming
to stoop more. “Now, my children,” he said, “it will be best for us
to have a consultation. I’ve quite made up my mind to go with you to
Norfolk Island, in fact I had I think before this news came of my
double loss. But it would simplify matters considerable if you two
were married, as well as save expense. What’s your idea, Mary, it’s no
use asking him, because it’s just one of those things that he wouldn’t
trouble about--you’ll have to decide that for him after worrying me so
to let you have him.”
“Father,” said Mary, “would it be right and proper so soon after
mother’s death?”
“I’ve thought of that,” rejoined he, “and unless you care about what
people say I don’t see where the objection lies. When our dear one was
with us she only thought of our happiness, and now she’s gone I’m sure
her spirit is the same towards us. Besides, if you really care about
what people say, remember that nobody knows you here, nor, unless you
want to have the usual big show of a wedding, will anybody know. If I
was you I’d cut all that business out, and I’m sure that if you consult
Christmas he’ll feel the same about it as I do. Only, my best beloved
one, do remember that on this, the greatest occasion of your dear life,
I want you to be quite satisfied and happy.”
While this conversation was proceeding C. B. sat and listened with a
far-away expression in his eyes, which he always wore when anything
was being talked about which he did not understand. And although the
subject under consideration was of vital interest to him, he did not
in the least comprehend their observations upon it. And Mary, catching
sight of his face, said with a smile--
“Oh, father, it’s just too funny us discussing this before him as if he
had nothing to do with it at all. It’s so strange that he should know
nothing of these things. Tell us, dear one”--to C. B.--“what a wedding
is like with your people?”
His face brightened directly and he answered--
“Oh, it is very simple and pretty. We make it a festive occasion
throughout the whole community, no work being done on that day except
what is necessary. The young people stand up before Mr. McCoy, who has
a licence to marry people, and he joins hands pronouncing them man and
wife in the sight of God and of all the people. They take one another
for husband and wife and they are thus made one. Then we have singing,
very much singing and praising God. But before the marriage everybody
has helped to build a house and prepare a piece of land for the couple
so that they have a place to themselves, I was going to say of their
own, but we don’t understand anything being our own as other folks do.
The idea of having anything which we will not share with others is not
known among us.”
“But how about wedding garments?” queried Mary, with a touch of true
femininity.
“Well, as you know,” replied C. B., “we are not troubled with many
clothes, but we put on the best we have, as we do on Sunday when we
all meet at stated hours to worship God in company. And the girls wear
flowers in their hair, which makes them look pretty.”
Mr. Stewart here interposed, saying--
“I don’t think I’d pursue the subject any further if I were you,
Mary. We can be as simple as C. B.’s folk if we like and I think we
had better. As we are going to live like this I think it would be
foolish not to begin as early as we can, and I suggest that we go to a
parson and let him marry you just as is done in the country by eloping
couples,” and he laughed aloud, saying immediately after: “Don’t think
me unfeeling, but the thought of hefty Jim Stewart’s daughter getting
spliced in such a hole and corner fashion as this makes me. I reckon
in the ordinary way your nuptials would have run me into a couple of
hundred thousand dollars at the very least, and we’d a made the Pacific
Slope hum.” For a moment he looked regretful and then his face cleared
and he added, “But I hope we’ve left that costly kind o’ tomfoolery
behind us for ever, darling, and I’m sure we’ll be happier.”
Therefore it came about that the next day, after judicious inquiries
made by Mr. Stewart, that the three went over to Brooklyn to a quiet
Manse, where Mary Stewart and Christmas Bounty Adams were made one by
an aged minister, who behaved as if he fully realized the solemn nature
of the ceremony and was in full sympathy with the comely pair. And
when Mr. Stewart, with a touch of past lavishness would have pressed a
fifty-dollar bill on him as a fee, he refused firmly, saying, “My fee
is five dollars, and I would not take that but that I have to live. Do
not tempt me with much money, friend, for it brings a snare as I know
full well.” Then he gave them his blessing and they returned to the
Everett House, Mr. Stewart introducing the newly wedded pair to the
proprietor as Mr. and Mrs. Adams, in order to save explanations and
invidious remarks.
The rest of the afternoon was devoted to clearing up Mr. Stewart’s
business affairs, a task of no great difficulty, in which he was aided
by his daughter. It mainly consisted in surrendering all he possessed,
except a sum of twenty thousand dollars or four thousand pounds, to the
receivers of his estate. That sum he considered would suffice for all
their needs in their new life, and for everything else preliminary to
commencing it. And this being all put in train the old gentleman rose
with a sigh of relief, collected his papers and put them away. Then he
said--
“Love and business are all very well in their way, but we must also
eat; and now I vote that we go down to the restaurant and do so. It is
early for the regular diners, so that we shall not be crowded.”
He did not tell them that he had ordered a simple little dinner for the
three of them at the far end of the room, where they could be almost
in private; and when C. B. saw the pretty little table decorated with
choice flowers, his face lighted up, and with great delight he called
his bride’s attention to what he considered the kindly behaviour of the
proprietor.
The meal proceeded in the happiest fashion, for though the food was
of the simplest and best they all ate but sparingly, for their hearts
were full of joy and their minds full of hope. But they could not
help noticing that at a table not far from them there was a party of
four young men whose behaviour, from being quiet and gentlemanly at
the outset, as bottle after bottle of champagne was emptied became
boisterous and rude. Presently it became evident that their attention
was entirely directed to the table where our friends sat, and as their
voices grew louder and louder the epithet “nigger” was frequently
heard. Mr. Stewart and Mrs. Adams heard all too clearly, but C. B. was
quite unmoved, for although he heard the uproar he did not understand
its import. At last one of the roysterers rose and shouted for the head
waiter, who came instantly; whereupon the young man demanded to know
why a nigger, coupling the word with other abuse, was allowed to dine
in the same room with white men.
The head waiter endeavoured to explain, but as he did so the other
three joined in the talk, which grew louder and louder until the
proprietor was brought up by one of the other waiters. By this time
Mr. Stewart was fully alive to what was going on, as was his daughter,
and Mary whispered her father that they might slip away. But there
was a dangerous look in the old man’s eyes now and he indignantly
repudiated the suggestion. Then C. B. leaned over and asked him
whatever could be the matter, and how the broil at another table could
affect them. Stewart looked straight at him for a moment and then said--
“The wine has got into their foolish heads, and they are discussing you
as a nigger who has no right to dine in the same room as them. And if I
know the signs, unless the proprietor is a man of grit, there’s going
to be big trouble.”
He had hardly uttered the words before a big raw-boned youth sprang to
his feet and shouted--
“It’s an outrage to have to sit in the same room with a nigger, and you
are a beast to allow it. But I’m going to have him out of it as you
haven’t got the grit, and so here goes.”
With that the crazy creature leapt across the room knocking his chair
half a dozen feet away, and seized the unconscious C. B. by the collar
and arm, at the same time yelling foul abuse. There was a shriek from
Mary, but her father held her arm as she was about to spring to her
husband’s rescue.
“Keep quiet,” he said, “this is where your husband comes in.”
Indeed it was, for C. B., as quietly as if he had been invited to
look at something, rose from his seat and winding his arms around
the frantic youth placed him helpless on the floor. This unexpected
defeat of their champion enraged the other three, who rushed to the
rescue, but were in their turn, attacked by the waiters, who at the
proprietor’s bidding charged on them in force, and succeeded in
overpowering them.
Then C. B. lifted his prostrate enemy into a chair, and holding him
with one hand as if he had been a child waited while Mr. Stewart said--
“You shameless brutes to behave like this. Lucky for you that the
English gentleman you’ve attacked is as good a Christian as you are bad
citizens, or some of you would have been broken all up. You Americans!
I know ye by the back, and you’re a lot of dirt that brings shame upon
the name of American. Take ’em away,” he said to the waiters, “and put
’em on the pavement. It isn’t worth having them arrested, for better
folks than them would be hurt. Now, sir,” turning to the proprietor who
stood looking anxious, “what do you think of this?”
“Well, sir,” replied the proprietor, “I think you and your son-in-law
and his wife had better go as soon as ever you can. You see I’ve got
my living to get and I can’t run counter to public opinion. I’ve no
doubt that Mr. Adams is a perfect gentleman, but he is a bit dark, and,
well, I needn’t explain to you, you know all about it. I shall be glad
if you’ll go to-night, for I don’t think you’d like to hurt a man that
hasn’t harmed you.”
Stewart gave him a look of withering contempt, and then bidding C. B.
and his daughter see to their packing went out, returning in half an
hour with the news that he had secured rooms in a good family hotel,
and concealing the fact that he had arranged for them to have their
meals in private during their stay. An hour later saw them transferred,
Mr. Stewart saying to the proprietor as he took his leave: “I bear
you no ill will, my friend, but if you knew the kind of man you’ve
turned out of your house to-night you’d be sorry for having done so.
He’s worth a whole city full of such empty-headed dregs as those who
insulted him.”
“I fully believe it, Mr. Stewart,” answered the man, “but there’s no
sentiment in business, and I can’t afford to shut my hotel up because
the presence of a good man in it is objected to. In fact we hotel
proprietors make our living mostly out of the bad men, and we must look
after their interest or go out of the business.”
Stewart was so angry that he could not answer, and as soon as possible
they left those inhospitable walls and took up their quarters in their
new abode, feeling, if the truth be told, almost like fugitives from
justice. Then when they had settled down they began to think about
getting away, and for the first time since they had known him C. B.
began to show signs of enthusiasm. It was no easy matter to find any
vessel that was going near their destination, but at last they heard of
a large Boston barque that was bound to Sydney, New South Wales, with
kerosene oil in cases, and they went down to see her. She was a fine
powerful vessel of about 1,300 tons, but by no means intended to carry
passengers. But like most ships of her type she had been built with due
regard to the comfort of her officers as far as accommodation went, and
in her roomy saloon there were two cabins vacant which Mr. Stewart and
C. B. pronounced to be just the thing for them.
So they arranged a passage to Sydney for the three of them for four
hundred dollars, the captain, a shrewd down-easter by the name of
Eldridge, agreeing to lay in extra stores so that they should fare
well on the long passage. Also Mr. Stewart decided to have the cabins
comfortably fitted up, for they looked very bare, and having made his
arrangements and learned that the _Julia D. South_ was to sail in ten
days’ time they returned to their temporary home well pleased with
their day’s work.
To Mr. Stewart’s earnest inquiries C. B. replied that he could give a
list of everything that was most needed by his friends on the island,
for as Mr. Stewart said, it would look mean to go there, intending to
stay for life, empty handed, especially when coming from a land where
all the necessaries as well as the luxuries of life could be so readily
procured. So for the next few days C. B. and his wife were very busily
engaged collecting goods to take with them and having them carefully
packed for sending to the ship. And when at last the sailing day came
they went on board with the full assurance that nothing had been
forgotten, and that they were besides as well equipped for the long
passage before them as it was possible for them to be.
C. B. as the time drew near for leaving America grew steadily more
lively and happy looking, indeed, as his wife said affectionately, he
seemed quite transformed. Her spirits rose with his, for she had been
somewhat depressed at the near prospect of leaving the land of her
birth as she felt for ever. In spite of her deep and true love for her
husband and the certainty she felt that she could know no happiness
apart from him, such feelings were perfectly natural and to be
expected. But when she saw how sedately happy her father seemed to be,
and how bright her husband was, she resolutely put aside all regrets
and determined henceforth to look forward only.
Punctually to the day the _Julia D. South_ cast off her moorings and in
tow of a small tug went swiftly seaward, her three passengers standing
on the monkey poop and watching the fast receding shores with keen
interest. C. B., however, was not long before all his attention was
claimed by the working of the ship. It seemed to him so very long since
he had taken his part in what had become his profession that he watched
with keenest appreciation every bit of work done, his fingers itching
to have a share in it. At last, at the hoisting of the topsails, he
could restrain himself no longer, seeing how great a task it was for
her numerically weak crew, and rushing along to the halyards he caught
hold high above the hands of the two men who were pulling before
the block, and in an instant they felt the benefit of his vigorous
assistance.
Then he forgot all about his being a passenger and to his wife and Mr.
Stewart’s unfeigned amusement joined in heart and soul with the crew at
their work, making his presence most helpfully felt in everything he
touched. As he was doing so the skipper drew near Mr. Stewart and his
daughter, saying--
“Our friend’s been a sailor man, I should say, from the way he handles
himself!”
“You may well say that,” replied Mr. Stewart. “He was a boat steerer or
harponeer in a South Sea whaler, and according to what his old skipper
said the very best in the ship. I’ve never seen him at his work before,
but judging from what I know of him I should say he would be extra good
at anything he undertook. He’s that kind of a man, isn’t he, dear?”
“Indeed he is,” replied Mary, “and oh, I’m so glad that he’s found
something that he likes to do. I know how he has been suffering for
exercise lately.”
When presently C. B. rejoined them, looking with an air of comic
ruefulness at his hands, they roasted him unmercifully for forgetting
his dignity as a cuddy passenger at which he only smiled and replied--
“See what a lazy life does for a man. My hands have got that soft that
it is most painful for me to hold a rope. They feel as if they were all
red hot.” And the skipper, who was listening, laughed loudly before he
remarked that it sounded so familiar to him who had suffered much in
the same way himself.
They had an excellent slant of wind right from the start, which was
most fortunate, for the crew were a poor lot and needed licking into
shape according to Yankee ideas before they were fit to do all that
was required of them. This same drilling hurt C. B. horribly, but
recognizing his position he did not venture to interfere in any way,
even when his gentle wife expressed her indignation at the harsh
treatment the men were receiving. After all, as he explained to her,
there was little real cruelty, it was little more than drill, though he
thought unnecessarily harsh, and he told her of several incidents on
board the _Eliza Adams_ which amazed her.
So that by the time they had reached the equator she was a smart ship
and C. B. with his willing hands, his ready smile and his perfect habit
of non-interference except to help with his great strength was a highly
popular favourite fore and aft. But I regret to say that he was also
taken as soft because of his unfailing good humour, looked upon as a
man you might safely impose upon, and many were the sarcastic remarks
passed upon the hard luck as they called it of his wife, to be tied
to a man who seemed to be utterly devoid of pluck, although they put
it much more coarsely after the manner of seamen. The two aspects in
which he was regarded seemed contradictory, I know, but I have had much
experience of similar cases I am sorry to say.
But the worst offender was the captain. When once a sailing ship is
well started on a long passage the life of her master, unless he be
a man with a good hobby of some kind, is a very lazy one. He has
literally nothing to do except find the ship’s position at noon each
day, and I have often wondered how it is that our sailing ship masters
having so much time on their hands have not turned out a number of
famous literary men from their ranks instead of being represented as
they are, but by one giant, and he a foreigner, Mr. Joseph Conrad.
In captain Eldridge’s case the old adage about Satan’s opportunity
for idle hands held good, and he began to amuse himself by paying
assiduous court to Mrs. Adams, yet in so polite and insidious a manner
that only her feminine wit divined his true intent; even her father,
immersed in books, tryin’ to catch up on to his readin’ as he termed
it, failed to notice anything wrong. And Mary could do nothing, for she
had nothing definite to complain of, and she did not wish to make any
unpleasantness.
C. B. went on his happy way, spending much of his time at work and not
noticing in the least that he was leaving his beloved wife too much
to the attentions of the skipper. Indeed his true and honest mind was
clear and incapable of suspicion, and had any one hinted their ideas
of the wrong drift of things he would have been unspeakably shocked as
well as amazed. And so the clouds thickened insensibly about them as
the good ship sped on.