THE HOME OF THE SEA-MAIDEN
Mr. Richard Revere was a young lieutenant in the navy of the United
States. He came of an ancient and honorable family, possessed of
wealth and station. He had graduated from the Naval Academy in 1863,
and, by an act of daring gallantry in cutting out a blockade-runner,
had easily won a lieutenant's commission. When Farragut sailed into
Mobile Bay on that hot August morning in 1864, the young man stood on
the deck by his side. A Blakely shell from Fort Morgan had seriously
wounded him, and this wound, coupled with a long siege of fever
subsequently, had almost done for him.
Although over a year had elapsed since that eventful day, he had by no
means regained his strength, although he seemed now on the fair road
to recovery. Anxious to be on duty again after this long period of
enforced idleness, he had recently applied for orders, and had been
detailed to proceed to Lake Ontario and make arrangements for the
sale, or other disposal, of the _Susquehanna_. His mother owned a
cottage on one of the Thousand Isles, and the distance was, therefore,
inconsiderable. When the orders had reached him there, he determined
to sail down to Sewell's Harbor in a little yacht which he had
chartered for lake cruising, instead of taking the longer and more
tedious journey by land.
He had reached his destination in the way which has been told. It was
imprudent in him to have attempted to make the mouth of an unknown
harbor in such a storm, and he had nearly paid the penalty for his
folly with his life. Exhausted by his adventure, he fell speedily into
a sound and refreshing slumber, his last thought being of the radiant
face bowed over him when he had opened his eyes in the very room in
which he now sought rest.
He awoke in the morning feeling very much better. On a chair opposite
the bed lay a suit of clothes. He glanced at the garments curiously
and observed that they were the different articles of a blue-jacket's
uniform. They evidently belonged to that sailor-man who had assisted
in his rescue. They were new and spotlessly neat; certainly his best
suit. His own uniform was nowhere to be seen. It must have been badly
torn and, of course, thoroughly soaked by his adventure. His clothes,
probably, were not yet fit to put on. If he were to get up at all he
must make use of these. Well, it would not be the first time that he
had worn a seaman's clothes. They reminded him of his cadet days, and
so he arose, somewhat painfully be it known, and dressed himself,
curiously surveying the room as he did so.
It was a strange room, he thought, for a young girl, as he remembered
that it belonged to her. Her? How indefinite that was! He wished he
knew her name. He wondered whether it were beautiful enough to be
appropriate. He hoped so. The chamber was not at all like that of a
young woman. For instance, there was a deadly looking harpoon standing
in the corner. He picked up the sinister weapon and examined it.
"Queer toy, that thing, for a girl," he murmured; "quite a proper
weapon for a whaler, though."
Its barbs were as sharp and keen as a razor. On the wooden staff the
letters "J. B." were roughly carved. Were those her initials? Pshaw,
of course not! But whose? He experienced quite a thrill of--it could
not be jealousy! That was absurd.
"What's this? A model of a ship. By Jove! I believe it's the old
_Susquehanna_ herself,--the ship I am come to sell! And here's a
shark's tooth rudely carved. Oars in the other corner, too. And a
fish-net and lines! This bunch of wild flowers, though, and the
contents of this bureau mark the woman; but I'm blessed if there isn't
a boatswain's call, laniard and all! That's about the prettiest
laniard I ever saw," he continued, critically examining the knots and
strands and Turk's heads. "Have I stumbled into Master Jack's quarters
by mistake, or--oh, I see how it is. I suppose that old sailor has
loaded her with these treasures. He probably adores her--who could
help it? And the admiral, too. Now, what's this, I wonder? What a
queer-looking sword!"
He lifted up the weapon, which lay on a wooden shelf between the
windows, crossed pistols of ancient make hanging above it beneath a
fine old painting of a handsome young naval officer, in the uniform of
a captain of the 1812 period. The leather scabbard was richly and
artistically mounted in silver, but the hilt was a rough piece of
unpolished, hammered iron. He drew the weapon from the sheath. The
blade was of the most exquisite quality, beautifully chased, a rare
bit of Toledo steel, handsome enough to throw a connoisseur into
ecstasy. He tested it, cautiously at first, and then boldly; it was a
magnificent weapon, tempered to perfection. Such a blade as a king or
conqueror might have wielded,--and yet, that coarse iron hilt! What
could it mean? He thrust it back reverently into its scabbard and laid
it down, and then completed his toilet.
When he was dressed, he took a long look at himself in the little,
old-fashioned mirror swinging between two lyre-shaped standards on the
dresser, and smiled at the picture. In height he was, perhaps, as tall
as the sailor, but in bulk there was no comparison. He laughed at the
way the clothes hung about him. Yet the dashing, jaunty uniform was
not ill adapted to set off his handsome face. It was complete, even to
sheath-knife and belt. On the chair lay the flat cap, bearing on its
ribbon, in letters of gold, the name _Susquehanna_. He put the cap on
and went out on the porch.
Captain Barry was standing at the foot of the steps leading from the
porch, looking at the ship. It was early morning.
"My man," said the young officer, meaning to be entirely friendly and
cordial, as he was profoundly grateful, yet unable entirely to keep
the difference of rank and station out of his voice and manner,--a
condescension which irritated the sailor beyond expression. They were
both dressed exactly alike, and certainly physically the older was the
better man. He had lived long enough in the society of the girl and
the old man to have developed some of the finer feelings of his
nature, too. He shook himself angrily, therefore, as the other spoke.
"My man, you lay me under double obligation. You and your
golden-haired mistress presented me with my life last night, and now
you 'paint the lily'--gad, that's a good simile, isn't it?" he
chuckled to himself--"by giving me your clothes. How am I to acquit
myself of all I owe you?"
"Sir," said the old man, grimly, knuckling his forehead, with a
sea-scrape of his foot, more as a matter of habit than as a token of
respect, "you owe me nothing."
He turned abruptly, and went around the house without looking back.
"Queer duck, that," soliloquized the young man, staring after him in
amazement; "seems to be mad about something. Mad at me, perhaps. I
wonder why? Well, those old shellbacks are apt to take quaint notions.
Never mind; let him do what he likes. Where would you be, Mr. Dick
Revere, if it had not been for him and the girl? How funny I must
look, though! I wonder whether the apparel becomes the man? I flatter
myself I have given the proper hitch to the tie. It is 'a touch of
wild civility that doth bewitch me,'" he quoted. "I wish I had brought
that bo's'n's whistle out. I'd like to sound a call or two."
He drifted off into a brown study, thinking hard in this manner.
"I wonder what Josephine would say if she could see me now? Is all our
difference of rank but a matter of uniform? By Jove! I forgot all
about her. I don't believe I've thought of her since I left them; yet,
if the novels are right, I should have been thinking of her when I
stood on the deck of the yacht expecting every moment would be my
last. I was thinking of that girl in the boat, though. Wasn't she
splendid? Plucky, pretty--well! Gracious me, Richard Revere, at the
age of twenty-four you are surely not going to fall in love with the
first woman you see, especially since you have been engaged to
Josephine Remington pretty much ever since you were born,--or ever
since she was born, which was four years later. But I swear I'd give a
year of Josephine's cold, classic, beautiful regularity for a minute
of--pshaw, don't be a fool! I'll go and look at the yacht. I wonder
whether anything's left of her? Nobody would think there had been a
storm of any kind to look at the lake to-day. What a lovely morning!"
Indeed, the wind had gone down to a gentle breeze, and the surface of
the lake was tossing in thousands of merry little waves, their white
crests sparkling in the sunlight.
"The old ship is still standing," he continued, soliloquizing again,
as he walked toward the bluff. "I suppose it will come awfully hard on
the old man when he finds out that the government is going to sell
her. What did they tell me his name was? Somebody or other
distinguished; I forget who. Must have been a fine old chap in his
day. What was it he said when he looked out of the window before he
bade me good-night? This is going to be rather a tough sort of a job,
I'm afraid, and I don't half like it."
He had reached the hill by this time, and, feeling a little tired, he
sat down on the steps overlooking the sea. There, below him on the
Point, stood the ship-of-the-line. An imposing picture, indeed. He had
been too busy the night before to notice it. He stared at it with
growing interest, and a feeling of pity, for whom, for what, he could
scarcely say, slowly rose in his heart.
"Poor old ship!" he murmured.
A ragged mass of fallen timber on the lee side proclaimed that some
portion of her had been carried away during the storm of the
night,--and she had little left to spare. There, too, on the reef
beyond, were the remains of the _Josephine_, battered into a shapeless
ruin.
"Well, that was a close shave; the _Josephine_ will never carry sail
again. What melancholy pictures!" he said, thoughtfully; "poor little
boat, too! I've had many a good time on her, and now I--But I'd
cheerfully give a dozen yachts," he continued, with the reckless
hyperbole of youth, "to be rescued by----"