FACING WORLD-OLD PROBLEMS
When the lights in the house were all out, and they had all gone to
their rest or their restlessness, to their dreams or their oblivion,
the sailor returned to his ship. Lighting his lantern, that hung in
the sheltered corner aft where he slung his hammock, he pulled from
the breast of his shirt a little bundle of water-stained papers. One
was a long, official-looking envelope, bearing the stamp of the Navy
Department, and evidently containing an order or an important
communication. Barry had often seen such envelopes addressed to the
admiral. The others, if he could judge from the outside, were private
letters, and the envelopes bore, he thought, a woman's handwriting. He
arrived at this last conclusion instinctively, for he was without
familiarity with such things; he had scarcely ever received a letter
in his fifty years of life.
He had found them that morning on the shore by the landing, where they
had fallen from the pocket of Revere's coat the night before. Instead
of handing them to the young man, he had retained them; moved by what
idea that they might be of value to him some day, who could say?
The envelopes had all been opened, and nothing prevented him from
examining the contents. He was but a rude sailor; the niceties and
refinements of other ranks of life were not for him, yet he hesitated
to read the documents. Two or three times he half drew one of the
letters from its envelope only to thrust it resolutely back. Miss
Emily would not have read them, nor the admiral either; that he knew.
Finally he gathered up the handful, put them in the locker near where
he stood, and turned the key. He would not read them, but he would not
return them, either.
Ah, Barry, 'tis not alone hesitant woman who loses!
He had won a partial advantage, the first skirmish in a battle which
was to be renewed with increasing force with every passing hour. He
would have given the world to have examined those documents and
papers. They would tell him something of the errand of the man,
perhaps; but he had not reached the breaking point,--not yet,
although, under the influence of his furious jealousy and consequent
animosity, he was not far from it. Unconsciously he contrasted Revere
with himself, and suffered keenly in the ever-growing realization of
his disadvantage. Old, common, rude, lonely, faithful, that was
all,--and it was not enough.
As for Revere, the loss of the letters, which he had discovered when
he put on his own uniform, annoyed him somewhat, although he did not
consider it serious. That afternoon he had written to the Navy
Department detailing his accident and asking that new orders be made
out for him. He had also written to his mother, lightly mentioning his
adventure and his lost baggage, and directing that other clothing be
sent him immediately by his man. In this letter he had enclosed a
short note for Josephine. In neither of them did he dwell much upon
Emily Sanford.
Of the trio in the house he was one to whom oblivion did not come
readily that night. He was facing a very serious crisis in his life.
He had been betrothed to Josephine Remington, a far-off connection of
his mother, since his graduation, and the betrothal was only the
carrying out of a plan which had long been agreed upon between the
respective families. The engagement was a matter of general notoriety,
and was an accepted fact among their many friends. In the absence of
any other affection, he had never realized that he had not loved
Josephine as he should, and never suspected, until he had felt the
touch of genuine passion, and had become thereby an authority upon the
subject, that she did not love him either.
But what was to be done was a grave question. Was it right for him to
make love to Emily Sanford, which he had certainly done, by
implication at least, and which he certainly wanted to do directly and
unequivocally, under the circumstances? or, was it right to allow
Emily Sanford to fall in love with him, which, without vanity, he felt
she might do, and which he fervently hoped with all his soul she would
do, while he was engaged to Josephine? It certainly was not right.
That was a conclusion about which there could be no other opinion.
He finally resolved that he would treat Emily Sanford with proper
reserve, and circumspectly watch his conduct toward her for the
present. Perhaps it would be best, after all, to try to put her out of
his heart and keep to his engagement his mind suggested faintly. That
was impossible he felt in his heart. It was Emily or nothing. No, he
could not and he would not. He must at once secure a release from the
one so that he could have the right to woo the other honorably and
openly.
Yet, how to be free? Could he ask Josephine to release him? What would
his mother think of such a demand, and how would his conduct in the
affair be regarded by his friends? And yet he could not carry out his
engagement. That was final. In one moment the delusion of years which
he had accepted--nay, even encouraged--with a youth's indifference had
been swept away. Love had smitten him; his eyes, too, had been opened.
Whatever betided, there was but one woman in the world for him. Yet he
must conceal his feeling and make no avowal until he was free. Poor
Richard! He did not realize that the man does not live who can conceal
from the woman he loves the fact that he loves her. It is in the very
air, and nature has a thousand ways to tell the tale, with each one of
which the most untutored woman suddenly grows familiar at the right
moment.
They were puzzling and annoying questions, but, with a conduct quite
what would be expected from so gallant a sailor, he at last made up
his mind. Of one thing he was certain,--that he loved Emily, and that
she was the only woman in the world for him. And he would be free. So
Revere, like Barry, hesitated and was lost!
Even the situation with regard to the old ship was a puzzling one.
There would be no evading the orders of the government. The ship must
be sold to the best advantage and broken up. Yet to destroy the ship
was to write the admiral's death-warrant. He had to obey his orders.
No sentimental considerations would be allowed to interfere with the
command of the department. Still, how could he do it? He did not dare
tell the news to the admiral, he could not mention it to Emily, he
would not even like to declare it to the old sailor.
The more he considered the situation the more unfortunate the position
in which he found himself. As a lover,--of Emily, that is,--he was
pledged to another woman. As a guest of the admiral, he was there to
take away the ship. And, although he entered little into his
calculations, he might have added, had he known it, that on both
counts, ship and maiden, he was about to break the heart of the man
who had saved his life. And all of this had been brought about in the
most innocent and unwitting way. He felt himself, in some strange
manner, the sport of a hard and malignant fortune.
The night was still and calm to the admiral, sleeping dreamlessly
without foreboding; but to his granddaughter--ah, she was the dreamer.
This young hero, this demigod from over the sea, how he had looked at
her, how he had listened to her, how his eyes had seemed to pierce the
very depths of her maiden soul! He had not complimented her upon her
singing; he had only asked for more and still more. And how
beautifully his voice had blended with hers! Was he, indeed, the fairy
prince come at last to awaken the sleeping beauty of her passion,--to
kiss into life the too long dormant feeling in her heart?
There are songs without words in maidens' hearts, and one of them
rippled through the innocence of her girlish soul in the still watches
of that heavenly night.
And they all forgot old Barry alone on the ship.