IN THE SHADOW OF THE SHIP
The rest of the afternoon passed swiftly enough for Revere, because he
was busy. He wrote a long letter to Josephine Remington, telling her
frankly the whole situation: how he had met this girl, how he had
loved her, how he had struggled against the feeling that had sprung up
in his heart, honorably intending to keep his engagement, but each
moment convinced him of the depth and fervor of this sudden affection.
How he had come to the conclusion that it was not fair to bind her to
a man who, while he admired and respected her, while he should ever
hold her in the highest regard, did not, and could not, love her.
He had written to her thus frankly that she might break the
engagement. He could not, he said, flatter himself that she loved him,
or that it meant much to her; yet if he grieved her, he humbly begged
her pardon, and hoped that some day, when she truly loved some one,
she would find excuse for him.
It was fearfully hard to write such a letter, and as he read it over
it seemed almost brutal in its frankness. Yet he reasoned that it were
better to write it as he had than to attempt to conceal the facts;
still, it was with many misgivings and thoroughly sick at heart at the
unfortunate plight in which he had involved himself that he sealed it
up.
The other letter was to the Secretary of the Navy. Revere reported
faithfully the condition of the ship, estimated carefully what he
thought she would be worth as firewood,--for the materials in her were
fit for no other purpose,--and then frankly offered to buy her himself
for twice the value he had put upon her. In a private letter, which he
had enclosed in his official report, the secretary being an old friend
of his family, he told why he wished to purchase the ship. He told him
about the admiral, and the old sailor, and the admiral's
granddaughter. He made him see very clearly that it would kill the old
man to have the ship broken up, and, since he possessed ample means,
he wished to have the privilege of purchasing it himself and saying
nothing about it to the admiral, or to any one,--letting it stand
where it was as long as it would. As a matter of fact, it would fall
to pieces in a short time he was certain, and the admiral need never
know anything about the transaction, provided the secretary were
willing.
If there was any doubt as to the accuracy of his valuation of the
ship, he suggested that another officer could be sent to appraise her,
and he stood ready to pay twice the amount of the next appraisement
for the privileges of ownership. In fact, the matter would best be
done that way. It was a nice letter, and he felt sure his request
would be granted.
Revere felt much better when he had completed these two letters. He
felt that he could save the ship for the old admiral, and that he
could save his honor as well by his tardy action. He gave the letters
to his man, directing him to mail the one to the Secretary of the
Navy, and get a horse and ride back to his mother's summer home at
Alexandria Bay, deliver the other in person, and bring the answer to
him immediately. He could not hear too quickly from Josephine.
The admiral retired early that evening,--was it from a consideration
of past experience, thought Revere,--so the two lovers were left
alone.
"Emily," said the young lieutenant, coming over toward her as the door
closed behind the old veteran.
"No, no, not here, I beg of you!" said the girl, rising to her feet.
"Come, let us go out into the moonlight. Down to the old ship. It
should be a part--a witness--of our betrothal. I, too, have loved it.
The earliest recollections of my childhood are about it. It has been a
part of my life as well. Come, let us go."
She extended her hand to him as she spoke. He took it gravely, and the
two stepped out of the house and stood upon the porch. The moonlight
streamed across the old ship, standing lonely and still upon the Point
beneath them. The cracks and crannies, the gaping seams of the broken,
mouldering sides, the evidences of decay, were hidden in the shadows
cast by the soft splendor.
They walked down to it and stopped in its shadow. Black, solid, and
terrible in the silver light it loomed above their heads. They stood
almost beneath it, and it towered into the skies above them. A trick
of the imagination would have dowered it with spars covered with
clouds of snowy canvas, and launched it upon the sea of dreams.
The girl still held the hand of the young officer. He waited for her
pleasure, something telling him he should not wait in vain.
"I brought you here, Richard," she said, at last, very gravely, "that
the old ship might hear you say,"--the words came from her in a faint
whisper,--"that the ship might hear you say--you--loved me. Here I
have stood often, gazing out upon the water, dreaming and waiting.
Waiting for you, Richard, dreaming of you. And here you come to me and
here--I give myself to you."
She faced him as she spoke and took his other hand. He stared at her
in the shadow of the ship. The little autumn breeze swept softly over
their faces. Slowly he bent his head toward her. She awaited him,
smiling faintly, her heart beating half fearfully. It was so new and
sweet. Then his lips met her own; he kissed her, he swept her to his
breast, he gathered her in his arms. Her head lay upon his shoulder,
her face was upturned to his. Her eyes were light in the darkness to
him. The perfume of her breath enveloped him. A faint, passionate sigh
of joy and content ineffable escaped her. He drank in the white,
exquisite perfection of feature so close to him; the purity of her
soul spoke there equally with the passion of her heart. She was his,
his own; she loved him, she gave herself to him! May God deal so with
him as he dealt with her!
"I love you, I love you!" he murmured.
Pity 'tis that there is no new word for each new meeting and mating of
human hearts in this old world.
Pity 'tis that the words we say so lightly, that we use so frequently
of things of less, of little, moment, should be the only ones we have
with which to voice the deepest feeling of our being. Yet when the
hour strikes, to each heart they come with the freshness of a new
revelation, with the assurance of an eternal truth undiscovered until
that hour. Never again would Emily be so happy as in that supreme
moment of avowal and confession.
"I love you, I love you!"
It was only a whisper. She would have felt the truth had he been
voiceless.
"I love you, I love you!"
It was but a murmur that blended with the sigh of the wind, that
harmonized with the sound made by the breeze as it swept through the
cracks and crannies of the ship, yet another listened, another heard.
Profanation to the royal arcanum of their hearts!
One had marked them descending the hill, one had divined that they
would stop by the ship, one had gone down into the grim, black depths
of the monster and with his ear pressed against the riven side had
heard, and in the hearing had understood what he could not see.
So despair, heart-break, envy, jealousy, raged a few feet from love
and joy and peace ineffable.
So in life it happens. Was there not a serpent in the Garden of Eden?
As he heard the sound of lip on lip, the break of kisses, and the
murmur of caressing words, the man listening could endure no more. He
turned and stumbled blindly away. Had it been mid-day he could not
have seen where he went.
The sound of his going startled Emily.
"What is that?" she cried; "something moving on the ship!"
They listened, but Barry had gone far enough away by that time for
them not to hear him more.
"'Twas nothing, dearest," answered Revere, holding her tenderly to
him; "a piece of timber, a loosened plank, a tottering frame. The
newest and best of ships are full of strange sounds, much more these
old ones."
"Bit by bit it wears away," said the girl, sadly.
"Ay, sweet, old things go, but new ones come," answered Revere. "Life
ends, yes, but new life begins. It begins for us. Come. We have told
the ship the story. Let us go back to the hill."
"Keep thou the secret, old ship," said Emily, fancifully, yet half in
earnest; "tell it not while thou livest, and if thou must fall, let it
perish with thee."
She bent and kissed the plank. Where she kissed it Barry had listened.
The whisper of love and the oath of despair,--a few inches of
sheathing alone divided them.