NOBLE REVENGE
George Houghton took to the mountain solitudes a better and purer spirit
than Clancy, who was so ready to be consoled by ambition and the
fascinations of a woman incapable of evoking the best in his nature. The
young fellow did fish and hunt with tireless energy, and many a humble
cabin was stocked with provisions by his exertions. Believing that not
only Bodine, but also that Ella herself, would have nothing to do with
him, his affectionate nature turned to his father. With a large charity he
tried to forget the stern words which had sorely wounded him, and only to
remember the influences on his father's life which had led to their
utterance. He recalled the abundant proofs of his kindness and liberality;
and, now that his young dream was over, he purposed to carry out the old
man's schemes as best he could.
He tired himself out through the long hot days, and slept at night from
exhaustion. The time thus passed until he felt that he had the strength to
return to the city, and act as if Ella did not dwell there. He also
thought of his father's need of help, and regretted that he had remained
away so long.
The old man looked at him keenly when he returned, seeing that the young
face had grown older by years, and that steadiness of purpose and
resolution were in its every bronzed line.
"It's all right, father," George replied to the questioning glance. "I've
come back to carry out your wishes."
"Ah, my boy! now I know that you are made of the same stuff as your
brother. Well, you won't be sorry."
"I wish to leave this town, and I wish you would too. I don't think it's
good for you to be here."
"I'll think of it, George. I have thought of it. I shouldn't be mulish
since you are not."
"I'm glad you feel so about leaving, father. Go back with me to your old
congenial friends and surroundings. I, for one, don't wish to stay where I
am ostracized."
"Oh, curse the rebels! I've punished them! I've punished them well!"
"I don't wish to punish them; but, since they will have nothing to do with
me, a decent self-respect leads me to go where I can be treated according
to my behavior."
"I know you can't feel as I do. All I ask is that you have nothing to do
with them."
For the next few days, regardless of the heat, George toiled early and
late in his father's office, incited by the hope of soon taking the old
man away on a visit to the more bracing climate of the North. In the
evenings he refreshed himself by a long swim in the harbor, and by sailing
his boat over its waters.
One evening, while enjoying the latter favorite pastime in the early
twilight, it so happened that he caught sight, in a passing boat, of a
group which made his heart throb quickly. In the stern sat Captain Bodine
steering the vessel toward the city. Ella was near him, and two ladies
whom he did not know. As a hunter his eyes were keen, and he was satisfied
that he had not been recognized. He could not resist the temptation to get
a better view of Ella, and, drawing his hat over his eyes, he began to
manoeuvre his boat so as to accomplish his purpose.
His little craft skimmed here and there so swiftly, as he tacked, that
Ella at last began to watch it with a pleased yet languid interest,
remarking, "That boat yonder tacks about and sails as if it were alive."
"Yah, yah, so 'tis alibe," said the negro owner of the craft which Bodine
had hired for their excursion. "Young Marse Houghton sail dat boat, an' he
beats any duck dat eber swum."
Ella's breath came quick, and she turned pale and red in her conflicting
feelings, for it was evident that Houghton was purposely keeping near to
them. She saw the frown on her father's face, and that Mara's expression
was grave. Mrs. Hunter indignantly said, "He had better go on and mind his
own business. Why should old Houghton's son be hovering around us like a
hawk, I'd like to know?"
"The harbor is as free to him as to us," Ella answered, hotly.
Mrs. Hunter pursed her lips and looked unutterable things at the girl, but
she regarded neither the matron's sour expression nor her father's stern
glance, for her eyes were fascinated and held by the vessel which sped
along the water like a white-winged gull. No one except Ella and the
colored man continued the observance of Houghton. The girl was in a
perverse mood, and watched until her father rebukingly spoke her name;
then she turned away.
Meanwhile George gazed wistfully at one whom he believed that he might
never see again; for he and his father were almost ready for their visit
North, where the young man was to remain. Then he saw her steady gaze in
his direction. Could she have recognized him? Did she continue to watch
him because of some faint interest? His pulses quickened at the thought.
After a few moments he said bitterly: "Yes, she knows me at last, and
turns away. Very well, away go I, then."
At this moment he caught a glimpse of the western sky, and his sailor
instincts were alarmed. There was a single dark cloud rising rapidly,
portending not a storm, but sudden, violent gusts. In the gathering gloom
all thought of vanishing was abandoned. No matter how Ella regarded him,
he would not be far away while there was a shadow of danger to her.
Examining his sail carefully he knew he could drop it to the point of
safety at a moment's notice.
The wind on which he had been sailing died out. Then came little puffs
from the west. To catch these the colored skipper of the captain's boat
took the helm and tacked, presenting a broad surface of sail to their
force. Houghton tacked also in the same direction, but with his eye on the
westward water, and his hand on the rope which would bring down his sail
with a run. He speedily had need of this caution. There was a distant
roar, the water shoreward darkened, and then, as his sail came down and
the prow of his boat went round to the gust, he was enveloped in a cloud
of spray. At the same instant shrill screams of women and the hoarse cries
of men came from Bodine's vessel.
The fury of the first gust passed quickly. When the atmosphere cleared a
little, Houghton saw that the mast of the other craft had broken, and,
with the sail, lay over on the leeward side. He instantly knew that the
occupants were in imminent danger. Raising his sail as high as he dared,
he tacked toward them with such nice judgment that if he kept on he would
pass a little abaft of the disabled vessel.
"Oh, Marse Houghton! come quick," yelled the negro. "She'm won' float
anoder minit!"
"Bail, you lubber!"
"Don got notin to bail wid!"
"As usual," growled Houghton.
All the rest were now silent. In his agonized apprehension for Mara and
Ella, Bodine felt his heart beat as it had never done in the bloodiest
battle. His careless boatman had not recognized the danger since the cloud
was so comparatively small, and when he sought to lower the sail something
was out of gear and it stuck. The gust struck it fairly, and would have
capsized the boat had not the mast broken. As it was, the vessel so
careened as to ship a dangerous quantity of water, which was rapidly
increased by every wave that broke over the sides.
Mara and Mrs. Hunter were pallid indeed, but calm in woman's patient
fortitude, remembering, too, even in that awful moment, that if they
escaped they would owe their lives to one whom they regarded with scorn
and hostility. Ella's hope buoyed her spirit, although she felt herself
sinking deeper every moment in the cold waters. With love's confidence she
believed that Houghton would be equal to the emergency, and his swiftly
coming sail was like the white wings of an angel. Then for an instant she
was perplexed and troubled, for he seemed to be steering as if to pass
them, near, yet much too far.
"She'm sinkin', she'm goin' un'er," the negro yelled.
"Be ready, every one, to jump the moment I lay alongside," Houghton
shouted. Then he luffed sharply to the wind, dropped his sail; his light
craft lost headway, and glided alongside of the sinking boat.
"Now jump, all," he cried.
The women and negro did so and were safe, but the crippled veteran failed,
fell backward, and would have dragged Ella, who held his hand, with him,
had not Houghton broken her grasp. As quick as light he sprang into the
vessel, now down to the water's edge, and fairly flung the captain into
his own boat. As he did so the water-logged craft went down, and he with
it. Ella shrieked and called his name imploringly. In the wild anguish of
the moment she would have jumped overboard after him had she not been
restrained.
"Patience," cried her father, "he will rise in a moment."
Houghton's little boat, now so heavily freighted, had almost gone under in
the suction. The negro, rendered half wild with terror, was bent only on
saving his own life. He was scarcely in the boat before he had the oars in
the rowlocks, and began to pull for the shore. In their eager scanning of
the dark water, Bodine and the others did not notice this at first, and
when they did the negro was deaf to their expostulations and threats. The
captain tried to reach him as he heaped maledictions on his head, but at
that instant another squall swooped down, enshrouding them in spray, and
nearly swamping their frail vessel. They sat silent and trembling,
expecting Houghton's fate, but the gust passed finally, and the lights of
the city gleamed out.
"Now put about, you--coward," thundered Bodine.
"No, sah, neber," replied the negro; "de boat swamp in two mi nit if I put
'bout in dis sea."
The veteran began to crawl toward him to compel obedience. The man
shouted: "Stop dat ar. Ef you comes nigher I hit you wid'n oar. Bettah one
drown dan we all drown."
Ella gave a despairing cry, and found oblivion in a deathlike swoon.
"Truly, Captain Bodine," said Mrs. Hunter sternly, "you must keep your
senses. If the man is right, and we have every reason to believe he is,
you must not throw away all our lives for the chance of saving one."
Then she, with Mara, gave all her attention to Ella.
The captain groaned aloud, "Would to God it had been me instead of him!"
Between his harrowing solicitude for Ella, and the awful belief that
Houghton had given his life for him, he passed moments which whitened his
hair.
As they neared the landing the water grew stiller, and their progress more
rapid. Assured of safety, the negro began to reason and apologize. "Mus'
be reas'n'ble, boss," he said. "I dun declar ter you dat we'd all be at de
bottom, feedin' fishes, if I'd dun wot you ax. Been no use nohow. Young
Marse Houghton mus' got cotched in de riggin' or he'd come up an' holler.
I couldn't dibe a'ter 'im in de dark, and in dat swashin' sea."
"Stop your cursed croaking. If you had known how to manage your boat it
wouldn't have happened."
"I dun my bes', boss. S'pose I want ter lose my boat an' my life? I'se
jis' busted, an' I kin neber go out on de harbor agin widout fearin' I see
young Marse Houghton's spook. I'se wus off dan you is, but I'se he'p you
wen we gits asho', if you ain't 'tankerous."
"Certainly you must help us," said Mrs. Hunter, decidedly. "You must get
men and a carriage. Captain Bodine has lost his crutches, and his daughter
is in a swoon. If you help us I will testify that you did the best you
could under the circumstances."
"All right, missus. I kin swar dat it ud been death to hab dun any oder
ting."
The carriage was brought, and men lifted into it the unconscious girl and
the almost equally helpless veteran. Then one mounted the box with the
driver and another ran for a physician, who was directed to go to Mrs.
Bodine's residence. The negro carefully moored Houghton's boat, feeling
that there might be something propitiatory to the dreaded ghost in this
act. He then hastened to his humble cabin, and filled the cars of his
family and neighbors with lamentations over the lost boat and lost man,
and also with self-gratulations that he was alive to tell the story.
On the way home, Mara took the stricken veteran's hand and said: "Captain,
you must bear up under this. In no respect have you been to blame."
"Nevertheless," he replied, and there was almost desperation in his tone:
"I feel that it will prove the most terrible misfortune of my life. Ella
may never be herself again, and I have wronged one to whom I can never
make reparation--a noble, generous boy who has taken a revenge like
himself, but which is scorching my very soul."
"You are noble yourself, captain, or you wouldn't feel it so keenly," was
the gentle reply.
Mrs. Bodine, without waiting for explanations, peremptorily ordered that
Ella should be carried to her room. The veteran, using a second pair of
crutches which he kept in reserve, went to the adjoining apartment, buried
his face in his hands, and groaned audibly. He knew not how to perform one
imperative and pressing duty, that of relating to Mr. Houghton what had
happened.
Aware of what was on his mind, Mara came to him and said, "I will go and
tell his father."
"God bless you, Mara, for the offer. I would rather face death than that
old man, but it is my duty and I alone must do it. Hard as it is, it is
not so terrible as the thought that the poor boy died for me and mine, and
that I can never make the acknowledgment which his heroic self-sacrifice
deserves. It would have been heroic in any man, but in him whom I had
treated with such bitter scorn and enmity--How can I meet Ella's eyes
again! Oh, I fear, I fear all this will destroy her!"
"Courage, my friend," said Mara, putting her hand on his shoulder. "Ella
will live to comfort you."
"Mara, you will not fail me?"
"No, I will not fail you."
He pressed her hand to his lips, and then she returned to Ella.
Mrs. Hunter and old Hannah removed the poor girl's wet garments and
applied restoratives. The invalid, whose strength and spirit rose with the
emergency, directed their efforts, meantime listening to the fragmentary
explanations which were possible at such a time.
"Oh, just God!" she exclaimed, "we are punished, terribly punished for our
thoughts and actions toward that poor boy. Ella, dear child, was right
after all, and we all wrong. She might well love such a hero."
At last Ella gave signs of returning consciousness. Mrs. Bodine hastened
to the captain, and said: "Cousin Hugh, Ella is reviving. You must control
yourself. Everything depends on how we tide her over the next few hours."
The length of the swoon revealed the force of the blow which the loving
girl had received. Perhaps the long oblivion was nature's kindly effort to
ward off the crushing weight. Mrs. Bodine hung over her when she opened
her eyes with a dazed expression. "There, Ella dear," she said, "don't
worry. You'll soon be better. Take this," and she gave the girl a little
brandy and water.
The powerful stimulant acted speedily on an unvitiated system, and with
returning strength memory recalled what had befallen the one she loved.
From tears she passed to passionate sobs, writhing and moaning, as if the
agony of her spirit had communicated itself to every fibre of her body.
"Oh, Ella, darling, don't," cried her father. "I cannot endure this. He
has conquered me utterly; my prejudice is turned into homage. We will all
love and revere his memory. Would to God it had been I instead of him!"
"There, Hugh, thank God," said Mrs. Bodine, "that Ella can weep. Such
tears keep the heart from breaking."
The old lady was right. Expression of her anguish brought alleviation, and
there was also consolation in her father's words. The physician came, and
his remedies also had their effect.
There was nothing morbid or unhealthful in Ella's nature. With returning
reason came also the influence of conscience and the sustaining power of a
brave, unselfish spirit. Her father had put himself in accord with her
feelings, and her heart began to go out toward him in tenderness and
consideration, and she said brokenly: "Papa, I will rally. I will live for
your sake, since you will let me love his memory."
"You cannot love it or honor it more than I shall," he replied, in a voice
choked with emotion. Then he took the physician into the adjoining room,
to consult how best they might break the dreadful news to Mr. Houghton.
At this moment the front door burst open, and hasty, uncertain steps were
heard.