Woven with the Ship Part 16

"Yes, yes, I believe," mournfully.

"And you will trust me?"

"Yes, I suppose I will have to trust you," she answered.

"But you won't do that merely because you have to, will you?" pleaded the young man, coming nearer to her.

"No," she said at last, faintly. "I will trust you because I--I love you."

He suddenly swept her to his breast again and kissed her once more.

But she did not return his kiss, and immediately thrust him away from her.

"Please do not do that again, Richard; at least not yet," she murmured, as she resolutely disengaged herself from his embrace. "Poor girl! you don't love her. And now good-night. I must think--it's all so strange--I don't know. We will talk over what is best in the morning."

"But you love me still? You won't let this make any difference, will you?" he pleaded, in deadly anxiety, stretching out his hands to her.

"It won't make any difference in my love,--nothing will ever change that," she answered, sadly; "but it makes a great difference in my happiness."

Poor Emily! she was just learning that the beginning of a woman's love is forgiveness.

In the oldest of Books is written, "It is not good that man should be alone," and the saying is as true as it is ancient. The human being who looks at things through but one pair of eyes--his own--is apt to receive distorted impressions, to see strange visions, and to dream fearful dreams.

To be solitary is to go mad. Society is the preserver and promoter of intelligence and all the virtues; alas! of many of the vices as well.

Men--ay, and women, too--have tried to dispense with humanity, seeking something higher. They have withdrawn themselves from the world a while, and, far from the madding crowd's ign.o.ble strife, in the vast expanse of some limitless desert, or upon some rough-ribbed Sinai's rocky crest, in seclusion from the sound of tongues and the war of men, have sought to draw near to G.o.d.

And they have not found Him. Rather Satan has entered into them and they have become victims of diabolic obsession. For G.o.d is in the people. The human touch conveys the divine. The attrition of men is the outward force that makes character. Life is to fit in and be a part of daily duty among common men. So other and higher life is won.

Barry was a man, alone,--a madman now. Revere had added the finis.h.i.+ng touch by breaking in upon the man's solitude. The admiral was becoming only a daily duty to the sailor. Habit had almost encysted his affection for his superior. As Emily had approached womanhood she had drawn away from Barry. He wors.h.i.+pped her from a greater and greater distance, constantly increasing. And now that she loved one of her own age and her own cla.s.s, the old man felt that she had almost vanished from his sight. The last link that held him in touch with humanity was breaking. Should he not strike while there was time? Love was not for him, but hate is everybody's. He should claim his portion.

The rotting s.h.i.+p was his mountain, his desert, his hermitage. Its bare, gaunt timbers were his horizon. He looked, he listened, he read again the letters, he agonized, he broke, and was lost. And when the devil came to him, under the guise of good to be accomplished, he found a place ready, swept and garnished for him.

Oh, poor, blind, possessed old sailor!

CHAPTER XVI

A CLOUD ON THE HORIZON

A quickened conscience is not the best of soporifics, and Revere was a long time in getting to sleep. The miserable situation into which he had plunged himself, however, was alleviated by the consciousness, of which nothing could deprive him, that Emily loved him. And he persuaded himself that when a girl, such as he fancied her, loved, she loved forever. Which was true. There was much comfort for him in the idea. He could not, however, take the joy that should have been his in the realization of this glorious fact until his affairs with Josephine had been adjusted. As for Emily, she, too, mingled her grief at the pre-engagement with joy in Richard's love, but with less confidence in its permanence; and, like his, her hours were sorely troubled.

The next morning she carefully avoided seeing him except in the presence of others, and the topics they were both dying to discuss remained unbroached until a messenger from the village, a servant of the inn, delivered a note to Revere. The admiral and Emily were on the porch with him when the missive was handed to him. Barry was busy at something down on the s.h.i.+p. He had reported to the admiral early in the morning that there were some repairs that he wished to make which would probably take him the whole of the day. However, n.o.body, unless it was the admiral, missed him, in which lay the pity of it all.

Revere started with surprise as he glanced at the address on the envelope.

"Why!" he exclaimed, involuntarily, "it is from my mother! Can it be possible that she is here?"

"A lady guv it to me to bring to you," said the messenger. "She come to the tavern late last night, an' said as how she didn't want to disturb you until mornin'."

"Your mother!" exclaimed Emily. "Why--what can she--how does it----"

As she spoke Richard tore open the letter and glanced at its contents.

"She has heard some garbled account of my adventure," he said to Emily, "and she was worried, and has come over here to see me. That's all."

"Did she come alone?"

"Er--no; not exactly."

"Who is with her?" with dawning suspicion.

"Miss Remington."

"Oh!" with great surprise.

"Well, I must go to her at once, I suppose," said Revere, doubtfully.

"Of course," coldly and disdainfully.

"My lad," said the admiral, "the inn is but a poor place for ladies of quality and gentlefolk to stay. Present my compliments to your mother and her young friend, and beg them to honor me by accepting our hospitality while they abide in this lat.i.tude. Tell them, I beg of you, that my age and infirmities prevent me from extending the invitation in person, but that my granddaughter will call upon them later and invite them in my behalf."

"Oh, grandfather! I--I----"

"My mother will be delighted to receive Miss Emily," broke in Richard, quickly. "I have no doubt that her plans contemplate remaining here longer than a day, and I think she will be glad to accept your hospitality. She will be honored, I am sure. Meanwhile, I must go. May I have your boat, Miss Emily? I suppose that is the quickest way to the village?"

"Certainly, Mr. Revere."

"And will you not walk down to the landing with me?"

She hesitated, longing yet reluctant.

"Of course she will. Go with him, Emily," said the admiral, decisively.

"Richard," said the girl, as soon as they were out of earshot of the porch, "they have come about that letter."

"Yes," answered Revere, dejectedly, forgetting in his confusion that they had arrived the night before; "I suppose so. I didn't think it possible that it could have reached them by this time. My man must have made good time. Oh, dear; what shall I do? Was ever innocent man placed in so miserable a position?"

"Oh, Richard, you are involved innocently--you say you could not help loving me----"

"I couldn't."

"But you had no right to involve me, sir. But there, I won't reproach you. She won't give you up; you will have to keep your word, that's all."

She spoke with infinite sadness.

"You have loved me, anyway, and that's a great deal. I ought to be thankful for that, I suppose," she continued.