Latitude 19 degree Part 39

"I can't see how she's to get there," said I. "The rail's almost under water, and it's very slippery."

"Can't help it. That's where you've got to stand.--Here, Bo's'n, I'll hold the painter, while you help Miss Archer over to the mast."

"I can row her over in the boat," said the Bo's'n, "and come back for her husband, sir. There's hardly room for two, but if they stand close I guess they'll manage it."

The Bo's'n's remarks were somewhat premature, but I held my peace and did not look at Cynthia.

Accordingly, Cynthia was rowed over to that part of the taffrail which showed a few inches of wet surface above the water line, and the Bo's'n, having deposited her there, returned for me.

We had to stand close, indeed. We could hardly hear the Skipper as he began the service. He seemed so far away, standing with Lacelle, Cynthia's maid of honour, while my best man sat in the boat and kept her stern close to the wreck by backing water.

I placed the little thread of gold on her finger at what I thought was the right moment. I was like a lad with a new penny to spend. It burned a hole in my pocket.

"Ahoy there!" shouted the Skipper, breaking into the service and hailing me as if I were a foreign barkentine, "it ain't time yet."

"It's my time," said I.

"How's he to know, Captain Schuyler, sir?" called out the Mate as he backed water. "He's never been married before."

"How do you know?" roared the Skipper back again. "A true sailor has a wife in every port." Cynthia started and dropped my hand as if it had been a live coal. I seized her hand again, and held it as if it were all that I had to hold to in this world. She looked at me questioningly, as if she distrusted me, and I almost felt that we should never be friends again. Truly, a pleasant beginning to our married life!

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Skipper's marriage service.]

I could not hear much of our wedding service, but I remember that it sounded extremely like that which the Skipper had repeated over the two sailors whom he had buried not far from this very spot. I know that he asked us if we would take each other for man and wife, and I remember that he ended with, "And may G.o.d have mercy on your souls!" I have seen this printed as a joke since then, but it was no joke to me, only sad, dead earnest. Then he piped up in his old lee-gangway voice, and sang the first verse of a missionary hymn, but because of this I felt none the less the solemnity of the occasion.

I stood in silence, looking at the lovely girl whom I was taking for my wedded wife. She allowed me to hold her hand, as in duty bound. Her trembling little paw was cold, and she stood gazing, not at me, but far out across the wide and desolate ocean. How long we should have remained thus I know not had not the Skipper awakened us by bawling across the intervening swash of water:

"You're married. Do you hear, Jones? You're married."

Cynthia spoke to me only once that evening. As we were left alone a few moments while Lacelle and the Skipper were getting into the boat, she turned to me and asked:

"Was that Helose's ring?"

"No," said I; "it was found in the cave."

"Perhaps that handsome pirate dropped it," said Cynthia. "That makes it so much more interesting."

CHAPTER XIII.

I COMMIT THE ERROR OF MY LIFE.

We pulled ash.o.r.e like anything but a wedding party. Cynthia seemed depressed, and to see her so made me feel like a villain. The Bo's'n still was stroke, and I laid to with a will in the bows. I reflected that I had probably touched Cynthia's hand for the last time for some months to come.

When we disembarked, Lacelle waited for Cynthia. She took her hand in hers and pressed it to her heart. She raised her eyes to Cynthia's as a dog or other animal of lower intelligence might look at a master, as if to say: "Is it as you wish? Are they treating you as you should like to be treated?" At this, Cynthia smiled and nodded her head, and patted Lacelle's hand when the girl returned the smile in a satisfied way. We left the boat and walked up toward the cave, where we found the Minion standing on the sh.o.r.e. He, however, was across the stream on the opposite side from us. I jumped into the boat again and went to fetch him. The Minion now, instead of looking red and swollen, was pale and weary. He tumbled into the bows in a weak and dizzy sort of way, and got out as feebly when we reached the bank of our own side of the stream.

"Secret," whispered the Minion in my ear.

"Very well," said I. "I will listen when I have the time. I am busy now."

We all sat upon the beach enjoying the beauty of the late evening. The Bo's'n made us some coffee, and with s.h.i.+p's biscuit, oysters, a small bit of pork, water from the arch beneath the rock, and some guavas and mangoes to top off with, we made an excellent meal.

"You have given us a very nice supper, Bo's'n," volunteered Cynthia. "I find that a row like that gives one an appet.i.te."

"Perhaps it was gettin' married, miss," remarked the Bo's'n, "though it usually takes away the appet.i.te, ma'm. This you know"--waving his hands comprehensively over the remains of the feast--"is the wedding breakfast, Mrs. and Mr. Jones, sir."

Cynthia gave a start and glanced hurriedly at me. I must confess that it had never occurred to me that Cynthia would take my name--that is, not since she said on board the Yankee that "Jones was impossible." She got very red, and turned away and walked with Lacelle up the hill. The Skipper was taking his usual gla.s.s. He poured out a double amount. He held the cup out to the Minion, who, pale and headachy, was lying with his back to the dish of pork.

"Take some," said the Skipper, with his favourite addition, "It won't do you any good."

The Minion for reply edged away and closed his eyes. We sat silent a while as the Bo's'n washed his utensils and gathered up the remains of my wedding breakfast.

The Skipper was saying something about the horrors of the married state, when we heard the voice of Cynthia calling to him.

"What is it?" shouted back the Skipper.

Then we heard a sentence which ended with "gone."

"No, he's here."

"Who? Young Trevelyan?"

"No, Jones!--Thought she'd like to come down and enjoy the moonlight, Jones, if she knew you were gone." Pleasant for the bridegroom of an hour!

"Listen, Uncle."

"Well, I am listening; talk louder."

And then came the words, "Young Trevelyan's gone."

"Oh, well, perhaps he's just taking a little stroll."

The Minion turned over and allowed two words to escape him:

"Run'd away."

"How do you know?" asked the Skipper; and then added, "But no one would believe you if you swore it on the Westminster Catechism."

"In a boat."

"Now I know you're lyin'."

The Minion nodded his head, still weakly persistent, and then laid down again upon the gra.s.sy slope of the beach.

"There ain't any boat hereabouts," said the Bo's'n, "begging your par----"