CHAPTER XIV
IN THE SHADOW OF THE SHIP
The rest of the afternoon passed swiftly enough for Revere, because hewas busy. He wrote a long letter to Josephine Remington, telling herfrankly the whole situation: how he had met this girl, how he hadloved her, how he had struggled against the feeling that had sprung upin his heart, honorably intending to keep his engagement, but eachmoment 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 toa man who, while he admired and respected her, while he should everhold her in the highest regard, did not, and could not, love her.
He had written to her thus frankly that she might break theengagement. 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 beggedher 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 overit seemed almost brutal in its frankness. Yet he reasoned that it werebetter 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 theunfortunate plight in which he had involved himself that he sealed itup.
The other letter was to the Secretary of the Navy. Revere reportedfaithfully the condition of the ship, estimated carefully what hethought she would be worth as firewood,--for the materials in her werefit for no other purpose,--and then frankly offered to buy her himselffor twice the value he had put upon her. In a private letter, which hehad enclosed in his official report, the secretary being an old friendof his family, he told why he wished to purchase the ship. He told himabout the admiral, and the old sailor, and the admiral'sgranddaughter. He made him see very clearly that it would kill the oldman to have the ship broken up, and, since he possessed ample means,he wished to have the privilege of purchasing it himself and sayingnothing about it to the admiral, or to any one,--letting it standwhere it was as long as it would. As a matter of fact, it would fallto pieces in a short time he was certain, and the admiral need neverknow anything about the transaction, provided the secretary werewilling.
If there was any doubt as to the accuracy of his valuation of theship, he suggested that another officer could be sent to appraise her,and he stood ready to pay twice the amount of the next appraisementfor the privileges of ownership. In fact, the matter would best bedone that way. It was a nice letter, and he felt sure his requestwould be granted.
Revere felt much better when he had completed these two letters. Hefelt that he could save the ship for the old admiral, and that hecould save his honor as well by his tardy action. He gave the lettersto his man, directing him to mail the one to the Secretary of theNavy, and get a horse and ride back to his mother's summer home atAlexandria Bay, deliver the other in person, and bring the answer tohim immediately. He could not hear too quickly from Josephine.
The admiral retired early that evening,--was it from a considerationof past experience, thought Revere,--so the two lovers were leftalone.
"Emily," said the young lieutenant, coming over toward her as the doorclosed 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. Itshould 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 apart of my life as well. Come, let us go."
She extended her hand to him as she spoke. He took it gravely, and thetwo stepped out of the house and stood upon the porch. The moonlightstreamed across the old ship, standing lonely and still upon the Pointbeneath them. The cracks and crannies, the gaping seams of the broken,mouldering sides, the evidences of decay, were hidden in the shadowscast by the soft splendor.
They walked down to it and stopped in its shadow. Black, solid, andterrible in the silver light it loomed above their heads. They stoodalmost beneath it, and it towered into the skies above them. A trickof the imagination would have dowered it with spars covered withclouds of snowy canvas, and launched it upon the sea of dreams.
The girl still held the hand of the young officer. He waited for herpleasure, something telling him he should not wait in vain.
"I brought you here, Richard," she said, at last, very gravely, "thatthe old ship might hear you say,"--the words came from her in a faintwhisper,--"that the ship might hear you say--you--loved me. Here Ihave stood often, gazing out upon the water, dreaming and waiting.Waiting for you, Richard, dreaming of you. And here you come to me andhere--I give myself to you."
She faced him as she spoke and took his other hand. He stared at herin the shadow of the ship. The little autumn breeze swept softly overtheir faces. Slowly he bent his head toward her. She awaited him,smiling faintly, her heart beating half fearfully. It was so new andsweet. Then his lips met her own; he kissed her, he swept her to hisbreast, 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 tohim. The perfume of her breath enveloped him. A faint, passionate sighof joy and content ineffable escaped her. He drank in the white,exquisite perfection of feature so close to him; the purity of hersoul 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 withhim 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 ofhuman hearts in this old world.
Pity 'tis that the words we say so lightly, that we use so frequentlyof things of less, of little, moment, should be the only ones we havewith which to voice the deepest feeling of our being. Yet when thehour strikes, to each heart they come with the freshness of a newrevelation, with the assurance of an eternal truth undiscovered untilthat hour. Never again would Emily be so happy as in that suprememoment of avowal and confession.
"I love you, I love you!"
It was only a whisper. She would have felt the truth had he beenvoiceless.
"I love you, I love you!"
It was but a murmur that blended with the sigh of the wind, thatharmonized with the sound made by the breeze as it swept through thecracks 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 theywould stop by the ship, one had gone down into the grim, black depthsof the monster and with his ear pressed against the riven side hadheard, and in the hearing had understood what he could not see.
So despair, heart-break, envy, jealousy, raged a few feet from loveand 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 themurmur of caressing words, the man listening could endure no more. Heturned and stumbled blindly away. Had it been mid-day he could nothave 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 forthem not to hear him more.
"'Twas nothing, dearest," answered Revere, holding her tenderly tohim; "a piece of timber, a loosened plank, a tottering frame. Thenewest and best of ships are full of strange sounds, much more theseold ones."
"Bit by bit it wears away," said the girl, sadly.
"Ay, sweet, old things go, but new ones come," answered Revere. "Lifeends, yes, but new life begins. It begins for us. Come. We have toldthe ship the story. Let us go back to the hill."
"Keep thou the secret, old ship," said Emily, fancifully, yet half inearnest; "tell it not while thou livest, and if thou must fall, let itperish 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 ofsheathing alone divided them.
Woven with the Ship: A Novel of 1865 Page 17
