Chapter 2

"At first we called him Jan, but the other three sponsors objected. They said it was favoritism. So we all agreed on Solomon for every day use."

"And he never resented it?"

"No. He understood it as a tribute to his extraordinary wisdom."

She seemed amused. "Is he so very remarkable?"

"Well," said Pats, laying down his knife and fork, and giving his whole attention to the subject, "as to general intelligence, foresight, logic, and a knowledge of human nature, he is a wonder, even for a dog. And when it comes to dignity and tact, ease of manner and freedom from personal vanity, why--the other Solomon was a beginner."

She nodded and smiled approval. "I know something of dogs and men, and I can easily believe it. Certain men exist, however, who are mentally superior to dogs. But it's the moral gulf between the two species that is so disheartening."

"All owing to the fatal power of speech."

"Possibly."

"I am sure of it. If dogs could talk, they would abuse the power, as humans do, and soon descend to the human level. They would lose the dignity that silence alone bestows, and become bores--like the rest of us." With a deferential movement of his head toward the priest, he added, "Except as they apply to myself, these remarks are in no way personal."

As Father Burke, with a perfunctory smile, bowed acknowledgment, the girl at his side inquired, with a serious face, "Well, what can be done?"

Pats, with equal seriousness, replied, "How would it do to establish an institute for the propagation of silence?"

"The millennium would be in sight!" she exclaimed.

"And instead of rhetoric and declamation teach economy in words; show the pupils by illustration and example how much better they look when their mouths are not open."

"A very sensible idea! And award medals to those who attain the highest flights of silence."

"The very thought is restful," said Pats. "And would you mind if I offered Solomon a professorship?"

"Not at all! It would look rather well in the catalogue, 'Solomon Boyd, Instructor in Moral Philosophy and Deportment.'"

With a glance at the mirthless face of the reverend gentleman beside her, she added, "And on the dome of the college shall be a colossal statue of Father Burke, in solid gold. He has not uttered a word in half an hour."

The priest answered pleasantly, but the tone of the conversation had given him little pleasure. Folly was in the air, and Elinor Marshall, to his surprise, seemed in harmony with it. Heretofore he had known her as a thoughtful, serious-minded woman, with a leaning to melancholy; and this unexpected and evidently enjoyable flight--or plunge--into pure nonsense, caused him a distinct uneasiness. The girl was brightening up, even becoming merry; a state of mind that never leads to a nunnery.

In this conversation, which ran on with rare intervals of seriousness until the meal was ended, Father Burke took no part. And when the younger people had gone below for their interview with Solomon, he decided, after long reflection, that considering the gravity of the case his obvious duty was to drop a word in the lady's ear concerning this new acquaintance. The rest of the Boyds--the two sisters--were good Catholics, and from them there was nothing to fear. But if he, Father Burke, could counteract the influence of this interesting heretic, it would be a pious work. He must find his opportunity for an earnest conversation, and before she landed.

The more he meditated, the more anxious he became. But Fate, the practical joker,--the fickle, the ruthless, the forever mocking,--was only waiting to lay his enemy at his feet.

III

A FOOL AT THIRTY

Toward the end of that day it became evident, in the west, that preparations were going on for an American sunset. Preliminary colors, chiefly gold and crimson, crept swiftly across the sky. These colors, more dazzling as the sun approached the water, were caught and tossed about upon the surface of the sea until all the universe seemed ablaze.

Of this gorgeous spectacle Elinor Marshall, in a sheltered corner of the deck, was an appreciative witness.

Pats, in his mercy, had decided to allow the lady a respite from his society, at least during a portion of the afternoon. The lady, however, was so much more interesting than anything else aboard that he finally ignored his better judgment. And now, leaning against the rail in front of her, he found the sunset duller, more monotonous and commonplace than the human combination in the steamer-chair. She, however, her head thrown back, with half-closed eyes, seemed fascinated by the glories in the west, and almost unconscious of his presence. As too much staring might cause annoyance, he did most of it on the sly. And the opportunity was good. As a mystery, she proved an absorbing study: an irresistible blending of contradictions, of sympathy and reserve, of sadness--and of wit--of a character and temperament not half-divulged. Whenever their eyes met, he felt a mild commotion, a curious, unfamiliar excitement,--something that made him less at ease. For it invariably brought the keenest anxiety as to her good opinion. He also experienced a consciousness of guilt; why, he knew not, unless from the expression of her eyes. They seemed to be reading his thoughts, and to be a trifle saddened by the result. That, in itself, was disconcerting.

He began to see why those other fellows were in love with her. Although fireproof himself, he understood, now that he knew her better, the nature of the conflagration that devoured the men in Boston.

In her sensitive face, in her reserve, and in her sometimes melancholy air, he saw traces of inward struggles between a passionate, impulsive, pleasure-loving nature and standards of virtue unattainably high. And when he remembered that she was doomed to the seclusion of a convent, that this life, with every promise of being exceptionally rich and full, was to be crushed, deadened and forever lost to the outer human world, his resentment became difficult to suppress. He wondered, in a hot, disjointed way, if there was no possibility of a rescue.

Awakening from a revery, she caught him in the act, regarding her with earnest eyes, and with a frown. He also came back to earth--or to the boat--suddenly, and he observed a slight movement of her eyebrows as in surprise or disapproval. With a guilty air, he looked away, and she wondered if the warmer color in his mahogany cheeks came entirely from the sunset. After an awkward silence, he said.

"I beg your pardon for staring at you. You are so very contradictory, and in so many ways, that I took the liberty of guessing at your real character; whether after all you are unpleasantly perfect, or whether it is merely your luck to possess an awe-inspiring exterior."

She was unable to repress a laugh. "And what have you decided?"

"I have not decided; that is, not finally. I keep arriving at new conclusions. My first impression was that you were a person of frigid altitudes,--severe, exacting, and abnormally superior. Then, later, I have thought you warm-hearted--even impulsive: that your indifference is not always real. But of that, I am not sure. Still, I believe you possess a lower and a better nature."

"You seem to have made wonderful discoveries in a very few hours."

"I have been working hard."

"I hope the verdict is favorable."

"Well, yes--in a way."

"So bad as that!"

"No, not bad at all. It is merely that you have bullied your natural character. You have made it toe the mark and behave itself. Never given it any vacations, perhaps."

She regarded him intently, as if in doubt as to his meaning.

"But you don't know the cause," he added.

She made no reply.

"The cause," he said, "is the expression of your face."

"Ah!"

"Yes. It is impossible for any being of earthly origin to possess the celestial qualities promised in your countenance. It is out of harmony with terrestrial things. Why, when those three men put out their hands this morning for you to touch, I held my breath at their presumption. I looked for three bolts from heaven to wither the extended arms."

"And your own face, Mr. Boyd, gives no indication of the subtleness of your irony: unkind, perhaps, but extremely clever."

"Irony! Never! I had no such thought! I am merely announcing the discovery that with a different exterior you would have been less perfect; but more comfortable."

"If this is not irony, it is something still more offensive. I gave you credit for a finer touch."

"I may be clumsy, but not malicious."

"Then explain."

"Well, you see, having a tender conscience, you have felt a sense of fraud whenever confronted by your own reflection. Being human, you have had, presumably, ambitions, envies, appetites, prejudices, vanities, and other human ills of which the face before you gave no indication. And so, feeling the preternatural excellence of that face a lie, you have tried to live up to it; that is, to avoid being a humbug. In short, your life has been a strenuous endeavor to be unnecessarily wise and impossibly good."

As their side of the steamer rose high above the sea, after an unusual plunge, he added: "And I am afraid you have succeeded."

She remained silent, lost apparently in another revery, watching the changes in the west.

The light was fading. On sea and sky a more melancholy tone had come,--dull, slaty grays crowding in from every quarter. And over the darkening waters there seemed a tragic note, half-threatening, intensified by every plunge of the steamer and by the swish of waters very near the deck. There was a touch of melancholy, also, in the steady thumping of the engines.

She said at last, pleasantly, but in a serious tone:

"I have been reflecting on your discourse. If ironical, it was unkind. If sincere, it was--not impertinent perhaps, but certainly not justified by our short acquaintance."

"True: and I beg your pardon. But was it correct?"

"I hope not."

Something in her manner invited a discontinuance of that particular topic. He drew an attenuated hand across his mouth, changed his position, as if on the point of saying more; but he held his peace.

Some minutes later, when Miss Marshall's maid approached this silent couple, her progress, owing to the movement of the deck, consisted of rapid little runs followed by sudden pauses, during which she hung with one hand to the rail and with the other clutched her hat. She had come up to ask if her mistress needed anything. Was she warm enough? Would she have another wrap? Miss Marshall needed nothing herself, but asked for news of Mr. Appleton Marshall, and if Father Burke was feeling better. Louise had seen nothing of Mr. Marshall since dinner, but she had left Father Burke reclining in the main saloon, not very sick, nor very well, but lower in his mind. As her maid departed, the lady expressed sympathy for the suffering uncle. "And poor Father Burke! He is terribly uncomfortable, I am sure."

"Yes," said Pats. "I saw in his face a look of uncertainty: the wavering faith that comes from meals with an upward tendency."

Pats thought this want of sympathy was resented.

"He is a most lovable man," she said, "of fine character, and with a splendid mind. You would like him if you knew him better."

Here was his opportunity; his chance for a rescue. He would snatch her from the clutches of the Romish Brute. A few stabs in the monster's vitals might accomplish wonders. So he answered, sadly, in a tone of brotherly affection:

"I like him now. That is why I regret that he should devote himself to such a questionable enterprise."

"What enterprise?"

"His Church."

With a forced calmness she replied, "This is the only time I ever heard the first religion of Christendom called a 'questionable enterprise.'"

"Leo X. spoke of it as a 'profitable fable.' Perhaps that was better."

"Did Leo X. say that of the Catholic Church?"

"Yes."

"I don't believe it."

"Because you have too high an opinion of Leo?"

"No; but he was a Pope of Rome, and I simply cannot believe it."

"Some popes of Rome have been awful examples for the young."

"So have men in all positions."

He smiled and shook his head. "Yes, but when they set up as Christ's apostles, they really should not indulge too freely in assassination and torture: at least, not out of business hours."

Then in a reflective, somewhat sorrowful manner, he continued, "But the Roman Enterprise has two enemies that are thorns in the flesh, the bath-tub and the printing-press. Wherever they march in, she marches out. The three can't live together."

Of this statement there was no recognition, except a straightening up in the steamer-chair.

He continued pleasantly, "In England, Germany, and America, for instance, where these adversaries are in vogue, Catholicism quits. As the devil shrinks from the sign of the Cross, so does the Holy Enterprise gather up its bloody skirts and decamp."

"Perhaps you forget that in the United States alone there are more than seven million Catholics."

"But they are not victims of the bath-tub habit."

"That is not true! There are thousands of exceptions!"

He laughed--an amiable, jolly, yet triumphant laugh--as he retorted, "You admit the truth of it when you call them exceptions."

In the dim light which had gathered over everything, he could see the delicate eyebrows drawing together in a frown. But he went on, cheerfully, as if giving offence had not occurred to him, "Now Spain is enthusiastically Catholic. And for ignorance,--solid, comprehensive, reliable ignorance,--there is nothing like it in the solar system. You can't hurt it with a hammer. It defies competition. If a Spaniard were to meet a bath-tub on a lonely highway, he would cross himself and run."

"Their ignorance is their own fault. Education and progress have always been encouraged by the Catholic Church."

"Encouraged? Oh!"

"Certainly."

"You mean by the stake and boiling lead?"

"I do not."

"When, for example, she notified Galileo that she would roast him alive, as she had already roasted Bruno, if he persisted in his heresy that the earth was round instead of flat?"

"If you are happy in that belief, I will not destroy it."

"It is a historic fact, but I am no happier for believing it. However, too much education is a nuisance, and very likely Mamma Church was wise in toasting an astronomer now and then."

"Your conclusions are rather entertaining. I am a Catholic myself, and my own reading has brought opinions that are quite different."

She spoke calmly, but he detected a less friendly tone. In a joking, incredulous manner he replied, "Well, then, I am a Catholic, too."

"I am serious. My faith to me is a sacred thing. It has brought me a more tranquil spirit, a deeper knowledge, and a fuller conception of what I owe to others--and to myself."

She was very much in earnest.

"Then I beg your pardon," he said, "for speaking as I did."

She tried to smile. "It is more my fault than yours. Religious discussions never do any good."

Then she arose from her chair, and he knew from the exceeding dignity of her manner that his offence was serious. But this dignity met with cruel reverses. As she stood up, their side of the steamer was just starting on a downward lurch,--one of those long, deep, quivering plunges, apparently for the bottom of the sea, slow at first, but gaining in rapidity. And Elinor Marshall, instead of turning away with frigid ceremony, as she intended, first stood irresolute, as if taken unawares,--yet suspecting danger,--then tiptoed forward and rushed impetuously into the gentleman's arms. These arms were forced to encircle the sudden arrival, otherwise both man and woman would have tumbled to the deck. Then, she pushed him hard against the rail. But even that was not the end. For there she held him, to her shame, pressing against him with the whole weight of her body. And this lasted, it seemed to her, an hour--a year--a lifetime of mortification and of helpless rage; the wind all the time screaming louder and louder with a brutish glee.

Her choking exclamations of chagrin were close to his ears, and he felt her hair against his face. But he was powerless to aid in her struggles to regain the lost equilibrium. However good his wishes, he could do nothing but stand as a cushion--poorly upholstered at that--between herself and the rail.

Finally, at the end of time, when the deck came up again, she backed away with flaming cheeks. Pats apologized; so did she. He wished to assist her to the cabin stairs, but the offer was ignored, and she left him.

IV

NORTHWARD

Not since her change of faith--never in fact--had Elinor Marshall listened to such open abuse of a sacred institution. And the memory of it kept her wide awake during a portion of the night.

Although she had decided to ignore that argument of the printing-press and bath-tub, it wormed itself into the inner chambers of her brain; and it refused to make way for better thoughts. As the possessor of a depositic conscience she suffered the miseries of guilt. For despite all reasoning of her own, she began to feel that unless those arguments were refuted, her faith might suffer: and, with her, an untarnished faith was vital.

The motion of her berth, the rhythmic pounding of the engines, the muffled sound, at intervals, of feet upon the deck, all were soothing; but the remembrance of that discussion, with its mortifying climax, made sleep impossible. This childish sensitiveness she fully realized,--and despised,--but nerves achieved an easy victory over reason.

She was glad when daylight came. Long before the breakfast hour she left her state-room and sought the deck for fresh air, and for Father Burke. He, also an early riser, was discovered in the lee of the upper cabins, his little prayer-book in his hand. Sitting close beside him she gave, in detail, the story of her conversation with Mr. Boyd. It was in the nature of a confession, but delivered in the hope and in the faith of the enemy's discomfiture. She felt, of course, that the statements concerning the press and tub were false and foolish, and she knew that Father Burke could tell her why.

Her confidence was not misplaced. This was not the first time Father Burke had been called upon to stiffen the faith of wavering converts. Considerable experience and a perfect familiarity with the subject rendered the task an easy one. The tones of Father Burke's voice were, in themselves, almost sufficient for the purpose. Deep, calm, mellow, ravishingly sympathetic, they played like celestial zephyrs upon the chords of the maiden's heart. They filled the inmost recesses of her soul with security and peace. His arguments were the old, familiar things, considerably damaged by Protestants and other heretics; but he knew his audience. And when the spell had worked, when the wings beside him ceased to flutter, he drove the final bolt.

"You know, my child, that the value of a statement depends largely upon the character of him who utters it. I have no desire to injure this young man, nor to prejudice you in any way against him. But it is clearly my duty to warn you that he is not a person with whom it would be safe for you to permit a very close acquaintance."

"You need have no anxiety on that point."

"I am very glad to hear it."

"But tell me what you know about him, Father Burke. His family never mentions his name, and I supposed there was something to conceal. Was it anything very bad?"

"Yes, bad enough. He is a wilful man, of a perverse and violent temper. His utterances of yesterday are in perfect accord with the spirit he displayed in youth. He broke his father's heart."

"From his face one would never suspect that part of it--the violent temper. He appears to be a person of unusual cheerfulness and serenity,--most _offensively_ serene at times."

"Very possible, my child. One of the hardest things to learn, and we seldom achieve it in youth, is that outward appearances often bear no relation to the inner man,--that the most inviting face can hide a vicious nature."

"Do you really think him a bad man? I mean thoroughly unprincipled and wicked? I don't like him, but somehow it doesn't seem as if he could be utterly bad, with such a face."

"Ah, my daughter, be on your guard against those very things! Heed the voice of experience. Remember his career."

"But what especial thing did he do? What drove him away from home?"

"In a fit of temper he tried to kill his father."

"Really!"

"As an old friend of the family, I knew the circumstances."

"Awful! How did it happen?"

"They were in the garden in an arbor, engaged in a controversy. In his anger he struck the old gentleman and knocked him down, and would have killed him had not others interfered."

A silence followed, not broken by Father Burke. He desired his listener to realize the iniquity of the deed.

At last she inquired half timidly:

"And there was no provocation?"

"None whatever."

After another pause she said, reflectively:

"The father had a temper too, I fancy, from what I know of him."

Toward the face beside him the priest cast a sidelong look, which was detected.

"I am not defending the son," she said hastily. "Heaven forbid! I almost hate him. But you must admit that the father was not an especially lovable character, nor very gentle in his ways."

"He had his faults, like the rest of us; but he was a rare man,--a religious man of deep convictions, and the soul of honor."

"Yes, I suppose so, but I was always afraid of him."

Father Burke laid his hand on her arm and said, very gently but with unusual seriousness:

"I should regret exceedingly, my child, to have you listen to the flippant sacrilege of this young man, or be subjected to his influence in any way."

"There is no cause for alarm. I shall have as little to do with him as possible."

"An excellent resolve. And now, will you grant me a request?"

"Certainly."

"I have no right to exact a promise. I only suggest that while on this boat you avoid, as far as possible, his companionship."

"I promise."

They both arose. His voice and manner were always impressive, even in ordinary conversation. But now a moisture gathered in the maiden's eyes as he gazed benignly into her face, and murmured in tones tremulous with feeling:

"May Heaven bless you, my daughter, for your noble spirit, and for your unswerving devotion to a holy cause."

Then they went below to breakfast.

The girl was hungry; Father Burke was not. The undulations of the boat so tempered his appetite that food had lost its charm. A cup of tea and a bite of toast were the limits of his endeavor. Even these descended under protest and threatened to return. When the heretic--the victim of the plot--appeared soon after and took his seat at the table, he noticed that the greetings he received, while friendly and all that etiquette required, were less cordial than on the day before.

And this was emphasized later, when he joined Miss Marshall on the deck. After a moment's conversation, she spoke of letters to be written, and went below.

And once again, to make sure that this disgrace was no fancy of his own, he approached her as she sat reading, or at least, with a book in her hand. In his best and most easy manner, he inquired:

"Did you ever hear of the Magdalen Islands, Miss Marshall?"

She looked up, and nodded pleasantly.

"Well, we are passing them now."

"Indeed!"

"They are off there to the westward, between twenty and thirty miles away, but out of sight, of course."

Amiably she inclined her head in recognition of the news, but made no reply.