Chapter XXIV: Touching Certain Problems

Very singular in appearance was the small congregation grouped on the deck of the _Caroline_, to listen to Mr. Cassilis's sermon, on that quiet Sunday morning. The Minister himself stood erect and firm, with his grey hair--for he was bare-headed--and his sunken face touched with the early sunlight. Almost at his feet sat Lady Drum and Coquette, the latter sometimes wistfully looking away over the calm sea, towards the distant shores of Loch Sunart. Lord Earlshope sat by himself still farther aft, where he could catch the outline of Coquette's face as she turned to regard the Minister. And then forward were the sailors, a small group of bronzed and sturdy men, lying about in a listless and picturesque fashion, with their scarlet caps gleaming in the sun. The background was the smooth waters of the bay, with a faint blue smoke rising into the still air from over the scattered houses of Tobermory.

Coquette had begged hard to be allowed to preface or assist the service with her harmonium; but her prayer was explicitly refused. Indeed, there might not have been much in the music to accord with the stern and matter-of-fact exhortation which the Minister had prepared. It is true that, as he warmed to his subject, he indulged in the rare license of breaking away from his preconceived plan of argument and illustration. He was dealing with things which were now before his eyes; and, as his rude and homely eloquence became more and more touched with enthusiasm, it seemed as though the inspiration of the sea had fallen on him. "What meanest thou, O sleeper!" was his text; and the cry with which the sailors awakened Jonah seemed the Minister's own cry to the men who now lived along these lonely coasts. Indeed, there was a singular and forcible realism about the address which surprised Coquette; it was so different from the long and weary sermons on doctrine to which she had of late been accustomed. The Minister had borrowed all his imagery from his recent experiences. He described the storm--the rushing of the water--the gloom of the hills--the creaking of cordage--until you could have fancied that Jonah was actually trying to make for Crinan Bay. The sailors were thoroughly aroused and interested. It was to them a thrilling and powerful narrative of something that had actually happened; something a hundred times more real and human than the vague stories and legends of the Western Isles--those faintly-coloured and beautiful things that happened so far away and so long ago that the sound of them now is like the sound of a sea-shell.

Of course there came the application, which was equally practical, if less picturesque. The fishermen, who were now lazily lying on the grassy slopes above the Tobermory cottages--satisfied with the drowsy warmth and the sensation of rest; the sailors themselves, who were busy from day to day with the mysteries of the elements, fighting with the accidents of the present world, regarding only the visible horizon around them--they were but as sleepers asleep in a storm. For outside of this visible horizon lay another and more mysterious horizon, which was daily drawing closer to them, bearing with it the doom of humanity. Hour by hour the world was being narrowed by this approaching lurk of cloud; and when at last it burst, and the lightning of death gleamed out from its sombre shadows, would there then be time to seek for the Jonah who must be thrown overboard? The old man, with his bared head and his eager manner, seemed himself a prophet sent up to denounce Nineveh and all her iniquities; and so impressive and resonant was his voice--heard over the strange calm of the sea--that more than one of the sailors had unconsciously turned to gaze far out towards the horizon, as though expecting to find there the gathering storm-clouds of which he spoke.

After this forenoon service had been finished, a dilemma occurred. The Minister had been furnished with no rules for the observance of the Sabbath on board a vessel. He had no precedents for his guidance. He could not simply request everybody to come indoors and take a book. Coquette, indeed, resolutely remained on deck.

"Well," said Lady Drum, "we are out o' doors as much as we can be, and it would be no worse, surely, if we were walking along the street yonder."

Not even Lord Earlshope had thought of continuing their voyage; that was a thing which, on the face of it, could not be permitted. But when the Minister was confronted by the difficulty which Lady Drum had discovered, he did not know well what to do. He was averse to their going ashore and walking about on the Sabbath morning, to the scandal of all decent folk; on the other hand, there was little difference between that and sitting on deck to look at the sea and the houses; while going below and immuring themselves all day long was out of the question. At last his natural good sense triumphed. He gave his consent to their leaving the boat for a certain time--in fact, until the hour for afternoon service on deck, if they chose; but he would remain on board.

"You will come ashore, will you not?" said Lord Earlshope to Coquette.

"No; I wish to remain with my uncle," said Coquette, hurriedly.

"Nonsense, nonsense!" said Lady Drum. "Would you have an old woman like me stravaiging about the shore by myself?"

"But Lord Earlshope will go with you," said Coquette, timidly.

"That does not matter. He is no companion for me; so get on your hat and come away at once."

Coquette did so, and got into the gig, determined to cling closely to Lady Drum's side. As they neared the shore, the latter remarked that the village seemed quite deserted.

"The fishermen spend their Sundays either indoors or up on the hills," said Lord Earlshope. "I believe the married ones prefer the hills."

Perhaps that haphazard allusion to marriage remained in his mind; for, after they had landed and walked some distance round the shore, until they discovered a pleasant place from which to sit and watch the seabirds over the Sound, he said, rather indolently--

"I wonder how many of those poor men have a pleasant home to return to after the fatigue and discomfort of a night out at the fishing."

As this was a problem which neither of the ladies with him could readily solve, the only answer was the plashing of the clear sea-water on the stones. Presently he said, in the same careless way--

"Do you know, Lady Drum, that physiologists say we become quite different people every seven years? Don't look surprised--I am going to explain. They say that every atom and every particle of us have in that time been used up and replaced; so that we are not the same persons we were seven years before. It is but natural to suppose that the mind changes with the body, if not so completely. You, for example, must find that you have not the same opinions on many subjects that you had seven years ago. And in the case of young people especially, they do positively and actually change the whole of their mental and physical structure in even less time than that. You follow this introductory discourse?" he added, with a laugh.

"Quite," said the elderly lady, "though I am no so sure it is a proper one for a Sabbath morning."

"You must hear me out, and with attention. The subject is profound. If I am a different person at the end of seven years, why should I be bound by promises I made when I was my former self?"

"Mercy on us!" said Lady Drum. "Is it a riddle?"

"Yes. Shall I help you to solve it by an illustration? Suppose one of those sturdy young fishermen here, when he is a mere boy of nineteen--undeveloped and quite vacant as to experience--is induced to marry some woman who has a bad nature and a hideous temper. He is a fool, of course. But seven years afterwards he is not so great a fool; indeed he has become another person, according to the physiological theory; and suppose the new fisherman hates and abhors his wife--perceives the deformity of her character--is revolted by her instead of attracted to her. Now, why should he be bound by the promise of the former fisherman? Indeed, she, also, has become another woman. Why should the old marriage bind together these two new persons? It has gone away as the mark on your finger-nail goes away: they have outgrown it."

Lady Drum began to look alarmed; and Earlshope, catching sight of her face, smiled.

"No," he said; "don't imagine me a monster. I don't want to unmarry anybody; it is only a theory. Yet why shouldn't there be a Statute of Limitations with regard to other matters than money?"

"You mean," said Lady Drum, solemnly, "that I, Margaret Ainslie Drum, wife of Sir Peter of that name, am no longer a married woman, but free to marry whom I please?"

"Precisely," said Lord Earlshope, apparently with a sincere joy that she had so thoroughly understood his argument. "You might marry me, or anybody--according to the theory, you know."

"Yes--according to the theory," remarked Lady Drum, endeavouring to repress her virtuous wrath; "of course, according to the theory."

With that he fairly burst out laughing.

"I do believe I have shocked you," he said, "in my endeavour to find out an argument why that imaginary poor fisherman should be released from his bonds. It was only a joke, you know, Lady Drum; for of course one could not unsettle all the marriages in England merely to benefit one or two people. Yet it does seem hard that when a man is a fool and marries, then ceases to be a fool and wishes to be free from his blunder, there is no hope for him. You don't seem to care to speculate about those matters, do you?" he added, carelessly, as he tried to twine two bits of grass. "Have you ever looked round the whole circle of your acquaintances, and wondered--supposing all present marriages were dissolved--what new combinations they would form in a week's time?"

"I confess," said Lady Drum, with some sarcasm, "that I have never amused myself in so ingenious a way. Pray, Lord Earlshope, what was it in Mr. Cassilis's sermon that provoked these meditations of yours?"

"Oh, they are not of recent date," said his lordship, with a fine indifference; "it is no new thing for me to discover that some of my friends would like to be unmarried. My notion of their right to do so is only a phantasy, of course, which is not to be taken _au serieux_."

"I should think not," said Lady Drum, with some dignity.

Indeed, it was not until they had strolled along the shore some distance on their way back to the boat that the frown left her face. Her natural good sense, however, came to her aid, and showed her that Lord Earlshope had merely been amusing himself, as was his wont, with idle fancies. He could have nothing to gain personally by advancing dangerous propositions about the dissolution of marriage-bonds. What was it to him if all the fishermen in Tobermory, or in a dozen Tobermories, remained up on the hills during the Sundays in order to get away from their wives? So the grave and handsome face of the old lady gradually recovered its urbane and benignant expression; and she even ventured to rebuke Lord Earlshope, in a good-humoured way, about the inappropriate occasion he had chosen for his lecture on physiology.

Coquette had said nothing all this time. She walked by Lady Drum's side, with something of an absent look, not paying much attention to what was said. She seemed relieved to get into the gig again; so that Lady Drum expressed a hope that her duties of companion had not been irksome to her.

"Oh, no!" she said; "I am ready to go with you whenever you please."

But later on in the day they had another quiet chat to themselves, and Coquette became more confidential.

"I do not understand it; there is something wrong in it, surely," she said, with a thoughtful look in her eyes, "when a young man like Lord Earlshope seems to have nothing more in the world to do--to have lost interest in everything--and at times to be gloomy and as if he were angry with the world. Have you not noticed it, Lady Drum? Have you not seen it in his face when he is talking idly? And then he says something in a bitter way, and laughs; and it is not pleasant to hear. Why, he has lost interest in everything! Why does he spend his time at home, reading books, and anxious to avoid seeing people?"

Lady Drum regarded her with astonishment.

"Well, well," she said; "who would have thought that those dreaming dark eyes of yours were studying people so accurately, and that beneath that knot of ribbon in your wild hair the oddest notions were being formed? And what concern have ye wi' Lord Earlshope's idle habits, and his restlessness and dissatisfaction?"

"I?" said Coquette, calmly. "It is not my concern; but it is sad to see a man whose existence is wasted--who has no longer any object in it."

"He enjoys life like other folk," said Lady Drum.

"He does not enjoy his life," said Coquette, with decision. "He is very polite, and does not intrude his troubles on any one. You might think he passed the time pleasantly--that he was content with his idleness. I do not believe it--no, I do believe there is not a more wretched man alive."

Lady Drum elevated her eyebrows. Instead of having one problem in humanity before her, she had now two. And why had this young lady taken so pathetic an interest in Lord Earlshope's wretchedness?