Chapter XIII: Love Holds the Yoke-Lines

As he anticipated, Revere found his man with a well-filled portmanteau and several letters awaiting him at the little old-fashioned country inn of the village. The morning was far spent when Emily finished her simple purchases, and the two lovers lunched together in the quaint old parlor of the inn. The girl, in her innocence of the customs of the world, was quite oblivious to the conventional necessity for a chaperon; so, without the embarrassment of a third party, they greatly enjoyed the wholesome and substantial meal provided for them by the skilful hands of the innkeeper's wife with whom Emily was a great favorite. They lingered a long time at the table in the cool old-fashioned room, and it was somewhat late in the afternoon when they started back to the Point, to which Revere had previously directed his man to repair with his baggage, by the land road.

The constraint which had been put upon both of them by the necessities of the business which had called them to the village, and the presence of other people wherever they went, for the officious but well-meaning landlady had frequently interrupted the privacy of the parlor even, had been the strongest force in developing the growing passions in their hearts.

Emily was a simple-minded maiden, with all the attributes of a very old-fashioned age. She had no mission to reform this world, which indeed she had found most sweet and fair, and sweeter and fairer that day than ever before; she stood for no so-called modern idea; she had no deep plan or mighty purpose for the amelioration of mankind,--or womankind either; she did not aim at the achievement of great results, the doing of mighty deeds. The complexities of her character did not manifest themselves in these ways.

Woman's sphere for her, if she thought of it specifically at all, was a very simple and a very old thing. To love and to be loved, to be first a faithful, happy wife, and second, please God, a wise, devoted mother, was the sum of her ambition.

There were no young men with whom she came in contact who could measure up to the standard of her social and intellectual requirements, and the chances that any would present themselves had been exceedingly small. So she had represented in her life a hope deferred, but without being heart-sick with the delay; she was of so sane, so healthy, and so happy a disposition that she had been saved all that. With the optimism of youth she had confidently expected that some day the prince would arrive, and when he came, together hand in hand they would go "over the hills and far away, to that new land which is the old." And the portals of that undiscovered country were now opening before her delighted vision.

Barely out of her teens, she had not grown impatient in her dreaming,--life had been too sweet and pleasant for that,--but the thoughtful and somewhat lonely years had made her ready, and it was no wonder that at the touch she yielded. When Revere came to her out of the deep, cast up at her feet by the waves of the sea, as it were, he fitted into anticipation already old. He represented the realization of her maidenly desires and her womanly hopes. That she should fall in love with him was entirely natural and quite to be expected, especially since he was blessed with a personality at once strong, lovable, and charming.

The reserve and the calmness of Revere's long line of Boston ancestry had been tempered, modified, brightened, by his sailor life and by his intimate contact with great and heroic men in the war which was just over. Frank, genial, generous, and not without a certain high-bred distinction in his manner, and blessed with a sufficiency of manly good looks, he might well have hoped to win any woman's heart.

The day had been a happy one to Emily, then; happier for her than for Revere, in fact, for that young man's conscience troubled him deeply, while there was no cloud on her sweet pleasure. If he had not been engaged to Josephine he would have revelled in his love for Emily; but he was not free. He was now bound to two women at the same time, and not in strictly honorable relationship to either. The false position was almost unbearable to a man of his fine sensitiveness, and that he had made it himself did not make it less easy to endure. He firmly resolved to extricate himself from his dilemma by informing Josephine at the first opportunity.

No other course was left to him. Since he had seen and known Emily he felt that it would be impossible for him to keep his previous engagement, and yet he realized that it would have been more honorable for him to have controlled himself as he had determined, better to have been less precipitate and to have waited until he had gained his release before he offered himself to Emily.

Carried away by his feelings, he had proposed to her in the boat, and he regretted, not the fact,--never that,--but that he had been so little master of himself, that he could not have delayed his wooing for a few days, until, being made free, he could definitely and properly and honorably ask her for her hand. He felt, for instance, that he could not speak to the old admiral upon the subject until he had secured his release. It would be impossible for him to approach that soul of ancient honor other than free.

Yet when he looked at the girl; when the clear, sweet notes of her fresh young voice thrilled in his ear; when walking by her side her dress brushed against him; when by chance or design he touched her, or her hand met his; when she looked at him out of those frank, honest blue eyes; when he saw the color come and go in her cheek, marked the beating of her heart, caught the unconscious affection with which her eye dwelt upon him at times, when she thought herself unobserved, he vowed that he stood excused in his own heart for his precipitancy.

Every moment when she did not feel and know that he loved her he, in his turn, counted a moment lost. He could hardly wait to get back to the house, where he determined to write to Josephine instantly and apprise her of the situation. He felt, as a matter of course, that she was too proud a woman to hold him to an unwilling engagement for a single moment. Whether she loved him or not he could not say. He thought not, he hoped not. Their engagement had been a matter-of-fact affair, and the courtship had been rather a cool one. He was perfectly certain that she liked him, but that was very different. He had never once seen her breath come quicker when he approached her, the color flush or fade in her cheek as he spoke to her. But he could not be sure. The veneer of birth, custom, and environment had not been worn off of her as it had been stripped from him, and her outward action beneath all this coolness afforded no infallible guide to her feelings.

If she loved him, that would indeed complicate the matter, but there could be--there must be--no other issue than that the engagement should be broken. He would be very sorry for her in that case, but there would be nothing else to be done. He could not help it that he had fallen in love with some one else, and the only honorable thing to do now was to tell the truth at once and break away. A man's reasoning, certainly!

As they approached the wharf where the boat was tied Emily noticed that Revere looked pale and tired. The violent current of his thoughts, the acuteness of the mental struggle in which he found himself involved, together with his low physical condition, had worn him out. Therefore the girl insisted upon rowing back herself.

Even in the dependence of the first love of a young maiden there is a feeling of protection, a foreshadowing of the instinct maternal, which is the foundation of most of the good things in this life, even of the habit and practice of religion. Emily, while she gloried in his virile manhood and dwelt happily upon his strength and vigor, already watched over Revere as she might have looked after a child. And she delighted in the opportunity of doing her lover further service. So Omphale might have considered Hercules.

"I want to show you how beautifully I can pull an oar," she artfully said, in answer to his expostulation, herself only half comprehending the deep springs of action that lay in her being; "and you look so tired. You know you are not yet strong. I ought not to have allowed you to come."

The sense of ownership implied in her last words was delightful to both of them.

"I am tired," he said, honestly, "but not too tired to row you back; and I wouldn't have missed this little voyage for all the cruises of a lifetime. Please get into the boat and take the yoke-lines."

"No," said Emily; "you said I was captain, and I mean to exercise the privileges of my position. Take the yoke-lines yourself. I insist upon it."

"Oh, very well," assented the young sailor, smiling at her; "I have been under orders, it seems to me, ever since I was born. First mother, then Josephine, and now you."

He sat down in the stern-sheets with affected resignation and gathered up the yoke-lines.

Emily's face had changed somewhat at this last remark, but she said nothing as she cast off the painter, stepped to the thwart, shoved off the boat, broke out the oars, and pulled away. She rowed a pretty stroke, quite as deft as Revere's had been, though lacking somewhat in power. As they cleared the wharf and headed out into the bay toward the Point she looked up at him.

"You have always been under orders, you say?"

"Yes."

"First your mother?"

"Yes."

"And then,--who did you say?" with poorly simulated indifference.

"Josephine,--Miss Josephine Remington," carelessly.

"And who is she?"

"Oh, she's an old friend of the family, a connection in a far-off way. She has lived with us pretty much since she was a child."

"Are you fond of her?" coldly.

"Yes," with mischievous promptness.

"I suppose so," looking away.

"But not so fond of her as I am of you, Emily," tenderly.

"Is that really true?" eagerly.

"Upon my word and honor," with convincing assurance.

"And you don't love her?"

"Not a bit. I love only one person in the world, and that is you," passionately.

"Was she the girl you saved?" relieved, but still somewhat anxious.

"She was."

"Does she love you, I wonder?"

"I think not. She never gave me half as much evidence of caring for me as----"

He stopped suddenly.

"As what?" she asked in swift alarm.

"As--forgive me, Emily--as you have this afternoon."

She stopped pulling instantly, her oar-blades lifted from the water in mid-stroke, drops trickling from them.

"Have I been bold and forward?" she cried in dismay. "Oh, what must you think of me?"

"You have been perfect," he answered, fervently; "simply perfect. I wouldn't have you changed an iota in any way. Don't let's talk about other people now. I'd rather talk about you. Tell me something about yourself, about the life you have lived, what you have done, what you have thought, what you have dreamed; tell me everything. I want to know it all."

"Yes, but are you sure you do not love her?"

"I never was so certain of anything in my life, except it be that I love you."

There was conviction in his voice which comforted her soul. Still, she sought enlightenment upon another point.

"Are you sure she doesn't love you?"

"I think it is very improbable."

"Well, I don't, then!" she exclaimed, vigorously resuming her stroke. "You saved her life, and I don't see how she could help it," she continued.

"I didn't save your life, though, Emily."

The boat was in the shadow of the island trees, where it had been when he had first spoken of love to her that morning. She let it drift; again the water made sweet music lipping along the side; they would associate it forever with these ineffable moments.

"No," she murmured, her honesty and innocence giving her courage to say that which another might have sought to conceal, "you didn't, but--I don't believe--I can--help it, either."

It was out now. His love had shown her her own. She was another woman; never again would she look at life with the eyes of the girl of yesterday. Ferdinand had come to Miranda; and Ariel had opened the eyes of the maiden to new things on the old island more wonderful than those revealed by Prospero's magic wand. And to Revere, too, the complexion of the world suddenly and swiftly altered.

"Oh, Emily, you don't mean it!" he cried in exultant surprise. He had not hoped so soon for this revelation of the woman's heart.

Her face was averted now, but she spoke distinctly enough for him to hear every whispered word.

"Yes, I think--I believe--I do. I have thought about it a great deal since you spoke."--Three hours ago! "And I believe I----"

She could not quite say it--yet.

"Emily, dearest, I am so happy it seems to me I can hardly breathe. I do not dare to look at you. I love you so! Come, let us hurry back to the shore."

"Mr. Revere----" she began, starting the boat again.

"That will not do at all," he interrupted, promptly and decisively; "you must call me something else--now that you--oh, do you?"

"Richard," she said, bravely.

"Those who love me call me 'Dick,'" pleadingly.

"I couldn't say that--not just yet--Dick!"

He laughed in sheer pleasure.

"I never knew what a pretty name I had before, Emily."

"I think it is lovely," she said, naively.

"Thank you. Do you like my other name, too?"

"Oh, ever so much."

"I am so glad, because it will be yours. Mrs. Richard Revere."

"Hush, how can you!" she cried, blushing furiously. "I want to ask one thing of you. Do not say anything about--to-day. That is, to grandfather or Captain Barry,--not just yet."

"I'm not likely to say anything about it to Captain Barry now or at any other time," he laughed; "and as for the admiral, it will do no harm for us to wait a day or two, I fancy,--that is, if you wish it, princess."

Her desire suited his plans admirably, for the delay would give him time to write and get his freedom.

"I want to enjoy it first alone," she went on, dreamily. "I want to have the knowledge that you love me all to myself, just for a day. It's so sacred, and so solemn a thing to me, Richard; so beautiful, that I want to keep it just here in my heart alone, for a little while."

She laid her hand upon her heart with the sweetest gesture as she spoke.

"It shall be so," he answered, frankly, adoring her. "Whatever you wish shall always be, if I can bring it about."

Oh, the rash promises of lovers!

"And you will let me have my happiness to myself, then? You will not think me foolish?"

"Not all to yourself, for, though I do not speak, I must still share it, and I think you are perfect in everything."

"We are at the wharf," she murmured. "I must go up to the house alone. Do not come with me. I want to think it over."

"But, dearest, I shall see you to-night?" he pleaded.

"Yes; but please do not persuade me now."

Respecting her desire, he doffed his cap and stood aside for her to pass, bowing low before her with all the chivalry of his race, all the ardor of his youth, all the devotion of his manhood in his look and attitude.

The sweetness of the present reality so far transcended her sometime imagination of it that the girl, on leaving him, walked away as if borne by seraph's wings through the air of heaven. Yet there was a note athwart her joy,--not exactly one of sadness or of heaviness, but a feeling, as it were, of maidenly awe before the bright vistas of happiness which had opened before her eyes, in her lover's presence, in his love. Unconsciously she put her hand to her face, as if the sight dazzled her.

A little distance away Revere, having fastened the boat, followed her up the hill. She did not look back, but she could hear his feet upon the steps. He was there, then. He was looking at her as he had looked at her in the boat. He loved her. What had she done to merit this?

She stopped on the porch by the chair where her grandfather sat gazing at the ship and dreaming as usual. She bent low and kissed him as she had never kissed him before. He awoke from his reverie with a start, half comprehending, and gazed from the girl entering the door to Revere coming up the walk.

"You have been a long time, lad," he said, as the latter stopped before him.

"Yes, sir. We took luncheon together at the old inn and rowed back slowly. Your granddaughter--I shall have something to say to you in a day or two, sir."

"I hope so," said the admiral, quietly. "I thought so. But don't wait too many days. Days are as moments to the young; to the aged they are as years."

That day Barry had not left the ship. With a long, old-fashioned glass that was chief among his treasures, which had belonged to the admiral, he had followed the boat across the harbor. He had divined--by what cunning who can say?--what had been said in the pauses under the trees. He had waited and watched for them until the lovers came back. He knew it all. Twenty times during the period of their stay upon the shore he had gone down to the locker and taken out the letters.

And at last he had succumbed to the temptation. The devil had won him in the end. Hidden away in his corner of the old vessel, he opened the bundle of letters and orders. And as he painfully deciphered them, one by one, it all became clear to him. This cursed officer had come to sell the ship over their heads. He had stolen Emily's heart, and yet he was engaged to be married to another woman. The letters from Josephine Remington puzzled him; but as he slowly blundered through them, with their casual references to an engagement, with their quiet assumption that all was understood between the two, Barry became convinced that Revere was simply amusing himself with the admiral's granddaughter.

And was he to stand idle, indifferent, impotent, while these things were going on? Was the old ship to be sold and broken up? His ship! His love, too! Was that sweet flower of innocence to be rifled of the chief treasure of her womanhood and he do nothing? Was she to be robbed of her happiness, too, while he was there? No, never!

His brain reeled under the pressure of his thoughts. What should he do? What could he do? In what way might he compass the destruction of this man? Save the ship and save the girl, too!

Ah! Like to one of old in his blindness, there flashed an idea into his mind, as he stood there with the crumpled letters in his clinched hand. At first it startled him. It was so bold; in a way it was so terrible. But he had brooded too long to look at that idea in more than one light. With the one thought of revenge upon the man who he imagined intended to sell the ship, and who would gain Emily Sanford, he brooded upon the notion until it took entire possession of him, and then, although it involved his own destruction, he grimly prepared to put it in practice.