The Pines of Lory/Chapter 1



HE Maid of the North was ready for sea.

Only the touch of the engineer was wanting to send her, once again, on a homeward voyage to the St. Lawrence. Meanwhile, in solemn undertones, she was breathing forth her superabundant steam.

Behind the wharf lay the city of Boston.

A score of passengers, together with friends who had come aboard to see them off, were scattered about the little steamer. Among them, on the after deck, indifferent to the hot June sun, moved a gentleman of aristocratic mien. His raiment was above reproach. He gave the impression of being a distinguished person. But this impression was delusive, his distinction being merely social. He was too well provided for, too easily clever and in too many ways, to achieve renown in any field requiring serious labor.

He inhaled the salt air as it came in from the sea, took out his watch, scanned the wharf, picked a thread from his sleeve, and twirled, somewhat carefully, the ends of a yellow moustache. His glance moved indifferently over various passengers and things about him until it rested on a man, not far away. The man was leaning against the railing of the deck watching the scene upon the wharf below.

The extreme attenuation of this person had already rendered him an object of interest to several passengers. His clothing hung loosely from his shoulders. Both coat and vest were far too roomy for the body beneath, while the trousers bore no relation to his legs. But the emaciated face, deeply browned by exposure, told a story of hardship and starvation rather than of ordinary sickness. Two thin, dark hands that rested on the ship’s rail seemed almost transparent.

The aristocratic gentleman regarded this person with increasing interest. He approached the railing himself and furtively studied the stranger’s profile. Then, with an expression in his face less blasé than heretofore, he approached the man and stood behind him. Laying a hand on one of the shoulders to prevent his victim turning, he said:

“I beg your pardon, sir, but could you tell me the name of this town?”

There was a short silence. Then the stranger answered, in a serious tone, and with no effort to see his questioner:

“This is Boston, the city of respectability–and other delights.”

“Yes?”

“It is also the home of a man who doesn’t seem to have matured with the passing years.”

“Well, who is that man?”

“A fellow that might have been a famous tenor if he had a voice–and some idea of music.”

The other man laughed, removed his hand, and his friend turned about. Then followed a greeting as between old intimates, long separated. And such was the mutual pleasure that a neighboring spectator, many years embittered by dyspepsia, so far forgot himself as to allow a smile of sympathy to occupy his face.

The countenance of the attenuated person was unusual; not from any peculiarity of feature, but from its invincible cheerfulness. This cheerfulness was constitutional, and contagious. His face seemed nearly ten years younger than it was; for the unquenchable good-humor having settled there in infancy had thwarted the hand of time. No signs of discouragement, of weariness or worry had gained a footing. There were no visible traces of unwelcome experience. While distinctly a thoughtful face, good-humor and a tranquil spirit were the two things most clearly written. His eyes were gray–frank, honest, mirthful, with little wrinkles at the corners when he smiled.

After many questions had been asked and answered, the more pretentious gentleman laid a hand affectionately on the other’s arm, and said:

“But what has happened to you, Pats? How thin you are! You look like a ghost–a mahogany ghost.”

“Fever. A splendid case of South African fever.”

“Too bad! Are you well over it?”

“Yes, over the fever; but still tottery. My strength has not come home yet. And the lead was a set back.”

“You mean bullets?”

“Yes. I caught two, but they are both out. I am getting along all right now.”

“And you have just reached America?”

“Landed in New York yesterday; got here this morning at half-past seven, found my family were up on the St. Lawrence, and here I am. But what are you doing on this boat?”

“Oh, I just came down to see somebody off.”

An excess of indifference in the manner of this reply did not escape the friend from Africa. With a sidelong glance at his companion, he said, “A man, of course.”

“How clever you are, Pats!”

“No need of being clever, Billy, when you advertise your secret by blushing like a girl of fifteen.”

“Blush! I, blush! How old do you think I am? Ten?”

“Yes all of that. But if you didn’t actually blush, old man, you did look foolish. And this explains a state-room full of flowers that I noticed. Is that her bower?”

“I think so.”

“Well, who is she, Billy? You might as well tell me, for I shall be sure to discover if she goes on this boat.”

“Elinor Marshall.”

“Elinor Marshall? Why, that name is familiar. Where have I heard it?”

“She is a friend of your sisters.”

“Of course!”

“And she is going to your place now, on a visit.”

“Good! I’ll cut you out. Is she fond of bones?”

Mr. William Townsend did not answer, but he looked at his watch. “She ought to be here now. The boat sails at ten-thirty, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“It’s ten, now. I shall trot you up as soon as she arrives.”

“Thanks. You will excuse my asking a cruel question, old man, but you certainly did not send all the flowers in that cabin?”

“Oh, no!”

“Then there are other–appreciators?”

“Yes.”

Mr. Patrick Boyd, with a slight gesture toward two carefully attired gentlemen who were pacing the wharf, raised his eyebrows interrogatively.

His companion smiled. “Yes. She can also have either of them, and without the asking.”

The attenuated man regarded the two gentlemen with interest. “That chap has a familiar face.”

“Which? The one with the bouquet?”

“No; the one with the nose.”

“That’s Hamilton Goddard.”

“To be sure! And I should know his friend was a lover. His anxious glances up the wharf, and those flowers give him away. Such roses are for no aunt or sister.”

“Better for him if they were!”

“Why? No chance?”

“Well, that is not for me to say. But he is one of those fearfully earnest chaps, with a tragic soul, and a rebuff would be a dangerous thing for him.”

“Poor devil!”

And the man of cheerful countenance slowly wagged his head, as he added, in a sympathetic voice, “This being in love seems a painful pleasure.”

Mr. William Townsend regarded his friend with half-shut eyes, and asked, “Are you still the superior person who defies the–the malady?”

“Even so.”

“You never had it?”

“Never.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty.”

“Then it’s a lie.”

“It’s the truth. Of course I have known very fine girls who caused the usual thrills, whose conservatory kisses I should never undervalue. But when it comes to the fatuous delirium–the celestial idiocy that queers the brain and impairs the vision–why, I have been unlucky, that’s all.”

“You are a liar, Pats. Just a liar.”

“Mumps have been mine, and measles; and I have fooled with grape juice, but that other drunkenness has been denied me.”

His companion’s grunt of incredulity was followed by the exclamation:

“There she comes!”

The two men below had halted, wheeled about, and were watching an approaching carriage. Down the wharf with this equipage came an atmosphere of solidity and opulence, of luxury and perfect taste. On the box, in quiet livery, sat a driver and a footman. The driver, from his bearing and appearance, could easily have passed for the president of a college. As the carriage halted before the gang plank, the gentleman with the nose stepped forward and opened the door, while he of the roses stood by with a radiant visage, his hat in one hand, his offering in the other.

First, emerged an elderly gentleman, tall, slender, and acutely respectable. After him, a girl descended, also tall and slender. She was followed by a maid, and a Catholic priest. As the young lady stood for a moment conversing with the two admirers, her glance, in running over the little steamer, encountered Mr. Townsend, and she nodded pleasantly.

“Lovely! Enchanting!” murmured the man from Africa.

“Of course she is! Come down, and I’ll present you.”

“But, first, tell me something about her. What are the interesting facts?”

“Why, there’s nothing to tell–that I can think of.”

“Of course there is! There must be! Women like that don’t bloom in every garden. What a patrician type! And all that black hair! She is unusual.”

“Well, she is unusual, Pats. She is a splendid girl,—an orphan; and she is giving her fortune all away.”

“The devil! And to whom?”

“To philanthropy; to societies for the advancement of woman; to hospitals and other bottomless pits. But above all to the Catholic Church.”

“Too bad! She doesn’t look so unintelligent.”

“No: and she is not. Her mother and sister, all that remained of her family, were both drowned in the same accident, and the shock upset her for a time.”

“And it was then the Church got in its work? That explains the Holy Roman Cherub who seems to be along.”

“Yes; that’s Father Burke. He is a part of the comedy.”

“Comedy! It’s a blood-curdling drama! Hasn’t she a brother or some relative to reach out a hand and save her?”

“She doesn’t care to be saved. She is one of those women with a conscience. A big one: the sort that becomes a disease unless taken in time.”

“I know. She feels guilty if she’s happy. But she doesn’t look all that. She seems a trifle earnest, perhaps, but very human, and with real blood in her veins.”

Mr. Townsend sighed–a long, deep sigh that seemed to come from below his waist. “Yes, she was mighty good company and rather jolly before the vultures closed in on her.”

“Is she really in the coils of the anaconda?”

“I am afraid so. She won’t talk about it herself,–at least, not with Protestants,–but some of her friends say she thinks of going into a convent.”

“Well,” said Patrick Boyd, with a sudden warmth, as they turned to go below, “all I can say is, that the institution, sacred or secular, that tries to lure such a girl into a convent ought to be hustled into space.”

“Amen to that!”