"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.

It began to be awkward for Pats. But he resolved to suppress any outward manifestations of that state. This task was all the harder, as his legs embarra.s.sed him. He knew them to be thin,--of a thinness that was startling and unprecedented,--and now, as he confronted the northeast wind, their shrunken and ridiculous outlines were cruelly exposed. He was sensitive about these members, and he thought she had glanced furtively in their direction. However, with his usual buoyancy he continued:

"And now we leave land behind us until we reach the northern sh.o.r.e of the Gulf."

"Yes?"

Although she gazed pensively over the water, and with conspicuous amiability, something seemed to suggest that the present conversation had reached a natural end. So the skeleton moved away.

With Pats a hint was enough. During the remainder of the voyage, at meals, and the few occasions on which he met the lady, he also was genial and outwardly undisturbed; but he took every care that she should be subjected to no annoyance from his companionship. This outward calmness, however, bore no resemblance to his inward tribulation. Such was his desire for her good opinion that this sudden plunge from favor to disgrace--or at least, to a frigid toleration--brought a keen distress. Moreover, he was mortified at having allowed himself, under any pretext, to jeer at her religion.

"a.s.s, a.s.s! Impossible a.s.s!" he muttered a dozen times that day.

Meanwhile, the _Maid of the North_ was driving steadily along, always to the north and east. On the morning of the second day her pa.s.sengers had caught glimpses, to the larboard, of the sh.o.r.es of Nova Scotia. Later they rounded Cape Breton, and then, against a howling wind and a choppy sea, headed north into the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The _Maid of the North_ was a st.u.r.dy boat, and though she pitched and tossed in a way that disarranged the mechanism of her pa.s.sengers, she did nothing to destroy their confidence.

It was the evening of this last day of the voyage, when Pats, feeling the need of companionship in his misery, descended for a final interview with Solomon. Through a dismal part of the steamer he groped his way, until his eyes became accustomed to the gloom. Solomon heard his step and knew him from afar. He whined, pulled hard at his chain, and stood up on his hind legs, waving his front ones in excited welcome.

"There is _somebody_ glad to see me, anyway," thought Pats, as he sat on an anchor bar with the dog's head between his knees. There had always been more or less conversation between these two: not that Solomon understood the exact meaning of all the words, but he did thoroughly understand that trust and affection formed the bulk of the sentiments expressed. And these things being the basis of Solomon's character rendered him a sympathetic and grateful listener. The monologue, address, oration, confidence--or whatever--was delivered in a low tone, accompanied by strokings of the listener's head, taps, friendly pinches, and wandering of fingers about the ears.

"Bad place for a dog, old chap. Lots of motion here, and smells, but 'twill soon be over. So cheer up. Any way, you are lots better off than I am. In a single interview I have secured the contempt of an exceptionally fine woman. Yes, your Pats has done well."

He smiled in the darkness, a melancholy smile.

"She probably told everything to the priest, and he has explained to her satisfaction wherein I am a fool,--a malicious, blaspheming, dangerous villain, and a stupendous a.s.s. And he is right. Perhaps, in time,--a long time,--I may learn that insulting people's religion isn't the shortest road to popularity."

In his abstraction the hand, for an instant, was withdrawn. Solomon protested, and the attentions were resumed. "Keep still, old man, I am not going. And don't get that chain around your legs. But she is a fine girl, Sol: _too_ fine, perhaps. Just a little, wee bit too everlastingly high-minded and superior for ordinary dogs like us."

While administering these pearls of wisdom the speaker had become interested in two approaching figures, dimly visible in the obscurity.

As they came nearer, he saw that one, the older of the two, a man with gray chin whiskers and a blue jersey, was drunk. This man stopped, and holding the other by the arm exclaimed:

"It's so, d.a.m.n it! It's so, I tell yer! What's he doin' this minute?

He's blind drunk in his cabin. Why, the jag on him would sink a man-o'-war. Oh, he's a daisy cap'n, he is! He's the champion navigator."

"He'll be all right in the mornin'."

"All right in the mornin'! It'll be a week! And where'll _we_ be to-morrer mornin'? Where are we--hic--now? G.o.d knows, and _he_ ain't tellin'."

With a maudlin gesture and a reverberating hiccup, the speaker, following the motion of the boat, pushed his friend against the wall and held him there. "I'll tell yer where we are; we are more'n fifty miles east of where we think we are. We ain't sighted Anticosti yet. And we ain't goin' to."

The other man laughed, "Oh, shut up, Bart. You are gettin' a jag on yerself."

"Yes, sir! We are fifty miles too far to easterd now, and by to-morrer mornin' it'll be a hundred miles."

They pa.s.sed on, the older man still holding forth. "I've been this cruise a dozen times, but, by G.o.d! this is the first time I ever tried to get there by--hic--headin' for Labrador."

They disappeared in the darkness, in the direction of the forecastle, the sound of their footsteps dying away among the other noises of the boat.

Here was food for thought. But, then, the man was exceeding drunk. And his companion, who probably knew him well, paid no attention to his words. However, Pats took a look about the boat when he got on deck. The pilot and second officer were in the wheelhouse, both silent, serious, and attending to their duty. The watches were all at their posts and the _Maid of the North_ was ploughing bravely through the night as if she, at least, had no misgivings. By the time Pats went to bed, an hour later, the drunken sailor was forgotten.

It was a long time before he slept; and the sleep, when it came, was fitful. Perhaps he had brooded too much over his fall from grace. As the night wore on he was not sure, half the time, whether he was dreaming or awake. And so eventful were his slumbers, and so real the events therein, that his dreams and his waking moments became painfully intermingled. As, for instance, when he entered the cathedral. For a moment he stood still, overcome by its vastness and by the size of the congregation. Truly an imposing a.s.semblage! And the great edifice was ablaze with light. A wedding, apparently, for there, before the altar, stood the bride, awaiting the groom.

As Pats sauntered up the nave she turned about and smiled. And, lo! it was Miss Marshall, more beautiful than ever, more stately and more patrician, if possible, than in her travelling dress. For now she was all in white with a long veil--and orange blossoms. She smiled at him and beckoned.

Yes! He was to be the groom! It was for him they waited!

He strove to get ahead. His feet refused to budge. The harder he tried, the tighter he stuck. He opened his mouth to explain, but no sound came forth. Again and again he tried. Again and again he failed. The huge congregation began to murmur and he could hear them whispering, "What a fool!"

Then, from behind him came three men: Billy Townsend, the man with the nose, and the other fellow with the flowers. They walked by him, easily, all in wedding array, and they lined up by the bride. Pats tried to raise his voice and stop it, but in vain. The Pope stepped forward and performed the ceremony, uniting them all in marriage. The four bowed their heads and received a blessing.

And when the happy grooms with their bride came down the main aisle, they gave Pats a look,--a look so triumphant and so contemptuous, that it set his soul afire. He boiled with fury and humiliation. But stir he could not, nor speak. The bride's contempt, and she showed it, was beyond endurance. Gasping with pa.s.sion, he tried to rush forward and smite the grooms--to scream--to do anything. But he could only stand--immovable.

Suddenly the music changed. From a stately march it galloped into the air of a comic song that he had always hated. The Pope, as he marched by, stopped in front of him and cursed him for a Protestant. And now, beneath the jewelled tiara, Pats recognized the drunken old sailor with the chin beard.

But in the midst of these curses came tremendous blows against the outer walls, resounding through the whole interior of the Cathedral; then an awful voice, as from The Almighty, reverberated down the aisle:

"Time to get up! We are there!"

The martyr, in the violence of his struggle, banged his head against the berth above, and shouted:

"Where?"

"At Boyd's Island, sir, where you get off."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

V

WONDERLAND

When Pats, in the early morning light, stepped out upon the deck, he found, enveloping all things, a thick, yellow fog. Miss Marshall, her maid, and Father Burke stood peering over the starboard rail at an approaching life-boat. This boat had been ash.o.r.e with baggage, and was now returning for the pa.s.sengers.

The fog lifted at intervals, allowing fugitive glimpses of a wooded promontory not a quarter of a mile away.

Pats was struck afresh this morning by Miss Marshall's appearance. She wore a light gray dress and a hat with an impressive bunch of black, and he saw, with sorrowing eyes, that she and all that pertained to her had become more distantly patrician, more generally exalted and unattainable, if possible, than heretofore. He knew little of women's dress, but in the style and cut of this particular gown there existed an indefinable something that warned him off. No mortal woman in such attire could fail to realize her own perfection. He also knew that the apparent simplicity of the hat and gown were delusive.

And this woman was so accustomed to the adoration of men that it only annoyed her! Verily, if there was a gulf between them yesterday, to-day it had become a sh.o.r.eless ocean!

Moreover, he thought he detected in Father Burke's face, as they shook hands at parting, a look of triumph imperfectly suppressed. While causing a mild chagrin, it brought no surprise, as the lady's manner this morning, although civil, was of a temperature to put the chill of death upon presumptuous hope.

After a formal good-by to the uncle, Pats climbed into the little boat and a.s.sisted the lady to a seat in the stern. Then he turned about and held forth his hands toward the maid. She stepped back and shook her head.