University of Virginia Library

15. XV.
ACROSS THE BAY.

THE children, as has been said, were all
devoted to Malbone, and this was, in a
certain degree, to his credit. But it is a mistake
to call children good judges of character,
except in one direction, namely, their own.
They understand it, up to the level of their
own stature; they know who loves them, but
not who loves virtue. Many a sinner has a
great affection for children, and no child will
ever detect the sins of such a friend; because,
toward them, the sins do not exist.

The children, therefore, all loved Philip, and
yet they turned with delight, when out-door
pleasures were in hand, to the strong and
adroit Harry. Philip inclined to the daintier
exercises, fencing, billiards, riding; but Harry's
vigorous physique enjoyed hard work.
He taught all the household to swim, for
instance. Jenny, aged five, a sturdy, deep-chested
little thing, seemed as amphibious as
himself. She could already swim alone, but

she liked to keep close to him, as all young
animals do to their elders in the water, not
seeming to need actual support, but stronger
for the contact. Her favorite position, however,
was on his back, where she triumphantly
clung, grasping his bathing-dress with one
hand, swinging herself to and fro, dipping her
head beneath the water, singing and shouting,
easily shifting her position when he wished to
vary his, and floating by him like a little fish,
when he was tired of supporting her. It was
pretty to see the child in her one little crimson
garment, her face flushed with delight, her fair
hair glistening from the water, and the waves
rippling and dancing round her buoyant form.
As Harry swam farther and farther out, his
head was hidden from view by her small person,
and she might have passed for a red sea-bird
rocking on the gentle waves. It was one
of the regular delights of the household to see
them bathe.

Kate came in to Aunt Jane's room, one
August morning, to say that they were going
to the water-side. How differently people
may enter a room! Hope always came in as
the summer breeze comes, quiet, strong, soft,
fragrant, resistless. Emilia never seemed to

come in at all; you looked up, and she had
somehow drifted where she stood, pleading,
evasive, lovely. This was especially the case
where one person was awaiting her alone;
with two she was more fearless, with a dozen
she was buoyant, and with a hundred she forgot
herself utterly and was a spirit of irresistible
delight.

But Kate entered any room, whether nur-sery
or kitchen, as if it were the private boudoir
of a princess and she the favorite maid of
honor. Thus it was she came that morning
to Aunt Jane.

“We are going down to see the bathers,
dear,” said Kate. “Shall you miss me?”

“I miss you every minute,” said her aunt,
decisively. “But I shall do very well. I have
delightful times here by myself. What a ridiculous
man it was who said that it was impossible
to imagine a woman's laughing at her own
comic fancies. I sit and laugh at my own
nonsense very often,”

“It is a shame to waste it,” said Kate.

“It is a blessing that any of it is disposed
of while you are not here,” said Aunt Jane.
“You have quite enough of it.”

“We never have enough,” said Kate. “And

we never can make you repeat any of yesterday's.”

“Of course not,” said Aunt Jane. “Nonsense
must have the dew on it, or it is good
for nothing.”

“So you are really happiest alone?”

“Not so happy as when you are with me, —
you or Hope. I like to have Hope with me
now; she does me good. Really, I do not
care for anybody else. Sometimes I think if
I could always have four or five young kittens
by me, in a champagne-basket, with a nurse to
watch them, I should be happier. But perhaps
not; they would grow up so fast!”

“Then I will leave you alone without compunction,”
said Kate.

“I am not alone,” said Aunt Jane; “I have
my man in the boat to watch through the
window. What a singular being he is! I
think he spends hours in that boat, and what
he does I can't conceive. There it is, quietly
anchored, and there is he in it. I never saw
anybody but myself who could get up so much
industry out of nothing. He has all his housework
there, a broom and a duster, and I dare
say he has a cooking-stove and a gridiron.
He sits a little while, then he stoops down,

then he goes to the other end. Sometimes he
goes ashore in that absurd little tub, with a
stick that he twirls at one end.”

“That is called sculling,” interrupted Kate.

“Sculling! I suppose he runs for a baked
potato. Then he goes back. He is Robinson
Crusoe on an island that never keeps still a
single instant. It is all he has, and he never
looks away, and never wants anything more.
So I have him to watch. Think of living so
near a beaver or a water-rat with clothes on!
Good-by. Leave the door ajar, it is so warm.”

And Kate went down to the landing. It
was near the “baptismal shore,” where every
Sunday the young people used to watch the
immersions; they liked to see the crowd of
spectators, the eager friends, the dripping convert,
the serene young minister, the old men
and girls who burst forth in song as the
new disciple rose from the waves. It was the
weekly festival in that region, and the sunshine
and the ripples made it gladdening, not
gloomy. Every other day in the week the
children of the fishermen waded waist-deep in
the water, and played at baptism.

Near this shore stood the family bathing-house;
and the girls came down to sit in its

shadow and watch the swimming. It was late
in August, and on the first of September
Emilia was to be married.

Nothing looked cool, that day, but the bay
and those who were going into it. Out came
Hope from the bathing-house, in a new bathing-dress
of dark blue, which was evidently
what the others had come forth to behold.

“Hope, what an imposter you are!” cried
Kate, instantly. “You declined all my proffers
of aid in cutting that dress, and now see
how it fits you! You never looked so beautifully
in your life. There is not such another
bathing-dress in Oldport, nor such a figure to
wear it.”

And she put both her arms round that supple,
stately waist, that might have belonged to
a Greek goddess, or to some queen in the
Nibelungen Lied.

The party watched the swimmers as they
struck out over the clear expanse. It was
high noon; the fishing-boats were all off, but
a few pleasure-boats swung different ways at
their moorings, in the perfect calm. The
white light-house stood reflected opposite, at
the end of its long pier; a few vessels lay at
anchor, with their sails up to dry, but with

that deserted look which coasters in port are
wont to wear. A few fishes dimpled the still
surface, and as the three swam out farther and
farther, their merry voices still sounded close
at hand. Suddenly they all clapped their
hands and called; then pointed forward to
the light-house, across the narrow harbor.

“They are going to swim across,” said Kate.
“What creatures they are! Hope and little
Jenny have always begged for it, and now
Harry thinks it is so still a day they can safely
venture. It is more than half a mile. See!
he has called that boy in a boat, and he will
keep near them. They have swum farther
than that along the shore.”

So the others went away with no fears.

Hope said afterwards that she never swam
with such delight as on that day. The water
seemed to be peculiarly thin and clear, she
said, as well as tranquil, and to retain its usual
buoyancy without its density. It gave a
delicious sense of freedom; she seemed to
swim in air, and felt singularly secure. For
the first time she felt what she had always
wished to experience, — that swimming was
as natural as walking, and might be indefinitely
prolonged. Her strength seemed limitless,

she struck out more and more strongly; she
splashed and played with little Jenny, when
the child began to grow weary of the long
motion. A fisherman's boy in a boat rowed
slowly along by their side.

Nine tenths of the distance had been accomplished,
when the little girl grew quite
impatient, and Hope bade Harry swim on
before her, and land his charge. Light and
buoyant as the child was, her tightened clasp
had begun to tell on him.

“It tires you, Hal, to bear that weight so
long, and you know I have nothing to carry.
You must see that I am not in the least tired,
only a little dazzled by the sun. Here, Charley,
give me your hat, and then row on with
Mr. Harry.” She put on the boy's torn straw
hat, and they yielded to her wish. People
almost always yielded to Hope's wishes when
she expressed them, — it was so very seldom.

Somehow the remaining distance seemed
very great, as Hope saw them glide away,
leaving her in the water alone, her feet unsupported
by any firm element, the bright and
pitiless sky arching far above her, and her
head burning with more heat than she had
liked to own. She was conscious of her full

strength, and swam more vigorously than
ever; but her head was hot and her ears
rang, and she felt chilly vibrations passing up
and down her sides, that were like, she fancied,
the innumerable fringing oars of the little
jelly-fishes she had so often watched. Her
body felt almost unnaturally strong, and she
took powerful strokes; but it seemed as if her
heart went out into them and left a vacant
cavity within. More and more her life seemed
boiling up into her head; queer fancies came
to her, as, for instance, that she was an inverted
thermometer with the mercury all ascending
into a bulb at the top. She shook her
head and the fancy cleared away, and then
others came.

She began to grow seriously anxious, but
the distance was diminishing; Harry was
almost at the steps with the child, and the
boy had rowed his skiff round the breakwater
out of sight; a young fisherman leaned over
the railing with his back to her, watching the
lobster-catchers on the other side. She was
almost in; it was only a slight dizziness, yet
she could not see the light-house. Concentrating
all her efforts, she shut her eyes and
swam on, her arms still unaccountably vigorous,

though the rest of her body seemed losing
itself in languor. The sound in her ear had
grown to a roar, as of many mill-wheels. It
seemed a long distance that she thus swam
with her eyes closed. Then she half opened
her eyes, and the breakwater seemed all in
motion, with tier above tier of eager faces
looking down on her. In an instant there
was a sharp splash close beside her, and she
felt herself grasped and drawn downwards,
with a whirl of something just above her, and
then all consciousness went out as suddenly as
when ether brings at last to a patient, after
the roaring and the tumult in his brain, its
blessed foretaste of the deliciousness of death.

When Hope came again to consciousness,
she found herself approaching her own pier
in a sail-boat, with several very wet gentlemen
around her, and little Jenny nestled close
to her, crying as profusely as if her pretty
scarlet bathing-dress were being wrung out
through her eyes. Hope asked no questions,
and hardly felt the impulse to inquire what
had happened. The truth was, that in the
temporary dizziness produced by her prolonged
swim, she had found herself in the
track of a steamboat that was passing the

pier, unobserved by her brother. A young
man, leaping from the deck, had caught her
in his arms, and had dived with her below the
paddle-wheels, just as they came upon her.
It was a daring act, but nothing else could
have saved her. When they came to the surface,
they had been picked up by Aunt Jane's
Robinson Crusoe, who had at last unmoored
his pilot-boat and was rounding the light-house
for the outer harbor.

She and the child were soon landed, and
given over to the ladies. Due attention was
paid to her young rescuer, whose dripping
garments seemed for the moment as glorious
as a blood-stained flag. He seemed a simple,
frank young fellow of French or German origin,
but speaking English remarkably well; he
was not high-bred, by any means, but had apparently
the culture of an average German of
the middle class. Harry fancied that he had
seen him before, and at last traced back the
impression of his features to the ball for the
French officers. It turned out, on inquiry,
that he had a brother in the service, and on
board the corvette; but he himself was a
commercial agent, now in America with a
view to business, though he had made several

voyages as mate of a vessel, and would not
object to some such berth as that. He
promised to return and receive the thanks of
the family, read with interest the name on
Harry's card, seemed about to ask a question,
but forbore, and took his leave amid the general
confusion, without even giving his address.
When sought next day, he was not to be
found, and to the children he at once became
as much a creature of romance as the sea-serpent
or the Flying Dutchman.

Even Hope's strong constitution felt the
shock of this adventure. She was confined
to her room for a week or two, but begged
that there might be no postponement of the
wedding, which, therefore, took place without
her. Her illness gave excuse for a privacy
that was welcome to all but the bridesmaids,
and suited Malbone best of all.