by Bram Stoker
All was grimly, deadly silent so that the throb of the engines, the rustle and clatter of the drifting ice-pack, as the great vessel, getting faster way as the current became more open, or the hard scrunch as she cut through some solid floating ice-field, sounded like something unnatural — some sound of the living amid a world of the dead.
When the Narrows had been reached and passed and the flag of smoke from the great chimney of the Standard Oil Refining Works lay far behind on the starboard quarter; when Fire Island was dropping down on the western horizon, all became changed as though the wand of some beneficent fairy had obliterated all that was ugly or noxious in its beneficent sweep. Sky and wave were blue; the sun beamed out; and the white-breasted gulls sweeping above and around the ship seemed like the spirit of nature freed from the thrall of the Ice Queen.
Naturally the spirits of the travellers rose. They too found their wings free; and the hum and clash of happy noises arose. Unconsciously there was a general unbending each to the other. All the stiffness which is apt to characterize a newly gathered company of travellers seemed to melt in the welcome sunshine; within an hour there was established an easiness of acquaintanceship generally to be found only towards the close of a voyage. The happiness coming with the sunshine and the open water, and the relief from the appalling gloom of the blizzard, had made the freed captives into friends.
At such moments like gravitates to like. The young to young; the grave to the grave; the pleasure-lovers to their kind; free sex to its free opposite. On the Cryptic the complement of passengers was so small that the choice of kinds was limited. In all there were only some thirty passengers. None but adventurous spirits, or those under stress of need, challenged a possible recurrence of Atlantic dangers which had marked the beginning of the month, when ship after ship of the giant liners arrived in port maimed and battered and listed with the weight of snow and frozen spray and fog which they carried.
Naturally the ladies were greatly in the minority. After all, travel is as a rule, men’s work; and this was no time for pleasure trips. The dominant feeling on board on this subject was voiced in a phrase used in the Chart room where the Captain was genially pointing out the course to a tall, proud old man. The latter, with an uneasy gesture of stroking his long white moustache, which seemed to be a custom or habit at certain moments of emotion, said:
“And I quite agree with you, seh; I don’t mind men travelling in any weather. That’s man’s share. But why in hell, seh, women want to go gallivantin’ round the world in weather that would make any respectable dog want to lie quiet by the fireside, I don’t know. Women should learn — ” He was interrupted by a tall young girl who burst into the room without waiting for a reply to her breathless: “May I come in?”
“I saw you go in, Daddy, and I wanted to see the maps too; so I raced for all I was worth. And now I find I’ve come just in time to get another lesson about what women ought to do!” As she spoke she linked her arm in her father’s with a fearlessness and security which showed that none of the natural sternness which was proclaimed in the old man’s clear-cut face was specially reserved for her. She squeezed his arm in a loving way and looked up in his face saucily — the way of an affectionate young girl towards a father whom she loves and trusts. The old man pulled his arm away and put it round her shoulder. With a shrug which might if seen alone have denoted constraint, but with a look in the dark eyes and a glad tone in the strong voice which nullified it absolutely, he said to the Captain:
“Here comes my tyrant, Captain. Now I must behave myself.”
The girl standing close to him went on in the same loving half-bantering way:
“Go on, Daddy! Tell us what women should learn!”
“They should learn, Miss Impudence, to respect their fathers!” Though he spoke lightly in a tone of banter and with a light of affection beaming in his eyes, the girl grew suddenly grave, and murmured quickly:
“That is not to be learned, Father. That is born with one, when the father is like mine!” Then turning to the Captain she went on:
“Did you ever hear of the Irishman who said: There’s some subjects too sarious for jestin’; an’ pitaties is wan iy them? I can’t sauce my father, or chaff him, or be imprudent — though I believe he likes me to be imprudent — to him. when he talks of respect. He has killed men before now for want of that. But he won’t kill me. He knows that my respect for him is as big as my love — and there isn’t room for any more of either of them in me. Don’t you Daddy?”
For answer the old man drew her closer to him; but he said nothing. Really there was no need for speech. The spirits and emotions of both were somewhat high strung in the sudden change to brightness from the gloom that had prevailed for weeks. At such times even the most staid are apt to be suddenly moved.
A diversion came from the Captain, a grave, formal man as indeed becomes one who has with him almost perpetually the responsibility of many hundreds of lives:
“Did I understand righty, Colonel Ogilvie that you have killed men for such a cause?” The old gentleman lifted his shaggy white eyebrows in faint surprise, and answered slowly and with an easiness which only half hid an ineffable disdain:
“Why, cert’nly!” The simple acceptance of the truth left the Captain flabbergasted. He grew red and was beginning: “I thought” — when the girl who considered it possible that a quick quarrel might arise between the two strong men, interrupted:
“Perhaps Captain, you don’t understand our part of the world. In Kentucky we still hold with the old laws of Honour which we sometimes hear are dead — or at any rate back numbers — in other countries. My father has fought duels all his life. The Ogilvies have been fighters way back to the time of the settlement by Lord Baltimore. My Cousin Dick tells me — for father never talks of them unless he has to — that they never forced quarrels for their own ends; though I must say that they are pretty touchy” — She was in turn interrupted by her father who said quickly:
‘“Touchy’ is the word, my girl, though I fear you use it too lightly. A man should be touchy where honour is concerned. For Honour is the first thing in all the world. What men should live for; what men should die for! To a gentleman there is nothing so holy. And if he can’t fight for such a sacred thing, he does not deserve to have it. He does not know what it means.”
Through the pause came the grave voice of the Captain, a valiant man who on state occasions wore on his right breast in accordance with the etiquette of the occasion the large gold medal of the Royal Humane Society-
“There are many things that men should fight for — and die for if need be. But I am bound to say that I don’t hold that the chiefest among them is a personal grievance; even if it be on the subject of the measure of one’s own self-respect.” Noticing the coming frown on the Kentuckian’s face, he went on a thought more quickly: “But, though I don’t hold with duelling, Colonel Ogilvie, for any cause, I am bound to say that if a man thinks and believes that it is right to fight, then it becomes a duty which he should fulfil!”
For answer the Colonel held out his hand which the other took warmly. That handshake cemented a friendship of two strong men who understood each other well enough to tolerate the other’s limitations.
“And I can tell you this, seh,” said Colonel Ogilvie, “there are some men who want killing — want it badly!”
The girl glowed. She loved to see her father strong and triumphant; and when toleration was added to his other fine qualities, there was an added measure in her pride of him.
There came a tap on the panelling and the doorway was darkened by the figure of a buxom pleasant-faced woman, who spoke in a strong Irish accent:
“I beg yer pardon, Miss Ogilvie, but yer Awnt is yellin’ out for ye. She’s thinkin’ that now the wather’s deep the ship is bound to go down in it; an’ she sez she wants ye to be wid her whin the ind comes, as she’s afeard to die alone!”
“That’s very thoughtful of her! Judy was always an unselfish creature
!” said the Colonel with an easy sarcasm. “Run along to her anyhow, little girl. That’s the sort of fighting a woman has to do.” And turning to the Captain “by Ged, seh! she’s got plenty of that sort of fighting between her cradle and her grave!” As she went out of the door girl said over her shoulder:
“That reminds me, daddy. Don’t go on with that lecture of yours of what women should learn until I come back. Remember I’m only ‘a child emerging into womanhood’ — that’s what you wrote to mother when you wouldn’t let me travel to her alone. Some one might kill me I suppose, or steal me between this and Ischia. So it is well I should be forewarned, and so forearmed, at all points!”
The Captain looked after her admiringly; then turning to Colonel Ogilvie he said almost unconsciously — he had daughters of his own:
“I shouldn’t be surprised if a lot want to steal her, Colonel. And I don’t know but they’d be right!”
“I agree with you, by Ged, seh!” said the Colonel reflectively, as he looked after his daughter pacing with free strides along the deck with the stout little stewardess over whom she towered by a full head.
Miss Ogilvie found her aunt, Miss Judith Hayes, in her bunk. From the clothes hung round and laid, neatly folded, on the upper berth it was apparent that she had undressed as for the night. When the young girl realised this she said impulsively:
“Oh, Aunt Judy, I hope you are not ill. Do come up on deck. The sun is shining and it is such a change from the awful weather in New York. Do come, dear; it will do you good.”
“I am not ill Joy — in the way you mean. Indeed I was never in better physical health in my life.” She said this with grave primness. The girl laughed outright:
“Why on earth Aunt Judy, if you’re well, do you go to bed at ten o’clock in the morning?” Miss Hayes was not angry; there was a momentary gleam in her eye as she said with a manifestedly exaggerated dignity:
“You forget my dear, that I am an old maid!”
“What has old-maidenhood to do with it? But anyhow you are not an old maid. You are only forty!”
“Not forty, Joy! Only forty, indeed! My dear child when that unhappy period comes a single lady is put on the shelf — out of reach of all masculine humanity. For my part I have made up my mind to climb up there, of my own accord, before the virginal undertakers come for me. I am in for it anyhow; and I want to play the game as well as I can.”
Joy bent down and kissed her affectionately. Then taking her face between her strong young hands, and looking steadily in her eyes, she said:
“Aunt Judy you are not an old anything. You are a deal younger than I am. You mustn’t get such ideas into your head. And even if you do you mustn’t speak them. People would begin to believe you. What is forty anyhow!” The other answered sententiously:
“What is forty? Not old for a wife! Young for a widow! Death for a maid!” “Really Aunt Judy” said the girl smiling “one would think you wish to be an old maid. Even I know better than that — and Father thinks I am younger and more ignorant than the yellow chick that has just pecked its way out of the shell. The woman has not yet been born — nor ever will be — who wants to be an old maid.”
Judith Hayes raised herself on one elbow and said calmly: “Or a young one, my dear!” Then as if pleased with her epigram she sank back on her pillow with a smile. Joy paused; she did not know what to say. A diversion came from the stewardess who had all the time stood in the doorway waiting for some sort of instructions:
“Bedad, Miss Hayes, it’s to Ireland ye ought to come. A lovely young lady like yerself — for all yer jabber about an ould maid iy forty — wouldn’t be let get beyant Queenstown, let alone the Mall in Cork. Bedad if ye was in Athlone its the shillelaghs that would be out an’ the byes all fightin’ for who’d get the hould on to ye first. Whisper me now, is it coddin’ us ye be doin’ or what?” Joy, turned round to her, her face all dimpled with laughter, and said:
“That’s the way to talk to her Mrs. O’Brien. You just take her in hand; and when we get to Queenstown find some nice big Irishman to carry her off.”
“Bedad I will! An sorra the shtruggle she’d make agin it anyhow I’m thinkin’!” Aunt Judy laughed:
“Joy” she said “you’d better be careful yourself or maybe she’d put on some of her bachelor press-gang to abduct you.”
“Don’t you be onaisy about that ma’am,” said Mrs. O’Brien quietly “I’ve fixed that already! When I seen Miss Joy come down the companion shtairs I sez to meself: There’s only wan man in Ireland — an that’s in all the wurrld — that’s good enough for you, me darlin’. An he’ll have you for sure or I’m a gandher!”
“Indeed!” said Joy, blushing in spite of herself. “And may I be permitted to know my ultimate destination in the way of matrimony? You won’t think me inquisitive or presuming I trust.” Her eyes were dancing with the fun of the thing. Mrs. O’Brien laughed heartily; a round, cheery, honest laugh which was infectious:
“Wid all the plisure in life Miss. Shure there’s only the wan, an him the finest and beautifullest young man ye iver laid yer pritty eyes on. An him an Earrl, more betoken; wid more miles iy land iy his own then there does be pitaties in me ould father’s houldin! Musha, he’s the only wan that’s at all fit to take yer swate self in his charge.”
“H’m! Quite condescending of him I am sure. And now what may be his sponsorial and patronymic appellatives?” Mrs. O’Brien at once became grave. To an uneducated person, and more especially an Irish person, an unknown phrase is full of mystery. It makes the listener feel small and disconcerted, touching the personal pride which is so marked a characteristic of all degrees of the Irish race. Joy, with the quick understanding which was not the least of her endowments, saw that she had made a mistake and hastened to set matters right before the chagrin had time to bite deep:
“Forgive me, but that was my fun. What I meant to ask are the name and tide of my destined Lord and Master?” The stewardess answered heartily, the ruffle of her face softening into an amiable smile:
“Aren’t I tellin’ ye miss. Shure there is only the wan!”
“And who may he be?”
“Faix he may be anything. It’s a King or a Kazer or an Imperor or a Czaar he’d be if I had the ordherin’ iy it. But what he is is the Right Honourable the Earl ay Athlyne. Lord Liftinant ay the County iy Roscommon — an’ a fool!”
“‘Oh, an Irishman!” said Miss Judy. Mrs. O’Brien snorted; her national pride was hurt:
“An Irishman! God be thanked he is. But me Lady, ay it’ll plaze ye betther he’s an Englishman too, an’ a Welshman an’ a Scotchman as well! Oh, th’ injustice t’ Ireland. Him borrn in Roscommon, an yit a Scotchman they call him bekase his biggest tide is Irish!”
“Mrs. O’Brien, that’s all nonsense,” said Miss Judy tardy. “We may be Americans; but we’re not to be played for suckers for all that! How can a Scotchman have an Irish tide?”
“That’s all very well, Miss Hayes, yous Americans is very cliver; but yez don’t know everything. An’ I may be an ignorant ould fool; but I’m not so ignorant as ye think, ayther. Wasn’t there a Scotchman thit was marrid on the granddaughther iy Quane Victory hersilf — An Errll begob, what owned the size iy a counthry in Scotland. An him all the time wid an Irish Errldom, till they turned him into a Sassenach be makin’ him a Juke. Begorra! isn’t it proud th’ ould Laady should ha’ been to git an Irishman iy any kind for the young girrl! Shure an isn’t Athlyne as good as Fife any day. Hasn’t he casdes an’ estates in Scotland an’ England an Wales, as well as in Ireland. Isn’t he an ould Bar’n iy some kind in Scotland an him but a young man! Begob! ay it’s Ireland y’ objict to ye can take him as Scotch — where they say he belongs an’ where he chose to live whin he became a grown man, before he wint into th’ Army!”
Somehow or other the announcement and even the grandiose manner of its making gave pleasure to Joy. After all, the compliment of the stewardess was an earnest one. She had chosen for her the best that
she knew. What more could she do? With a sudden smile she made a sweeping curtsey, the English Presentation curtsey which all American girls are taught, and said:
“Let me convey to you the sincere thanks of the Countess of Athlyne! Aunt Judy do you feel proud of having a Peeress for a niece? Any time you wish to be presented you can call on the services of Lady Athlyne.” She suddenly straightened herself to her full height as Mrs. O’Brien spoke with a sort of victorious howl:
“Hurroo! Now ye’ve done it. Ye’ve said the wurrds yerself; an’ we all know what that manes!”
“‘What does it mean?” Joy spoke somewhat sharply, her face all aflame. It appeared that she had committed some unmaidenly indiscretion.
“It manes that it manes the same as if ye said ‘yis!’ to me gentleman when persooin’ iy his shute. It’s for all the wurrld the same as bein’ marrid on to him!”
In spite of the ridiculousness of the statement Joy thrilled inwardly. Unconsciously she accepted the position of peeress thus thrust upon her.
After all, the Unknown has its own charms for the human heart. Those old Athenians who built the altars ‘To the Unknown God,” did but put into classic phrase the aspirations of a people by units as well as in mass. Mrs. O’Brien’s enthusiastic admiration laid seeds of some kind in the young girl’s heart.
Her instinct was, however, not to talk of it; and as a protective measure she changed the conversation:
“But you haven’t told me yet, Aunt Judy, why you went to bed in the morning because you pretend to be an old maid.” The Irishwoman here struck in:
“I’m failin’ to comprehind that meself too. If ye was a young wife now I could consave it, maybe. Or an ould widda-woman like meself that does have to be gettin’ up in the night to kape company wid young weemin that doesn’t like to die, alone...” she burst into hearty laughter in which Miss Judith Hayes joined. Joy took advantage of the general hilarity to try to persuade her aunt to come on deck. She finished her argument-