Author: Cyrus Townsend Brady
Category: Nonfiction
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CHAPTER III
THE WOMAN AND THE MAN WHO LOVED HER
The wife of the admiral, to whom he had brought the flags of the twoBritish ships on that memorable cruise, had long since departed thislife. Her daughter, too, who had married somewhat late in life, haddied in giving birth to a girl, and this little maiden, Emily Sanfordby name, in default of other haven or nearer relationship, had beenbrought, when still an infant in arms, to the white house on the hill,to be taken care of by the old admiral. In the hearts of both the oldmen she divided affection with the ship.
With the assistance of one of the admiral's distant connections,a faithful old woman, also passed to the enjoyment of her rewardlong since, Emily Sanford had been carried through the troubles andtrials incident to early childhood. At first she had gone with otherlittle children to the quaint red school-house in the village. Shehad been a regular attendant until she had exhausted its limitedcapacity for imparting knowledge. After that the admiral, a man ofkeen intelligence, of world-wide observation, and of a deeplyreflective habit of mind, had completed her education himself, uponsuch old-fashioned lines as his experience suggested. She had been anapt pupil indeed, and the results reflected great credit upon hissound, if somewhat unusual, methods of training, or would havereflected had there been any one to see.
In all her life Emily Sanford had never been away from her grandfatherfor a single day; she had actually never left that little town, and,except in school-time, she had not often left the Point. Althoughjust out of her teens, she was not old enough to have becomediscontented--not yet. She was as childlike, as innocent, as unworldlyand unsophisticated a maiden as ever lived,--and beautiful as well. Itwas Prospero and Miranda translated to the present. The old admiraladored his granddaughter. If the ship was his Nemesis, Emily was hisfortune.
As for Barry the sailor,--and it were injustice to the brave oldseaman to think of him as Caliban,--he worshipped the ground the girlwalked on. He was in love with her. A rude old man of fifty in lovewith a girl of twenty; a girl immeasurably above him in birth,station, education--in everything! It was surprising! Had any oneknown it, however, it would not have seemed grotesque,--only pitiful.Barry himself did not know it. He was too humble and too ignorant forself-examination, for subtle analysis. He loved, and he did notcomprehend the meaning of the word! Even the wisest fail to solve themysteries of the heart.
Although the veteran seaman was too ignorant of love rightly tocharacterize his passion, it was nevertheless a true one. It was notthe feeling of a father, nor of a companion, nor yet that of aservant, though it partook in some measure of all three. That was anevidence of the genuineness of his feeling. Nothing noble, no feelingthat is high, self-sacrificing, devoted, is foreign to love that istrue, and love is the most comprehensive of the passions--it is acomplete obsession. Captain Barry would have given his soul for EmilySanford's happiness, and rejoiced in the bestowal.
He cherished no hopes, held no aspirations, dreamed no dreamsconcerning any future relationship. He was just possessed with aninexplicable feeling for her. A feeling that expected nothing, thatasked nothing, that hoped for nothing but the steady happiness ofbeing near her. To be in sight, in sound, in touch, that was all, thatwas enough. The sea in calmer mood gives no suggestion of potentialstorms. Barry's love was the acme of self-abnegation. If he had everreached the covetous point he would have realized that she was not forhim. He never did.
He loved her with a love beside which even his devotion to the oldadmiral, the passionate affection he bore for the old ship, weretrifles. The girl had grown into his heart. Many a time he had carriedher about in his arms when she was a baby. He had played with her as achild; she could always call a smile to his lips; he had cared for heras a young girl, he had served her as a woman.
He, too, had been happy to contribute to her education as he had beenable. There was a full-rigged model of the _Susquehanna_ in her roomin the white house. He had made it for her. It was a perfect replica,complete, finished in every detail; so the ship might have looked ifshe had ever been put in commission. Emily knew every rope, everysheet, line, and brace upon it. She could knot and splice, box thecompass, and every sailor's weather rhyme was familiar to her. Shecould handle a sail-boat as well as he, and with her strong young armspulled a beautiful man-o'-war stroke. He had taught her all thesethings. When study hours were over and play-time began, the twotogether had explored the coast-line for miles in every direction.
So far as possible he had gratified every wish that she expressed. Ifa flower grew upon the face of an inaccessible cliff and she looked atit with a carelessly covetous glance, he got it for her, even at therisk of his life. He followed her about, when she permitted, as agreat Newfoundland dog might have done, and was ever ready at her beckand call. His feeling towards her was of so exalted a character thathe never ventured upon the slightest familiarity; he would haverecoiled from such an idea; yet had there been any to mark, they mighthave seen him fondle the hem of her dress, lay his bronzed cheek uponher footprint in the sands, when he could do so without her knowingit.
There was no man in the village with whom Emily could associate onterms of equality. The admiral had come from a proud old family, andall its pride of birth and station was concentrated in his lastdescendant. Simply as she had been reared, she could not stoop toassociation with any beneath the best; it was part of hergrandfather's training. He was of a day when democratic iconoclasm wasconfined to state papers, and aristocracy still ruled the land byright divine, even though the forms of government were ostensiblyrepublican. There were some quaint old novels in the library, whichthe girl had read and re-read, however, and, as she was a woman, shehad dreamed of love and lovers from over the sea, and waited.
Her life, too, had been bound up with the ship. Not that she feared anend when it ended, but she often wondered what would happen to herwhen it fell. What would she do when the admiral was gone? And CaptainBarry also? Who would take care of her then? What would her life be inthat great world of which she dreamed beyond that sparkling wave-litcircle of the horizon? Who would care for her then? That lover who wascoming? Ah, well, time would bring him. Somewhere he lived, some dayhe would appear. With the light-heartedness of youth she put thefuture by and lived happily, if expectantly, in the present.