Three millions! or, The way of the world
rushing on to death and misery, failure was as impossible as success
to a less determined person. He grasped the gunwale of the boat, and
held on; he could do no more, for, short as was the distance he had
accomplished, the obstinate waves and the pitch of excitement to which
he had worked himself up, had completely exhausted him. He hung on at
the gunwale, puffing like a porpoise torn from his native element.
The imperilled female, now apparently in less peril than her gallant
deliverer, stood up in the stern of the boat, regarding with intense
interest and anxiety the amphibious gentleman who had so boldly battled
the waves in her behalf. While Mr. Eliot Buckstone recovers his breath,
let us glance at her who had unwittingly caused the enthusiastic artist
all this trouble and inconvenience.
She was rather tall; beautifully proportioned, and exceedingly
graceful. Her complexion was naturally fair, but it had been somewhat
browned by the summer sun. Her eye was large, soft, and blue; her nose
Grecian; and her lips had just curl enough to indicate firmness of
purpose. Her face and form would have attracted attention anywhere; but
the more spiritual the nature, the more elevated the taste, the higher
the intellectual cultivation, of the beholder, the more intense would
have been his appreciation of the gentle maiden, whom the wind and the
waves were wafting to sea, when the artist rushed to her assistance.
“I am very sorry to have caused you all this trouble, sir,” said the
lady, in tones so sweet and soothing, and withal so musical, that the
marine painter instantly lost all sense of fatigue, and felt whole
volumes of fresh, pure air pour into his empty lungs.
Eliot Buckstone was not sorry when he saw that face, beheld that
graceful form, and heard that musical voice. He was endowed with a
highly sensitive organization, and he may be pardoned for the raptures
which were kindled into being beneath his wet garments. I am inclined
to think, knowing what he felt in this moment of enthusiasm, that he
was a fatalist; that he believed fate or providence had at this time,
and in this manner, brought him into the presence of the tall maiden,
who gazed in pity and gentleness upon him.
“No trouble at all, madam,” he replied, as with a vigorous movement he
climbed over the rail into the boat, to the imminent risk of swamping
the frail craft.
“I did not see you, sir, when I called for help,” she added,
apologetically.
“I am glad you did not, if seeing me would have prevented you from
claiming my assistance,” answered Mr. Buckstone, as he shook the salt
water from his curly locks.
“I would not have had you expose yourself in this manner on any
consideration,” continued the lady, who had seated herself when the
artist climbed into the boat.
“Do not complain of me for what I have done, for I assure you it has
been a greater pleasure to me than to you.”
“You are very kind, sir, but I must regret that you adopted this method
of assisting me.”
“What other method could I have adopted?” asked Mr. Buckstone, not a
little puzzled by the protest of the rescued damsel.
He was a man of the world, and though he had been in the habit of
hearing ladies pretend to object to the trouble they might have caused,
he felt that they regarded any sacrifices of time or comfort as
expressions of devotion, highly flattering and complimentary to them.
He believed that the gentleman who incurred the greatest risk for a
lady had the sincerest admiration for her. In the present instance, Mr.
Buckstone realized that the lady actually regretted the annoyance and
discomfort which she had caused him.
“Gentlemen do not usually put to sea like seals and porpoises,” replied
the lady, with a soothing smile, the first he had seen, and which
rendered his case even more desperate than before.
“How do they put to sea?”
“In boats.”
“But I had no boat.”
“Perhaps you might have found one at the salt works beyond the Point.”
“Perhaps I might--who knows!” replied Mr. Buckstone with a rather
vacant expression on his handsome face, for the idea of resorting to a
boat when a lady was in peril, looked absolutely preposterous to him,
especially if the boat had to be searched for before it could be found.
“I beg you will not think I am ungrateful,” continued the lady,
noticing the shade of discontent that appeared on the face of the
artist.
“By no means, madam.”
“I am really very grateful to you; and I was only sorry to have caused
you so much trouble and discomfort. I was not in great danger----”
“Not in great danger?” interposed Mr. Buckstone, puzzled by the lady’s
apparent intention to underrate his services.
“Did you think I was?”
“I certainly did.”
“Then I am all the more obliged to you for your kind exertions in my
favor.”
“Don’t mention it; but you will excuse me if I say I think you are the
coolest lady it was ever my good fortune to meet.”
“Indeed, you misunderstand me entirely,” protested she, a slight flush
mantling her cheeks, while she looked exceedingly troubled and annoyed.
“I am very, very grateful to you.”
“O, I do not doubt that.”
“You think that I am cool, but I assure you my heart is warm with
thankfulness. I am just as much obliged to you as though I had been
in peril of my life, and all the more so because you so regarded my
situation.”
“I only meant that you were very cool in view of your danger. How a
lady could be as composed as you were, when alone in a boat drifting
out to sea, is more than I can comprehend. That was what I meant. I
would not by any means accuse you of undervaluing my poor service.”
“I am relieved,” added she, her smile meaning even more than her words.
“I do not think I am lessening the value of your efforts in my behalf
when I say that I should not have been very much alarmed if I had been
sure of going out to sea. It is now only the middle of the forenoon: I
should have been picked up by some boat or vessel bound in or out of
the river.”
“I must say you have more courage and self-possession than I ever
happened to meet with in a lady before.”
“I am quite used to the water.”
“I see that you are,” laughed the artist, rising from his seat on the
thwart, where all this time he had been resting from his labors, while
the boat continued to drift out to sea.
“Have you any oars?” he asked, after he had glanced into the bottom of
the boat.
“I have not, unfortunately. If I had I should not have been here.”
“Then I am very thankful that you had none;” whereat the maiden
blushed, and looked troubled again.
“I lost the oars overboard,” she added, without noticing the pretty
speech of the gallant young man.
“I am glad you did, Miss----,” and he looked up into the fair face of
the lady.
“Miss Kingman; but I am very sorry I lost the oars, for you are as wet
as a fish, and you may take cold.”
“I never take cold; I am above such infirmities.”
“I hope you will not, but a cold bath is not comfortable on a chilly
day like this.”
“This is a beautiful day, and my heart is warm enough just now to
generate sufficient caloric for my whole body.”
Miss Kingman did not, perhaps, precisely comprehend this bold speech.
She glanced back at the Point, past which the boat had drifted, and was
now tossing about like a chip on the great waves of the open bay.
“You think we had better get back to the land,” continued Mr.
Buckstone, interpreting her glance at the shore to mean this.
“I am not at all frightened; my father is an old sailor, and I have
always lived on the sea shore.”
“Upon my word, I am heartily rejoiced that you are not alarmed at your
situation, for really I can’t see that I have done anything more by my
swim, than to give you a companion in your voyage out to sea,” replied
the artist, as he glanced over the boat again in search of something
that would serve as an oar.
The lady was silent; perhaps disliking to say what she may have
believed--that a companion like the young artist was more dangerous
than the wind and the waves.
Whether she thought so or not, it was true in this case, though by no
fault on his part; and it would have been better for her to be buried
in the depth of the ocean, with nothing but the wind and the waves to
chant her requiem, than to have met Eliot Buckstone.
“What shall I do? I have no oars, and the thwarts are all fastened into
the boat.”
“I don’t know, really,” she replied, “what you can do. I wondered, when
I saw you swimming out, what you intended.”
“I supposed you had oars,” answered Mr. Buckstone, stung by the
implied, but not intended, reproach for his thoughtless measures.
“If I had had oars, I should not have needed your assistance.”
“Then I am only an encumbrance to you. I suppose the boat would live
longer in a sea with one person in it than with two. I have actually
added to your peril, Miss Kingman, instead of removing you from it.
What a blunderer I am!”
“You wrong yourself. Whatever the practical result, you intended to do
me a great service, and I assure you I appreciate it as such.”
“I think it would be better for me now to leave you, and swim ashore.”
“Swim ashore!”
“And save you from my presence.”
“You wrong me now, sir.”
“I have come to the conclusion, that in your estimation, I have made a
fool of myself.”
“Far from it, sir,” protested she, earnestly.
“That you owe me thanks only for my good intentions, which have
stupidly increased your danger rather than diminished it.”
“I have no thought but gratitude.”
“For my good intentions, and contempt for my blundering work.”
“I hope I have not offended you. I did not mean to say anything unkind.
I am sure I owe you----”
“Nothing, Miss Kingman. We are not more than half a mile from the
Point, and I will swim ashore.”
“Not on any account. I shall never forgive myself for my careless
words.”
“But when I get ashore, I will procure a boat, and come--or send some
one--to your relief.”
“You are vexed with me, sir. I did not mean to say a word which would
wound you.”
“Neither have you.”
“And I do not undervalue your kind exertions in my behalf. Do not
attempt to swim ashore in such a sea as this,” pleaded the lady, as she
saw him look significantly over the side.
“I can easily do so.”
“You are nearly exhausted by your efforts in swimming off to the boat.”
“That was only because I was so much alarmed for your safety.”
“How noble and kind you were! And how cruel and unkind I have been
to disparage your efforts; but I did not intend to disparage them,”
protested she, with an earnestness which entirely removed the feeling
of chagrin that lingered in the mind of the enthusiastic artist. “I
hope you will forgive me, sir.”
“With all my heart;” and it was with all his heart, for he could not
resist the eloquence of that soft eye, and those musical tones, albeit
his vexation was caused wholly by the feeling that the fair stranger
did not appreciate him, rather than his exertions in her behalf.
“I cannot express to you how grateful I am, and I would not have you
think me unkind for all the world.”
Mr. Buckstone was satisfied. How could he be otherwise after such
liberal concession on the part of the lady? He now occupied himself
in an examination of the interior structure of the boat. One of the
narrow ceiling boards was loose, and without asking to whom the craft
belonged, he tore it from its place. With his pocket-knife he soon
fashioned it into something that had a remote resemblance to an oar.
“Now, Miss Kingman, if you will permit me to sit in the stern of the
boat, I will try to scull her ashore,” said he, as he moved aft for
this purpose.
“I am sure you will do all you intended,” replied she, as she rose from
her seat.