CHAPTER X. — THE RAISED CHECK
The Rev. Mr. Gay's parishioners looked at him in astonishment. He had disbelieved in God but had been converted in what seemed a miraculous manner. And yet, perhaps, after all, it was only a coincidence. Alice felt sure that Uncle Ike would be of that opinion.
The pastor, as soon as he had made his sensational declaration, said “Let us pray.” His appeal was for those who doubted—that God would open their eyes—but not as his had been—to acknowledge his power and mercy.
Then followed “Old Hundred.”
“Praise God from whom all blessings flow,
Praise Him all creatures here below.”
A benediction, and the service was over.
There were seats for four in the carryall. Maude preferred to walk and Mr. Merry was of the same mind. Mrs. Hawkins sat with Quincy on the front seat, and Alice with Uncle Ike.
“What did you think of the sermon, Uncle Ike?” Alice asked.
“A thrilling personal experience. The fear of death has a peculiar effect on some people—it kills their will power. Did Mr. Gay know that I was to attend his church?”
Alice flushed. “Quincy mentioned it at the breakfast table.”
“Was he informed of my opinions on religious matters?”
“They were not mentioned before him.”
“Another coincidence”—and Uncle Ike relapsed into silence.
As they were nearing the Maxwell house, Alice asked, “Uncle Ike, are you willing to have Mr. Gay call upon you?”
“I have no objection, if he will let me choose the subjects for conversation,” was the reply.
In the evening Maude and Mr. Merry walked to the Willows and back.
“Have you become a matchmaker?” Alice asked her husband.
“What prompts the question?”
“Maude and Mr. Merry have been thrown together very much. You approve of you would prevent their intimacy.”
Quincy laughed. “Maude undoubtedly has a heart, but she doesn't know where it is. Mr. Merry is too sensible a fellow to imagine Maude will fall in love with him, or that he could support her if she did.”
“Poor logic, Quincy. Such marriages take place often, but unless they are followed with parental blessings,—and financial backing,—seldom prove successful.
“Well, the intimacy will end to-morrow morning. He will return to the city, and, probably, never see her again.”
“I've no objection to Mr. Merry. I consider him a very fine young man. I was thinking of Maude's happiness.”
Mr. Merry did return to Boston early the next morning, and, to all appearances, Miss Sawyer looked upon his action as a very natural one, and one in which she was not particularly interested. If she had any secret thoughts concerning him they were driven from her mind by the receipt of a telegram just as they sat down to dinner.
“REDFORD, MASS., July 2, 187—.
“MAUDE SAWYER, Care of Q. A. Sawyer,
“Fernborough, via Cottonton.
“Do please come home at once. Something terrible
has happened. FLORENCE.”
“What can it be? What do you think is the matter? The message is so inexplicit.”
Her brother replied, “Florence evidently is living, unless some one used her name in the telegram. If father or mother were sick or dead she certainly would have said so.”
“Perhaps not,” said Maude. “She might wish to break the news gently, in person.”
“I am willing to wager,” said Quincy, “that the trouble affects her more than any one else. But you must go, Maude, and Alice and I will go with you, by the first train to-morrow morning.”
Quincy had Andrew get the carryall ready and he and Alice went round to say good-bye. He told Arthur Scates he would come or send for him soon, and that his grandmother could go and help Mrs. Pettingill.
Andrew was told to return the saddle to Cottonton, and Quincy decided that they would go to Boston by way of Eastborough Centre, so Mr. Parsons could be informed that they were through with the saddle horses. They found Uncle Ike fully committed to the idea of founding the hospital. He had seen Squire Rundlett, who was drawing up his will. The goodbye seemed more like a farewell in Uncle Ike's case, for he had aged much in the last year and was really very feeble. Alice told him that Mr. Gay had promised to call upon him in a few days.
When they reached Boston, Quincy said:
“Maude, you must take the train at once for Redford and see what the trouble is. I will leave Alice at home and run down to see you this afternoon.”
Maude found Florence in her room, her nose red and her eyes filled with tears.
“Now, Florence, what is it all about?”
“Oh, it is horrible,” and there was a fresh flood of tears.
“Are you sick? Mother says she is well and so is father.”
“It's all about Reggie.”
“Capt. Hornaby? Is he dead?”
“Worse. I wish he was. No, I don't mean that. But the disgrace.”
Maude was getting impatient. “What has he done? Married somebody else? But he never proposed to you, did he?”
Florence wiped away her tears. “No, not exactly. But we understood each other.”
“Well, I can't understand you. Why don't you tell me what he's done?”
“Well, you know that father loaned him some money when he lost his pocketbook in the pond.”
Maude sniffed. “I imagined he did—nobody told me so.”
“Father gave him a check for five hundred dollars.”
“And the Captain's run away and won't pay. Those foreign fellows often do that. What an appropriate name Hornaby Hook is.”
“He has paid. He sent father the money and said he was going back to England at once.”
“So, ho! I understand now. My sister has been deserted, jilted, snubbed, and her Sawyer pride is hurt. If you'd written me that I'd be in Fernborough now, and so would Quincy and Alice. Florence, it was mean of you to send such a bloodcurdling telegram for so simple a thing.”
“But that isn't all,” cried Florence. “When the check for five hundred dollars that father gave him came back it had been raised to five thousand, and father has lost all that money. Oh, it is all over, and I shall never see him again.”
Another paroxysm of sobs, and a flood of tears. Maude's sisterly sympathy was, at last, aroused.
“Don't take on so, Flossie. Perhaps he didn't do it after all.”
“But father is so indignant. Think of his being paid back with his own money.”
Maude could not help laughing. “That was rather nervy, I'll admit. But that very fact makes me think he's innocent.”
She didn't really think so, but Florence was likely to go into hysterics and something must be done.
“You know his address. You had better write to him and see what he has to say for himself.”
“I can't. Father says if I have any further communication with him, directly, or indirectly, he'll disown me.”
“Well, wait awhile. Father'll calm down in time. Cheer up, Flossie, dry your eyes, and do put some powder on your nose. It's as red as a beet.”
* * * * * * *
A little later in the season, Quincy and Alice started for their summer home at Nantucket, where they spent a pleasant two months, Quincy going up to Boston when needed at the State House. As autumn approached, and the time for the state election drew near, great influence was brought to bear on Quincy to make him rescind his decision, and run for governor a second time, but his mind was fully made up, and in spite of the urgings of the leaders of his own party, as well as those of the public at large, he remained firm in his resolve.
Mr. Evans worked hard for the nomination, but his predilections were well known among the labouring classes, and he failed to receive the necessary votes. Benjamin Ropes, a man respected by all, was elected governor, and in January Quincy retired from public life, and settled down to what he thought would be a period of rest and quiet with his wife in the Mount Vernon Street home.
About the middle of the month, however, a letter came from Aunt Ella.
* * * * * * *
“FERNBOROUGH HALL, “HEATHFIELD, SUSSEX.
“MY DEAR QUINCY AND ALICE: I was going to write nephew and niece, but you both seem nearer and dearer to me than those formal titles express. I see that Quincy is now out of politics, and I know that he needs a change. Your rooms are all ready for you here, and I want you both to come, just as soon as you can. It will be the best for you, too, Alice, as you will escape the very bad winter that Boston always has. I was delighted to hear the news, and I do hope and pray it will be a boy,—then we shall have a Quincy Adams Sawyer, Junior.
“I wish Maude could come with you. I could introduce her to society here, and, I have found—don't think me conceited—that there is nothing that improves an English gentleman so much as having an American wife. If some of your nice young American gentlemen would marry some English girls and transplant them to American soil, I think the English-speaking race would benefit thereby.
“Sir Stuart is well, and so is
“Your loving aunt,
“ELLA.”
* * * * * * *
“The same Aunt Ella as of old,” said Quincy, “always full of new ideas and quaint suggestions. It would be a good thing for you to go, I think, Alice, and I should really relish the change myself. What do you say, a steamer sails next week from here; shall we go?”
“Why, Quincy, it is rather sudden, but I should be glad to see Aunt Ella and Linda again, and I really see no reason why we should not go.”
“Well, we will call that settled, then. And Maude, do you think she would join us?”
“Not unless you take Mr. Merry with you,” replied Alice with a good natured laugh.
Quincy called at the Beacon Street house that afternoon, and had a talk with Maude about going to Europe with them. He read her Aunt Ella's letter, and added,
“You see, she wishes you to come with us.”
“Well, I won't go. She wants to marry me off to some Englishman with a title and no funds. If I ever get married, my husband will be an American. No, take Florence, and let her hunt up Captain Hornaby, her recreant lover,—if he was one. She says they 'understood' each other, but it's evident none of us comprehended—I came near saying apprehended—him.”
“I will speak to father about it,” said Quincy. “Please tell him that I'll call at his office to-morrow morning. Give my love to Florence. I won't trouble her about it until I've seen father.”
Alice thought Florence's substitution for Maude, as regarded the trip to England, was advisable, and certainly showed Maude's good-heartedness.
When Quincy saw his father he made no mention of the Hornaby incident in connection with Florence joining them on their trip abroad, but in spite of this the Hon. Nathaniel Adams Sawyer was, at first, strongly opposed to the idea of his daughter going away from home. Quincy knew his father too well to argue the matter, and turned the conversation to other subjects.
“I have brought my will, father, and wish you would put it in your safe. I have left everything to Alice to do with as she pleases. I have named you and Dr. Paul Culver as my executors. Have you any objection to serving?”
“You will be more likely to act as my executor than I as yours, but I accept the trust, feeling sure that I shall have no duties to perform.”
“There's another matter, father, I wish to speak about. My former private secretary, Mr. Merry, is studying law. When my term expired he, of course, lost his position, for my successor, naturally, wished one of his own friends in the place. If I were a lawyer, I would take him into my office, but—”
“You can't use him in your grocery store,” interrupted the Hon. Nathaniel. Quincy took the sarcasm good-naturedly, and laughed. That his father had, to some extent, overcome his displeasure at his son becoming a tradesman, was shown by his next words.
“Our law business is increasing daily, and perhaps I can make an opening for him in the near future. I will bear him in mind.”
The Hon. Nathaniel reserved his decision in relation to Florence's trip until he had discussed the matter with his wife, but the next day Maude saw Alice and told her that her father had consented, on one condition, and that was that Quincy would bring her back with him when he returned to America. The Hon. Nathaniel was still suspicious of Aunt Ella, and evidently thought that she wished to get control of his daughter as she had of his son.
Quincy gave his father the required promise. Florence must have time to prepare for such a long journey, so Quincy was obliged to give up the plan of sailing from Boston on a certain date as he had intended. Besides, he wanted, personally, to see how Arthur Scates was getting along at the Sanatorium which was at Lyndon in the Adirondacks, and so he booked passage on the steamer Altonia, to sail from New York in three weeks.
CHAPTER XI. — THE WRECK OF THE ALTONIA
“Florence will be ready to start to-morrow,” said Alice. This was welcome intelligence to Quincy, who wished several days to spare in New York before sailing.
As soon as his wife and sister were located at a hotel in New York, he made the trip to Lyndon in the Adirondacks to see Arthur Scates. He found him greatly improved, and he told Quincy that he had not felt so well in years. The doctors, too, were more than pleased with his condition, and said that it was only a question of a few months when he would be entirely well again.
When he returned to New York he found that Alice had been to visit Mrs. Ernst in West 41st Street. Madame Archimbault lived with them and still carried on the millinery establishment on Broadway, in which Quincy had accidentally discovered the long-sought Linda Putnam masquerading under the name of Celeste. How that discovery had operated to change the lives of many people came forcibly to Quincy as he sought Leopold Ernst in his down-town office.
Leopold was almost hidden behind piles of manuscripts and newspapers when Quincy entered his room.
“Up to your neck, Leopold?”
As soon as Leopold saw who had addressed him, he jumped up, pushed a pile of manuscripts from his desk to the floor, and grasped Quincy's extended hand in both of his.
“Let me help you pick up your papers,” said Quincy.
“No, they're in their proper places. They're rejected. I have accepted two out of fifty or more. The American author sends tons to the literary mill, but it grinds out but a few pounds. But the novices are improving. They will yet lead the world, for we have a new country full of God's wonderful works, and a composite population whose loves and hates reproduce in new scenes all the passions of the Old World. They are the same pictures of human goodness and frailty in new frames—and my business is to judge the workmanship of the frames.”
They talked about old times, particularly the success of Alice's first romance.
“Marriage is often fatal to literary activity. Is your wife to write another book?”
“I think not. We expect an addition—not edition—to our family library soon after our return from England.”
“That settles it. Literature takes a back seat when Maternity becomes its competitor. It is well. Otherwise, how could we keep up our supply of authors?”
The evening before the sailing of the Altonia, a happy party assembled in a private dining room at Quincy's hotel. Toasts were drunk. Alice and Rosa sang and Florence accompanied and played classic selections upon the piano.
“Bon voyage,” cried Leopold, as they separated. “Make notes of something
really new, make a book of up-to-date travels, and our house will
publish it for you, for I'll recommend it no matter how bad it is. We
have to do that often for friends of the firm,—why not for our own?”
A foggy night on the ocean. The barometer ranged low. An upward
glance disclosed a black mist—no sign of moon or stars. A bad night on
land, when trains of cars crash into others laden with humanity—some
dying mercifully without knowing the cause; others cruelly, by slow
cremation, with willing hands nearby powerless to help.
A bad night off shore, when freight-laden craft, deceived by beacon lights, are beached upon the treacherous sand or dashed against jagged rocks. The life-savers, with rocket, and gun and line, and breeches-buoys, try in vain, and, as a last resort, grasp the oars of the life-boat and bring to safety one or two of a crew of ten. Sad hearts in homes when the news comes; but it is only one of the scenes in the drama of life.
A bad night at sea—with a great ocean liner, its iron heart pulsating, plunging through the black waves into dense mountains of fog.
Despite the darkness and chill of the winter night, Quincy, Alice, and Florence were on the deck of the Altonia. Alice shuddered and Quincy drew her wrap more closely about her.
“Shall we go down into the cabin?”
“Not yet. There is nothing enjoyable about this Cimmerian gloom, and yet it has its attractions. Florence, what is it that Tom Hood wrote about London fog?”
“I only remember one line, and I'm not sure I can quote that correctly. I think it reads: 'No sun, no moon,' I should add 'no stars, no proper time of day.'”
During the two days since leaving New York, Florence had been a creature of moods: sad, when she brooded over her trouble due, she felt sure, to another's act; light-hearted when she thought of the prospect of again meeting Reginald and having him prove his innocence.
She had been spared newspaper publicity. Not for ten times the sum he had lost would the Hon. Nathaniel have had his daughter's name in the public prints. He was a lawyer, but it was his business to get other people out of trouble, and not to get his own family into it—which shows that great lawyers are not exempt from that very common human frailty, selfishness.
Sounds of applause were borne to their ears. “Let us go in,” said Florence, “some one has been singing.”
In the main saloon, all was merriment. Each passenger had faith in Capt. Robert Haskins, who had crossed the Atlantic hundreds of times. The Altonia belonged to a lucky line, the luck that follows careful foresight as regards every detail, the luck that brings safety and success from constant vigilance.
In the first cabin were more than two hundred souls—young and old, maids and matrons, young and middle-aged men, and a few beyond the allotted three score years and ten.
Mlle. Carenta, a member of a troupe of grand opera singers, whom many had heard during the company's engagement in New York, arose from the piano amid cries of “bravo,” for her superb vocalism. She had sung Gounod's Ave Maria.
“How sweetly she sang,” said Alice, as she touched her husband's arm to more fully draw his attention from the beautiful vocalist. “Don't you think so, Quincy?”
“Divine,” was the reply. “One can almost fancy the doors of Heaven are open.”
The cabin was warm—in reality, hot,—but Alice shuddered as she had when chilled by the mist and cold. She caught quickly at her husband's arm.
“I wish we were safe at Fernborough Hall with Aunt Ella.”
“And so do I, my dear, but the walking is poor, and we must put up with our present method of locomotion for a few days longer. Think of the good times we have had and those in store for us.”
Alice reassured by the words and the accompanying pressure of Quincy's hand exclaimed: “How delightful it was in the country, and how I enjoyed our visits. I shall always love Mason's Corner as it was called when—”
“I met my fate,” her husband added. “My line fell in a pleasant place—”
“Don't call me a fish,” said his wife, as she smiled half reprovingly.
“Well, we're on the water; if we were in it, we all might wish to be fish—or rather whales.”
The next moment all was confusion. Faces that were white became red—those that were red turned white—even through the colour that art had given to niggardly nature. Fully half the occupants of the saloon were thrown violently to the floor in a promiscuous heap. Others saved themselves from falling by grasping frantically at the nearest object. Many of the lights went out. Some of the women swooned, while men who had deemed themselves brave shook like palsied creatures.
A man half ran, half fell, down the stairway that led into the saloon and stood before the affrighted passengers. No tongue could form a question, but each eager face asked,
“What is it? What has happened?”
His voice came, thin and husky, “We've been struck by another ship in the fog!”
At sea, at night, and that a night of winter chill—and the fog! Such the thought. The fact—ten thousand tons of steel and wood, the product of man's industry, fashioned by his brain, and blood, and bone, crushed and useless, and half a thousand human beings—looking forward to years of happiness—doomed to a terrific struggle with the elements. Strong, courageous, creative man—now a weak, fear-stricken, helpless creature!
“To the boats!” came the cry from above, and it was echoed by hundreds of voices. In those three words were a gleam of hope: they opened a path, but through what and to what would it lead? The other ship, a tramp steamer, which had collided with the Altonia was already sinking, and in a few minutes went down, bow foremost, only a few of the crew having escaped in their own boats.
Quincy had been an athlete in his college days. In time of danger, whether the man be ignorant or educated, one feeling—the instinct of self-preservation—is paramount. Alice and Florence had stood mute, helpless. Quincy put an arm about each and sprang to the narrow doorway. It was blocked by two stout men who fought frantically to gain precedence.
Quincy placed his wife in front of him, and, with the hand thus temporarily freed, he grasped one of the men by the collar and threw him back into the saloon where he was trampled upon by the frenzied passengers.
Regardless of the consequence of his act, Quincy mounted the stairs quickly and gained the deck. The boats were being filled rapidly. He placed his wife and sister in one of them.
Alice cried, “Come, Quincy, there is room here.”
“No, Alice, not yet. The women must go first.”
“I will not go without you.”
“Yes, you will, Alice—and you know why.”
The mighty craft was filling rapidly. Captain Haskins feared that like the tramp steamer it would founder before the passengers could get into the boats—their frail hope for safety. For himself, he asked no place. He had the spirit of the soldier who expires beside his dying horse, looking fondly at the animal that has borne him so many times in safety, and now gives up his life with his master's.
“For God's sake, come, Quincy!” cried Alice. “For our sake!” and Florence added her entreaties.
Quincy turned and saw a woman with a child by her side. She had made her way from the steerage. She was being deported, for she suffered from trachoma. She had been refused permission to land and join her husband who had stood outside the “pen” and gazed at her and the child. Quincy placed the woman in the boat beside his wife and put the child in its mother's arms.
“Lower away!” came a shrill cry.
“Oh, Quincy, must we part thus?”
Captain Haskins grasped Quincy by the arm.
“Get into the boat, Mr. Sawyer.”
Quincy saw that the boat, filled with women, was already over-loaded.
He turned to the Captain and said: “There is more room here with you.”
Nature's ways are mysterious but effective. A brisk breeze broke the
fog, and the rays of the noonday sun fell upon a placid sea. The boat
containing Alice and Florence was picked up by the Macedonian of
a rival line and the rescued made comfortable. For hours the steamer
cruised about rescuing hundreds of the Altonia's passengers, but some
of the boats were never heard from.
Alice and many others had hoped that the wrecked vessel was still afloat, but the Altonia had disappeared,—was far below in hundreds of fathoms of water.