In which the Story finds a “Fault,” and the Electrical Current ends.
Now, it is not in the nature of things that man, in his present state, should attain to full satisfaction. He may, indeed he should, attain to contentment, but as long as there are higher and better things within his reach, he must of necessity remain in some degree unsatisfied.
Some such idea must have been passing through Robin Wright’s brain one fine morning, as he slowly paced the deck of a small schooner with his friend Sam Shipton, for he suddenly broke a prolonged silence with the following remark:—
“I don’t know how it is, Sam, but although I am surrounded with everything that should make a fellow happy, I’m—I’m not happy. In fact, I’m as miserable as it is possible to be!”
“Come now, Robin, don’t exaggerate,” said Sam in a remonstrative tone. “Hyperbole is very objectionable, especially in young men. You know that if you were tied to a huge gridiron over a slow fire, you would be more miserable than you are at present.”
Robin smiled and admitted the truth of this, but nevertheless reiterated his assertion that he was decidedly unhappy.
This conversation, we may remark, took place on board of Sam Shipton’s yacht, off the west coast of Scotland, several years after the events narrated in the previous chapter.
“Well, now, it is strange,” said Sam, with an earnestly sympathetic air and tone of voice, but with the faintest possible twinkle in the extreme corner of one of his eyes. “Let me see—everything, as you justly remark, ought to make you happy here. The weather, to begin with—people always begin with the weather, you know—is splendid, though there is a thundery look about the horizon to the west’ard. Then our yacht, the Gleam, is a perfect duck, both as to her sea-going and sailing qualities, and Captain James Slagg is a perfect seaman, while Stumps is a superlative steward and cook. Our time is our own, and the world before us where to choose. Then, as to our companionship, what female society could be more agreeable than that of my wife Madge, and her bosom friend Letta, who, since she has grown up, has become one of the most beautiful, fascinating, charming,—but why go on, when, in the language of the poet, ‘adequate words is wantin’!’ And Letta’s mother is second only to herself. Then as to the men, could there be found anywhere finer fellows than uncle Rik and Ebenezer Smith, and Frank Hedley—to say nothing of myself and our splendid little boy Sammy? I can’t understand it, Robin. You’re not ill, are you?”
“Ill? no. Never was better in my life.”
“Well, then, what is it? Be confidential, my boy. The witching hour of sunrise is fitted for confidential communications. You’re not in love, are—”