The man was confounded between terror, rapture, and astonishment. Clara’s look had seemed to show that such a consummation was not impossible to, at least, think of—that it had, perhaps, occurred to her own mind. True, she was most likely to scorn the thought; but, for all that, a momentary vision danced before his eyes of what his life would be if he had a woman of his own to love and serve. That the wife of his choice should serve him, never occurred to this generous soul. He could at any time have married a common person, whom most people would have thought good enough for him; but there was in his nature a capacity for tender worship which made him shrink from such an alliance.
Presently, Edith’s cool voice stole through the chaos of his mind. “You can go to sea with Dick and me, Clara.”
The sailor started, and fell from the clouds. His face became overcast, and, with a deep sigh, he seemed to renounce a long-cherished hope.
With a laugh and a toss of the head, Clara rose from her lowly seat, and, stepping out through the window, began to promenade up and down the garden-walk. She saw through this great, transparent creature perfectly, and was amused, and she knew not what else. One could not be angry with the fellow, she said laughingly to herself. She had been looking up to him with enthusiasm, as to some antique bronze or marble Argonaut, or other hero of simpler times. Now that was changed, and she was on the pedestal, to be worshipped by him. It was preposterous, but not altogether disagreeable.
Meantime, Captain Cary was confiding his distress to Edith. “I hope that your cousin didn’t think I was fool enough to dream of her being my wife,” he said, looking down. “What I said was a slip of the tongue, and I didn’t know the drift of it myself till I saw how she took it.”
“Oh! never mind,” Edith answered. “Clara is always jesting, and twisting people’s meaning. She knew you meant no such thing.”
He sighed, and said no more.
If Clara had expected the sailor to watch her, she was disappointed. He went into the parlor, and when, later, she entered, brilliant with exercise and mischief, he was sitting by Carl, and listening with as sober a face to the stories that young man was telling Eugene Cleaveland as if he were listening to a sermon. Clara passed near them, to hear what it might be which produced such solemnity
in the man and such a trance of interest in the child.
“Then,” Carl was saying, “Taurus sent to the Great Bear to say that he should like to have something out of the golden dipper about the middle of the next month, for all the little stars would grow dim about that time, and need something to polish up with. And the Bear said, ‘All right! but the dipper hangs so high on the celestial pole that you will have to pay me a good deal to climb up to it.’ And Taurus answered, ‘All right!’ And then the Bears set slyly to work to grease the pole, so that the dipper should slip down, and they get their pay without work; and Taurus he set to work to push the dipper higher up, so as to get more work than he had agreed to pay for; and, meantime, all the poor little stars languished, and grew dim. And then Orion got mad, and brought a lot of little dippers, and gave each of the little stars a full one. And the stars grew bright and glad. But the Bulls and Bears, finding that they were both beaten, didn’t feel glad. The Bear began to bite his own paws, and the Bull went for Orion, and tried to toss him. But Orion laughed, and put up his shield, and called his dogs, and—”