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CopyRiGHT, 1894,

BY
HENRY HOLT & CO.

JACK O’DOON.

CHAPTER I.

RIN old man stood on a pier head,

WG Scanning the sullen water and lower-

Sy ing sky. He was dressed in the rough

garb of a fisherman, and his clothes

hung loose upon his bent figure. A boat-

Swain’s silver chain was about his neck and

the whistle was in his hand; silent now, but

he held to the habits of his youth in the in-
firmity of his age.

He knew the portent of the leaden clouds
whose shaggy edges dragged upon the black
waters ; of the curling foam, which the in-
coming tide, with each repeated breaker, lifted
higher upon the sand; and he groaned as he
turned at last dejectedly away and followed
the shore to a hut, where the pale blue smoke,
as it fell to the earth, told of a fireside within
which was warmed against the cold and damp
without.

Having reached the door, he looked again
across the bay, and, by the light of the yellow

 
SSPE TATA PLERCGNOE DI PE PETE ES CS ESTEE nits os

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JACK O’DOON.

line around the sky, saw the far-off «surf-
horses” tossing on the harbor bar. The
channel was so narrow, the shoals so many,
it would be grounding and death to ride that
foaming line to-night; and, shuddering be-
cause of his aching heart, he entered the low
door and closed it behind him.

«Could you see nothing, father?” asked a
woman anxiously, for one of their sons, the
latest born, was mate of a ship which had not
come in; and the father was picturing it as
beaten about with rudderless hull and riving
masts; with ragged sails and snapping
shrouds ; without stay or brail on a sky-bound
sea.

«The Lord ha’ mercy!” cried he, flinging
out his arms in misery. A moment later he
loosened the knot of his yarn comforter as if
it choked him. He was so old that the energy
of hope was dead, and there was no strength
in him save that of terror. Terror of inky
waves torn for ragged shrouds! Terror for
battered hulks scuttling down! «O Lord,
Lord, ha’ mercy, an’ pity my boy!” he cried
with such appeal it sounded like authority.
The woman was silent, though she heard dis-
tinctly enough the surging of the waves. She
knew the breakers were rising high and
hollow when they fell with such lumbering
crashes upon the beach. The old planks in
the door rattled as if a hand had shaken them,
and the wind rose higher, and shrieked
dismally in the chimney, as if ghosts of

a epee ine ee ee
a AT ee a he

JACK O’DOON. 3

drowned sailors fromall the seas of the world
had come, like an innumerable army of martyrs,
to warn these poor and very old people of the
bad news some one was bringing.

So it sounded to the woman who stood
pressing her hands upon her temples in
dread. Then she rallied her courage and
listened. The fire was sputtering. She put
together the charred logs, and the salt rime
scintillated. She had more hope than the

man ; it was natural she should have, since
the history of those things we hear does not
remain with us like the vision of those which
we see ; and there was a wonderful tender-
ness in her manner of wiping a tear from her
husband’s cheek, and a vast resource of forti-
tude behind the calmness with which, out of
her own self-control, she strove to inspire con-
fidence in the man, who was older and feebler
than herself. But no cheer was in him. As
they sat silent in the gloom of the smoulder-
ing fire, the wrinkles and furrows, sunken
deep in their faces, told the story of their hard-
working and weather-beaten lives ; and sug-
gested in the career of the man bleak nights
at sea on a pilot station, cold late springs on
the foggy banks of the mackerel fisheries,
and numb and almost devitalized watches
aloft, when the morning sometimes found one
missing and gone to a gruesome grave. A
sad relief no doubt from the pinch of living.
Harassed by such memories, the old man
envied the pilot, Jack Gavely, in that. the

 
EET ET Sie she ks hide ds eects taste testy

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4 JACK O'DOON.

Lord had spared him much by taking him
in time; and in sorrow he sighed and
wished to the Lord that he too were dead.
The woman understood him, and, con-
science-smitten, endeavored to cheer him
by making the fire blaze. The kindling
flame illuminated the interior of the hut.
There was a strange commingling from land
and sea on all sides. Around the walls were
fragments of canvas, mildewed to a tender
gray ; others, red with tannin as Ionian sails.
In a corner, like a gilded trophy, or a fetish
turned to gold, was the battered, but. still
gaudy figurehead of a brig which the
waves had sent for a votive offering. A cup-
board was near it with a white and gilded
door; and a china door-plate, bearing the
words, ‘‘ Gentlemen’s Smoking-room.”

_ The joists overhead were made from ships’
spars and were black with smoke, which
often, as now, blew down the chimney in
gusts. Bunches of seaweed, pink and yel-
low, hung from the beams ; and all the cran-
nies in the walls were filled with small marine
monstrosities, such as sea-urchins and star-
fish ; and little crabs, hung by threads,
wriggled in the streams of wind which came
puffing through the cracks. It was a living
habitation, compiled from fragmentary evi-
dences of death ; made, in all its parts, from
the debris of wreckage, which the sea had
rejected and the salvage hunters despised.
There was a faint delicious smell from the

Fn a me pee oe ne eee Bee an iw: Om pen ger en ae Bs Ap
nae ie bar tn be toe ben Sarna ny ee bow Wee

aad

JACK O’DOON.

cupboard, where a piece of Malabar sandal-
wood was used to close a crevice. On one
side of the cabin was the imperfect outline of
a huge number 9, which, though battered and
worn, stood out as unmistakable as when, on
the high seas, it had signaled to the good ship
the pilot, ready to steer her in. There was
a clock, too; but its wooden wheels, warped
by the fogs, refused to run; and a peg, by
the shadow that it flung, told the hours when
the sun shone. :

In the daytime the outside of the hut
appeared as quaint as the inside. It was
crouched under a dune, and the shifting sand
was slowly encasing it. The low chimney
seemed only a hole in the hill from which a
wreath of smoke issued. The front of the
little shanty was much pluckier, however,
and put a bold face to the sea; and never a
gale, though it blew hard from the northeast,
had had power to loosen its roof of mixed
wood, tin, and tarpaulin, nor to tear off one of
the many-colored boards, as varied as Joseph's
coat, with which it was sided. There was a
space which had been blue and bright as
the skies in summer, another as green asa
meadow in spring, and a great dash of scarlet ;
and interspliced among these were yellow,
brown, black and white. But all, motley as
was the mixture, were weather-beaten till
they had acquired a film of gray, which made
them tender to the sight.

It was, indeed, a queer little house, yet you

 
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6 JACK 0’ DOON.

could not fail to see it. So small compared
with the white-capped sea, and so small com-
pared with the hillocked sand; buried in
white sheets, it looked like a toy-house, which
a child had taken to bed in its arms, and had
run away and forgotten in the morning.

But you must have seen it, as you would
see an eye in a reposeful face, for it was the eye
in the vast speechless face of nature there ; the
one spot, of all the sky, water, and land, where
life and soul were. That night, however, the
darkness was dense.

The old couple within had no heart to eat,
although the woman had filled the kettle and
spilled her tears into it as she put it on the
crane. She had brushed them away as she
laid the cloth, and set out the dishes, and
busied herself to make the potatoes boil ; but
when they were served, she forgot the supper,
and the kettle spluttered and steamed in vain,
until it nearly put out the fire. Just then
there came a hesitating knock, a timid lifting
of the latch, followed by the wrenching of the
door from the grasp of a small hand which
held it, and the inrush of a gust of wind,
bringing sand and sea-spray along with it.
Both were startled, and arose, confronting the
unexpected visitor.

«« May the Lord bless us!” exclaimed the
astonished old man. The gale was so fierce
that it took the combined strength of all three
to close the door against it. Having done so,
they barred it from within.

JACK O’DOON.

The figure which had entered was that of a
woman. She approached the fire, and, kneel-
ing down on the hearth, in the space they
made for her, proceeded to put the brands to-
gether and kindle a blaze. The hands which
she stretched out to the warmth were delicate
and well cared for, and sparkled with rings ;
and one would have thought the wearer
Strangely out of place, wandering alone, on
such a night, in such a storm, amid darkness
and danger.

She had set upon the table a double-glazed
hurricane lamp.

«What's fetched you here, Mercy, when the
wind’s a-tarin’ the sand-hills down, en flingin’
"em into the sea like ez no. It mus’ be bad
news you’s bringin’ us, sence you got nothin’
to say,” said the woman, in great anxiety.

At first the girl did not reply, and the silence
was ominous. At length, after vainly trying
to speak, she burst out sobbing, and buried
her face in her foster-mother’s lap, for she had
come to bring her grief.

The old man clasped his hands under his
chin, and swayed his body from side to side,
with the necessity of an active nature for
mechanical expression; but the woman was
dumb. No tear, nor sigh, nor heaving of the
breast, marred the rigidity of her desolation.
She looked as if she were dead herself, while
the girl, regaining her composure, arose from
her knees and sat down with her feet to the

fire.

 
ji pi ee os viva Td vA TATE et re race rirsy

LEA OTaN PETS BFF

rete. sr te see

8 JACK O'DOON.

The hood which she pushed back from her
face was lined with fur, and her cloak was also
of the same rich material ; and, as she sat thus,
the eyes of her two companions turned inquir-
ingly upon her, watching her draw from her
pocket a newspaper, slowly unfold it, and, with
a voice tremulous and interrupted with tears,
read as follows :

«Yesterday, at noon, the bark Junaluska of
the Currituck Fisheries’ service arrived, towed
into port by the tug Annie. She was help-
lessly dismantled, having lost her mast-heads,
shrouds and sheets. Her rudder also was
missing. Still, we are glad to say that her
crew, save one seaman, Jacob Billings by
name, is intact; but she brings sad news of
her sister bark, the Marianetta, Captain Free-
mantle, mate John O’Doon, which, when last
sighted, was listed beyond hope of righting,
and, without spars or masts, was thought to
be sinking when nightcame on. This was on
Thursday last, the thirtieth of March. The
next morning there was nothing to be seen of
her, although the sun rose clear, and if she
were still afloat it is thought she might have
been sighted. She was drifting S.S.W. No
hopes are entertained for the safety of the
crew, as the tempestuousness of the night, the
frightful roughness of the sea, and the small-
ness of the boats make it difficult to conceive
how any could have lived through it. The
marine insurance companies sent out a tug in
search, which, having returned with but one

JACK O’DOON.

of the missing boats, they are inclined to give
the Marianetta up as lost.”

The paper sank upon the girl's lap and she
clasped her hands over it.

“But surely she might have drifted many
miles in a night. Fifty miles with such a
wind! Oh, he must be alive. Dear Jack!”
cried she, in such sincere and bitter grief, that
the old father looked at her in wonder ere
he replied with a retrospective frown,—

«Yes, and be a-starvin’, and a-freezin’ to
death, offn the shoals 0’ Cape Hatteras to-
night. No. Better dead, say I, and over with,
than sech a sufferin’, livin’, an’ dyin’ all at
once! Oh, I knows! I’ve know’d it, and I’d
ha’ blessed the good Lord to ha’ deadened en
a-drownded me with a big stunnin’ header at
once.”

But the youth and hope in the girl resisted,
and clung to the thought that none had seen
him die ; and the mother, stimulated by the
example of one hoping beside her, felt her
heart warm a little.

“Dear Jack,” murmured the girl gently,
“IT can’t remember anything without him.
Nobody was ever half as good except you
and daddy,” and sheturned to the old woman
with a caress which touched her. Sidewise
to the fire, her profile was distinct against
the light. The forehead was high and noble,
but the apparent height was diminished by
the hair which clung to it in wet ringlets. It
Was not a symmetrical face, but a kindly one;

 
Peds dad es heaede Sete aude e

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Io : JACK O’DOON.

and the chin, though rather broad, was rounded
into a throat of great beauty. Her head, a
trifle large, was well set upon her shoulders,
as one discovered when she unhooked the
silver clasps and spread her cloak over the
back of her chair.

« And how was it you got here to-night ?”
inquired the man, shifting his anxiety to the
girl; for, now that the worst had come, he
roused himself to meet it.

“I came alone,” said she simply. It did
not strike her that there was anything heroic
in crossing the sand-dunes by a familiar path
which she had so often trodden since first
her infant feet had toddled along it, clinging
to her foster-mother’s dress, But the old man
shook his head dubiously.

« You might ha’ lost the road ; en afore now
the sands is drefted over the bushes mor’n’
you can make ‘lowance fur. You'll stay here
to-night, ‘longside o’ the ole ooman. She'll
stow ye to le’ward an’ I'll set here afore the
fire tell mornin’.”

The girl hesitated a moment and looked
at her watch. ‘It is eleven o’clock,” said
she. ‘They will notmiss me. Isaid I should
go to bed after father had brought the news,
and I did undress and sit down by the fire in
my room; but at last I could not bear it by
myself any more, and so I dressed again and
came down quietly, and lighted the lantern,
and went out to try the path, and finally I got
here ; for after I once started I hated to stop,

JACK O’DOON.

and I kept behind the hillocks when I could.
But several times the wind blew me down,
and I had to carry the lantern under my cloak
when I faced it. It seems strange the sand
doesn’t drift over you altogether, these
nights.”

«It will,” said the old man with conviction,
““ when me en the ole ooman is dead, en there
ain’t no person to dig it away ; en now eZ
Jack is drownded, en he’s the last 0’ our crew,
I’s been a-tellin’ her there ain’t nar’a fittener
place fur her en me ter bide in. Jes roll us
two up in our blankets, en shet to the door,
en let her dreft. She’s a fair ole craft, she
be.” He looked round upon the curious walls
with satisfaction. « An’arter the door is shet,
the sand’ll purty soon close her down, I've a
mind, as ye won’t find nar’a spot es conse-
crated fur us, Mercy, ez this here. There
ain’t none o’ our childurn now to come back.
They was born here, one by one, but they’s all
foun’ another cradle, what'll rock ’em without

gittin’ tired, and sing ’em ter sleep nights for-
ever} -

The pathos in the old man’s voice smote
the mother’s heart into a great lamentation.
«Rachel weeping for her children, and would
not be comforted, because they were not.”
The girl hung upon her, and entreated her,
with the persuasion of innumerable caresses,
to cease from her sorrow and crying, but
without avail ; and at last she sat down again
beside the old man, and they listened to the

 
(at elareeereses

Piri keke dbad

12 JACK 0’DOON.

mother’s heart outpouring. It was awful to
hear, for it seemed as if it were breaking ;
and yet they were too wretched to comfort
her; and so they sat listening and gazing
blindly into the fire. Occasionally the man
groaned when the wind rushed down the
chimney, and reminded him of the fierceness
of the storm upon the sea. The canvas
flapped against the wall with a startling noise ;
and the sand came rattling down in blasts
and scattered over them. It was indeed drift-
ing over the little house, smothering the chim-
ney more and more.

All was making an indelible impression
upon the girl, despite the fact that her cour-
age was so strong. Itis true she had been
brought up to the lullaby of the sea; but
since the time when the sorrows of shipwreck
could be understood, she had been sheltered
behind the massive walls of her father’s house,
where even the plate-glass windows were so
strong and tight, that, when doubled in winter,
only the booming of a great storm could be
heard distinctly. But the grandeur of old
Margery O’Doon’s fortitude, in her little hut
by the sea, had won from the girl an admira-
tion all the greater because of the contrast
between their lots in life, and altogether apart
from her natural instinct of love for her foster-
mother.

Old Margery’s courage had never been
known to falter, though her sons had been
brought in, wrinkled and drowned and dead,

JACK O'DOON.

all soaked with sea-water, and laid at her feet.

~ She had not shrunk from fulfilling for them

the last sad offices, and herself had shrouded
them for the grave.

Knowing them both so well, and having
seen that day that their hearts were dying
of suspense, this girl had crossed the sands
through the darkness to bring them evil tid-
ings, believing that certainty, even of the
worst, were better than the dread which was
maddening them.

Jack O’Doon, the last of seven sons who
had gone down to the sea in ships, was the
pride and glory of his mother’s heart. She
had called him her scholar, and now, seeing
his books, with his name upon them, in a bold
and clerkly hand, arose, and, with a desperate
necessity for expression, kissed them with
idolatrous fervor again and again. «My
boy, my boy!” she cried, wringing her hands,
‘“he won’t come back no more.” The girl
looked on, but her eyes were dry ; she had
not realized it yet. She had not had that
tuition of disappointment which at last teaches
us to shrink from the most casual separation,
as we shrink from death: and so she sat with
a mute and reverent sympathy, following
Mother Margery with her eyes, unconscious
of the strong contrast between herself and
her old nurse.

Even her clothes were so different from
Mother Margery’s. Her dress was thick and
Warm, and was cut with the precision of

 
56k CS LATA RAGUAN OE PATIO

 

14 JACK O’DOON.

fashion ; her rings were too costly for her
years ; and her hair was twisted upon a gold
pin. One was a petted child; the other was
a brave old woman whose lot had been severe,
and whose burden was very heavy. But, with-
out knowing it, the girl had been nourished
with courage, as well as milk, from her foster:
mother’s breast, and that night she showed it,
for it took a wonderful endurance to sit through
the dark hours till the fickle April sun shoné

in the mofning.

So aa ba i or eigenen
ene . Ma
Bae erence 7h reernaree saa red

JACK O’DOON.

CHAPTER II.

‘@g\N the early light the girl returned to
her father’s house, and, reaching
her room, threw herself upon the
bed and fell asleep.

_ She was the darling and only child of a re-
ne sea-captain, the offspring of his strangely-
= item marriage with the daughter of an
ay ae Episcopal clergyman, accredited
ee ore learning than money. The mother
pee giving birth to the child. Usually
ee circumstances, when the father re-
sake ae the shock of his bereavement, he
eee etests the innocent cause of his mis-
We ae * else overwhelms it with more than
ThE ee quality and quantity of affection.

stwhile mariner, Solomon Blessington,

See known in those parts as “‘ The Captain,”
oe amassed a fortune, had abandoned his
Be pot the slippery wave at the age of thirty-
ight and established himself on shore, full
of hope and lavish of expenditure. Not con-
ee with giving his refined young wife all
at money could buy for her, he had settled
an annuity upon each of her sisters, and been
altogether so bountiful to the parson, his
father-in-law, that many, who could not recon-

 
6 JACK O’DOON.

cile themselves to this marriage of “ Beauty
and the Beast,” had declared it looked as if
the old monster had bought the girl, out and
out.

But when a woman has found life cold and
poverty bitter, she is often content to yield
herself without reserve to even violent passion,
provided it is tender and sheltering; and |
am inclined to think that the Captain’s wife
felt such trust in his goodness as made her
ignore—even perhaps fail to see—his coarse-
ness.

Taking the world as it is, poverty, even
though ameliorated by scholarly culture, with-
out leisure for enjoyment, finds it hard to
withstand the seductions of food and clothes,
abundance of resources for the gratification
of one’s near kin, and general peace of mind ;
provided the heart be free to make the
sacrifice.

But in this case, if sacrifice there had been,
doubtless the mother’s secret brooding over it
had had much to do with shaping the future
inclinations of the then unborn child, and
creating those germs of a character so out of

JACK O’DOON.

life, which had been passed under the tender
ee aes Margery and Jack, the parson
: ; o shuffle off this mortal coil, leaving
ne coil to Aunt Polly in the shape of aggres-
sive fanaticism. The Captain, in view of his
Sister-in-law’s desolation, had thought it best
to transplant her to Blessington House, and
put her in charge of his shila: :
Mercy’s little hands were henceforth washed
of the defilement of frog-houses and
eae and a change came over the scieeed
shai She was set down to tasks and
rela ; a day. On Sunday she was
eis without pity to the religious tread-
i a Aunt Polly, a remorseless prig, made
prig of the child as well. cee
eee ree heart had had veins of gold to
ne ad the unbounded indulgence of her
er, and the purse-proud arrogance which

hac i
: 1 undermined Aunt Polly’s common-sense
n the sudden accession of fortune

%
3 * * * *

When the girl awoke and descended to the

breakf.
epee eyes her father was off again to
wn, and Aunt Polly, a grim person with

eye-glass
cane: a, sat deeply engrossed in religious
e€; marking sentences with a lead

keeping with her surroundings ; for, having
inherited her father’s energy and large-minded
generosity, her mother’s self-abnegation, and
her grandfather’s devotion to abstract study,
her inherent tendencies continually rebelled
against Aunt Polly’s severe discipline and
‘narrow ideas.

At the end of the first eight years of her

enci i
arg she hurriedly scanned the pages
hin lips pinched in the eagerness ee

Mercy abhorred ¢racts.

“T have be cing [ i
: een looking up a few things for

 
SRAM bie

 

18 JACK O'DOON.

Margery,” said Aunt Polly, pointing to a pile
of pamphlets.

«T never could see any sense in that sort of
thing,” said Mercy, “and I hope you won’t
read them to Mother Margery to-day. She
must feel as if she doubted heaven and earth,
and wished she were dead !”

«Why, what possesses you?” cried Aunt
Polly, looking at Mercy.

“TI don't know,” replied the girl, putting a
lump of sugar into her coffee, «but it seems
to me there can’t be much worse hereafter
than tossing about on a pitch-black sea, starv-
ing and freezing and dying, and I wish Jack
had never been born !”

«Pray, do not speak in that wild way,
Mercy,” said Aunt Polly, putting up her glasses
to scrutinize her niece.

“Tam not talking in a wild way! I can’t
get along without Jack. He’s mine, and I
want him,” Mercy retorted, abandoning her
breakfast and coming round to face her aunt,
who, with a faint color in her cheeks, was still
perusing the tracts.

“Tt is a wild way,” she replied, without
looking up, ‘‘ because, in the first place, you
are not treating me with proper respect, and
in the second, it does not become you to be
rhapsodizing over a person no better than a
servant.”

The girl’s face, already vivid with emotion,

- turned scarlet with anger. She stood for a

moment silent, and then, leaning forward, said

JACK O’DOON.

with a low emphasis which surprised her aunt,
‘Yes, he was my father’s servant. He gave
his courage, and endurance, and youth, and
strength, and perhaps his life, for the wretched
pay of thirty dollars a month and found. And
he was my slave too. A dumb slave, always,
since we played in the old boat on the beach
together! But he was my benefactor as well ;
and I loved him for both, and I'll miss him for
both!” The anger had suddenly died out of
her voice, and it had sunk to so low a key
that the fervor of its tenderness alone made it
audible.

Aunt Polly had lived through too much
Poverty, and had struggled too long and too
indomitably to keep up a vestige of family
dignity, not to feel grave annoyance at Mercy’s
staunch loyalty to the O’Doons. She glanced
at the girl, and, knowing how incorruptible
was her devotion, deemed it best to let the
subject drop, and said, as if to close the inter-
view, “Such things are better forgotten than

talked about; but I shall certainly go to the
O’Doons.”

‘Have a little pity, and do not torment
them with those things!” cried the girl,
throwing herself in her aunt's way, in an
attitude of entreaty. “Is there nothing in
your heart you can give them ?—nothing 2”

It was an unusual scene. Mercy appeared
in a new character before her aunt, who could
but look at her in wonder, and in sheer sur-
prise let the tracts flutter to the ground; for

 
 

 

20

there was such determination to defend
Mother Margery at any cost, th

showed the spirit of a young ti
t
wounded dam. Ae)
Aunt Polly gazed at the bits of paper on the

Hoor as if she expected a lambent glimmer to
play round them and proclaim their inspira-

tion; Mercy looked at them as though she

longed to put th
em through a cruci
al t
throw them into the fire. ee

At length, with

at Mercy
S over its

a fainting feeling, the girl

eee into a chair, and, covering her face with
er handkerchief, wept as if she had lost the

dearest friend she possessed in the world, and

Aunt Polly, with a resolute intention of
having her own way, stooped down patho]
up the tracts, and, looking at Mercy the
slight commiserating smile, left her She,
poor child, was glad to be alone. The h -
which had resisted the depression of the night
now failed her; and the memory of siesta
luctance which the old sailors always evinc ‘d
at seeing their young ones go out on the

smacks during the gusty March weather came

grim and hard upon her, and she made no

ae for the cowardice of age so sickened
y bitter experience as to f

dae, orget the endurance
She fell into one of th

e “brown studies”

for which Aunt Polly was forever chiding her

Her mind was tenacious and analytical, and

JACK O’DOON.

having nothing to interest it socially, philoso-
phized upon all she observed and hoarded
until she could sit by the sea in summer and
the fireside in winter, to think out causes and
relations. It was this habit of casuistry which
gave her so full an insight into the character
of the O’Doons, mother and son. She wasa
problem to her father and Aunt Polly, who
could not certainly decide if she were agenius
or a fool ; since somebody claims that absent-
minded persons must be one or the other.
Her father thought her a genius ; Aunt Polly
was not certain that she was a fool.

It occurred to her that the household was
in ignorance of last night's expedition, and
it was just as well it should not become a
subject for future comment; so. she left the
room hastily and ascended to her chamber.
There she donned her hood and cloak, and,
descending again, went out and crossed the

garden.
It was a queer garden; such as are found

only upon barren coasts, and had the appear-
ance of much greater age than the house,
which looked very new, despite its proximity
to the sea. A straight path ran down the
middle, bordered with sea-shells, which were
bleached and chalky; their crannies filled
with dead weeds. There was also an attempt
at a wind-brake of stunted cedars, but their
tops were pinched and twisted by the gales
which had swept over them. An old wall
girting it was patched with bricks like the

 
 

 

22 JACK O’DOON.

house ; the stones, however, were spotted
with lichens, and along the top, repulsive and
inhospitable, was a hardened batter of broken
glass and cement. It is doubtful if flowers
could have thrived there, even with the per-
suasion of summer sunshine.

Mercy opened a heavy door in the wall like
that of a fortress and passed out into an ob-
scure road,—obscure in the sense of indefinite-
ness, although glaring and white in the vivid
light. As smooth as marble, also, for no foot
had trodden it, save her own, since it had
been polished by the friction of the hail blasts
of the previous night. There were few traces
of vegetation not half-buried in the drifts, and
the sand-hills had changed form so much that,
if the girl had not known her bearings, she
could not have set out at the rapid pace with
which she crossed the marsh ; for there were
great lagoons of sea-water which had risen
with the tide, and lay fringed with dark
green, frost-nipped grass. Wending her way

between these she reached the O’Doons’
cottage.

It looked smaller than ever. Only a corner
was left out of the sand which the old man
had no heart to shovel away. The door stood
open, though neither Mother Margery nor the
fisherman was within. Mercy suspected they
were searching for driftwood, of which there
was always a great quantity cast up after a
Storm. She ascended the nearest hillock and
cast her eyes along the shore. Far to the

JACK O’DOON.

north two dim figures moved against the
white background. ee

Leaving her cloak in the cabin, for the day
was warm, she took instead Mother Margery’s
shawl. Very pretty she looked as she walked
away, although it was hard to tell where the
beauty lay. It was of such a character that
one yielded to it, won by the magnanimity of
her smile, although she seldom smiled. Her
name, Mercy, described the grace which
modified the impetuosity of her nervous lips,
and the intense earnestness of her gray eyes.
When she looked at you with her half-absent,
lingering gaze, if there were anything unclean
in your heart you felt a desire to hide it or to
turn away from her. She hated meanness or
hypocrisy, and, without knowing it, had the
power either of making others afraid of her, or
of stimulating the best in them to its noblest
effort.

Mercy’s feet led her to Mother Margery,
but her thoughts were with Jack himself.
The hopefulness of youth made her brush a
tear away and believe that he would come
back. No one had seen him die. Alas! for
her he could never die. No man could ever
take Jack’s place. No peasant could be such
a slave, no prince sucha benefactor. He was
a hero to her, and the courage of his example
helped her to meet his aged parents with a
smile as they now approached, dragging a
sled piled with wood.

It was natural that Mother Margery should

 
JACK O'DOON,

be pulling. with steady, undemonstrative
strength, beguiling the old man into thinking
he was no feebler than last year, and that he
was now, as then, bearing the brunt of the
labor himself. That was her way. Mercy
also stepped behind him and laid her hand
on the rope. It was a repetition to her of a

familiar incident, for Jack and she had often
done the same thing.

After the first greeting they walked along
in silence dragging the sled, until Mercy said :
‘‘Aunt Polly is coming down to-day, and I
don’t want you to tell her that I was here last
night. If they had known it, I should explain ;
as they do not, it is better as it is.” :

«You always was that headstrong, it’ll be
the death o’ you, I’m afeard,” said Mother
Margery, doubtfully ; but Mercy had no dis-
trust of her, and they relapsed into silence,

The old man wiped the sweat from his
brow, which showed that he felt the toil as
well as the April sunshine. He sighed, too,
as if with satisfaction. A few years ago he
would have drawn the sled alone, and now he
was a-weary, and so he argued that it would
soon be over and he should follow the seven
sons. Mother Margery looked at him wist-
fully, for she knew the meaning of all his
sighs, and she sighed, too, that he should sigh.

Her strong will and tenacious endurance
could never give up to death while there was
_ the faintest glimmer of hope or possibility of
any useful thing for her two work-worn hands

 

JACK O'DOON. 25

to do in the world. The girl understood her
foster-mother, and believed she still hoped for
Jack, while she busied herself with the work
of love before her. She must hold up the old
man’s drooping arms and cheer his dying
heart, for he had neither hope nor desire for
it. He knew that hope meant the agony of
winter shipwreck, and he would rather the
boy were dead.

Socially considered, the captain's daugh-
ter made a rare choice of friends; it was
nevertheless the most natural of intimacies,
since our intimates are seldom our equals.
There must be room for influence and expan-
sion. We love best what we admire or com-
miserate. Well-balanced things cannot be
intense, since they lack the pressure which
overcomes scruples and causes devotion. We
love much what we admire and idealize, but
we love more what we pity, sometimes, even,
what we reluctantly despise. For when the
nobler nature makes allowance for the
weaker, and pity takes the place of disdain,
then the heart is full of love. So Mercy
pitied the O’Doons’ poverty, their illiterate
uncouthness, and admired, without stint, their
courage and truthfulness and honor.

They admired her, as a being far finer than
themselves, while they pitied her physical
weakness, and this had been since Mother
Margery had sheltered the child at her breast.
And Jack, ‘her foster-brother, had helped to
take care of her; and, mite of a boy though

 
JACK O’DOON. JACK O’DOON,

he was, how valiantly he had carried the baby
in his arms through the water to the shore
when the tide had caught them in a stranded
boat, and she had been so frightened, and
clung to him with her arms around his
or CHAPTER III.

FoaeQ HEY had not yet reached the cabin
ai} when their attention was attracted
to a spot far up the beach by the
movements of a human figure, which
hurried to and fro. Mercy, although ex-
pecting her aunt, could not suppose it was
she, since, upon closer observation, the figure
appeared to be that of a man, accompanied
by a three-legged skeleton, with which he was
vainly struggling, and which, after a final
effort at resistance, fixed its three legs solidly
in the sand in a defiant attitude. The sin-
gularity of the combination distracted even
the O’Doons, and while they paused for a
moment to look at it, the skeleton put on a
disproportionate breastplate, and the man
stepped backward, without taking his eyes off
the baleful figure, and stood contemplating it.
The party with the sled continued their work,
while watching the movements of the other
figures.
Suddenly Mercy exclaimed,—
«« Why, it must be an artist with one of those
folding-easels they carry around.”
Even the old man smiled at the grotesque-
ness of their first impression.

ba fa Le ESS prea arcr

 
 

28 JACK O’DOON.

Doubtless curiosity prompted them to
quicken their steps, and they soon reached the
door of the cabin.

The artist had planted himself on the
shelving beach to the southward, and was
reconnoitering for a sketch.

Now Mercy, from childhood, had looked
upon pictures with admiring wonder ; and as
she turned the pages of more than one illus-
trated magazine, to be found at proper inter-
vals on the table at Blessington House, had
wondered how they could have been delineated
in so short a time, as the vivid and rapid
changes of sea and sky, with which she was
familiar, would exact. Here she could have
an elucidation of the mystery.

“I’m going to see what he is doing,” said
she, with the simplicity and decision of one
who realized herself mistress of all she sur-
veyed, even to the artist trespassing upon her
beach. So, letting go the sled-rope, she set
out briskly to investigate him.

It was very plain that the girl was lacking
in both the coquetry and scruples which actu-
ate most of her sex, for she walked fearlessly
toward the stranger until she was quite close,
and then stood and looked at him, I should
perhaps say they looked at each other. His
smile of surprise and admiration was beyond
repression, as he took off his hat as chival-
rously as the stiff breeze permitted ; whilst
she nodded her head, a little nonplussed, yet
having caught the contagion of his smile.

r= bt Sento pane

JACK O’DOON. 29

«TI am afraid I am trespassing,” said he,
proceeding to tighten the brass screws of the
easel. A wise precaution, else it would have
collapsed under the one-sided pressure of the
wind.

«Not at all,” said Mercy, taking a step
nearer, and posing unconsciously, with her
head on one side, and her hand on her hip.
She was inimitable, and the artist longed to
place her, just as she stood, The earnestness
of her gray eyes, which she brought to bear
upon him, induced him to say what he was
thinking. People always told Mercy the truth.
Perhaps it was the amount of visible human
nature in her, which made one understand
that nothing would shock her, unless it were
wicked or brutal; for she anticipated one’s
wishes to such a surprising degree that one
often felt that if he wished to hide his thoughts
from her he must hide himself.

She understood at once the young man’s
eager smile and replied to it:

«IT see you would like me to stand just 80,
as a figure in your picture. I should not mind
it, and if itis a very good picture my father
would buy it.” She thought he was poor and
must needs sell his pictures, for his coat was
threadbare.

“I do not know how I could ever thank
you,” replied the artist, much embarrassed.

«Pray do not,” said she sententiously.

« But I should be so grateful,” said he, still
more puzzled, opening his color-box, and look-

 
 

 

30 JACK O’DOON.

ing over his palette. It was in good working
order, and he was not slow about beginning.
Mercy seemed disposed to be loquacious.

«You do not need to be grateful,” she said,
smiling. “You are amusing me, and I am
obliging you. We are quits.”

The artist was working rapidly, but his
thoughts were busy as well solving the prob-
lem, how a girl, apparently eighteen, speaking
good English, dressed in broadcloth, and
talking like a philosopher, could possibly
exist as one of the fishing folk of Cassandra
Bay, and, at the same time, be standing in
the surprising relation of a model for himself.
He was a bright fellow, but was more ata
loss than he had ever been in his life be-
fore.

Looking at Mercy, he saw that she was
absorbed in herself, and that a look of pain
had followed the smile upon her face. He
could not solve the enigma, yet he had a dim
perception that he was painting at her com-
mand, rather than with the exclusive motive
of pleasing himself.

First he painted in roughly the red shawl,
the dark dress, and the seal-skin hood, blown
back by the breeze, so that the oval of her
face and head were prettily defined ; but
when these had been put in ez masse, he was
forced to say: “I am sorry that you look so
sad ; can’t you smile the way you did at first ?”

Most persons would have laughed at the idea

_ of being invited to smile, but Mercy only

JACK O’DOON.

replied, «Do I really look sad ?” making an
effort to smile which lighted up her helpful
eyes with a benignant look, but the smile was
very faint. It was a thoughtful face indeed
to be imposed upon the world as that of the
possible daughter of the hut under the hill.
The artist frowned a little, with an uncon-
scious expression of disappointment, but the
face had its effect upon him, as it did upon
every one. It aroused him to his noblest
effort, and he put it in truly, with such a
Sincerity in the gaze of the eyes, that they
Were as Mercy’s own.

“There! I shall not touch it again, for fear
I overwork it. Will you look at it ?” said he,
after a moment, stepping back that she might
come and see it.

«Oh, how very pretty !”” cried the girl, with
unfeigned delight. «I should not have
thought I was half as pretty as that. My
father will be so pleased with it. Some day
you will bring it to the house and show it to
him?”

This was said inquiringly, but authorita-
tively as well.

The figure, although so small, had taken up
more time than either Mércy or the artist
had realized. He had been unconscious of
the flight of time because interested in his
work, and she, having lapsed into one of her
brown studies, had been equally oblivious.

He now took the opportunity of scrutinizing
her face.

 
 

 

JACK O'DOON.

«I should be glad to think I was like
that,” she said earnestly, “and it will look
very picturesque with Mother Margery’s
cottage in the distance on one side, and the
wide green sea on the other, and those ragged
sand cliffs to help out the foreground. I have
often thought I should like to paint. Does it
take long to learn?”

«That depends,” said he slowly. « They
say ‘geniuses are plodders,’ and that adage
probably grows out of the fact that those who
love anything fervently are apt to give their
time, and strength, and patience toward doing
it well.” The spirit of this reply was evident
in the work before her, which showed the
finish and facility of a devoted hand.

Just at that moment, lifting her eyes, Mercy
caught sight of Aunt Polly fluttering across
the dunes. Her figure was unmistakable,
for she despised the meanness of the present
style and still sported the full skirts and
round waists of twenty years ago; and the
breeze was spreading, like wide wings, the al-
batross-gray breadths of her gown, as.she
swooped down from the sand-hills upon the
helpless cot of the O’Doons.

“IT must go!” exclaimed Mercy suddenly,
«for I see Aunt Polly coming over the hill.”

Without farther explanation, she walked off
in the direction of the cabin, somewhat vain-
glorious at having had her portrait so flatter-
ingly painted, for she never doubted her future
possession of it. Had she been older, there

JACK O’DOON.

would also have mingled with her feelings a
pleasant satisfaction in knowing there was
being preserved something of the freshness

and picturesqueness of her youth. The artist
looked after her rather dazed.

“Well! That is an episode!” he ex-

claimed aloud, laughing to himself. «By Jove !

It’s enormous.” The adjective referred to
the success of the sketch. “Immense!” he

continued, muttering from time to time, as
he walked back and forth, to estimate the
values of the sea and sand he was introduc-
ing as accessories. ‘ Wants me to show it
to papa, does she! And what might papa
say if he knew that his strong-minded daugh-
ter, with gushing simplicity, had been posing
for a vagabond artist, like yours humbly,
Algernon Abercrombie—otherwise Algie, and
sometimes at small pay, as A A. Roman capi-
tals in monogram.” There was a touch of
Satire in the young man’s voice as he drew
the monogram in the sand with the end of
a reed cane he had used for a mahl-stick.
“And what'll ‘Old Arthur’ have to say for
you, my pretty sea-maiden ?” continued he,
after an industrious interval. «Old Arthur”
was the studio-name of a well-known marine
painter of his acquaintance. ‘ By Jove, what
a catch! As good fish in the sea as ever
came out! I always said so!”

_ He picked up a stubby stick, and, unfolding
it into an uncomfortable three-legged stool,

walked off with it, and shoved it into the sand
3

 
 

JACK O’DOON,

at a good and sufficient distance; and, set-
tling himself upon it, lighted a cigarette and
proceeded to gaze admiringly at the picture,
which was beyond dispute one of those rare
successes of open-air effect, which, being
painted under a vivid impression of the scene,
make an appealing success. ‘Won't they
smile, when she grows a little larger!” he
continued, flourishing the cane vaguely to
express a vast enlargement of the canvas ;
and, having finished his cigarette, he fell to
whistling «Beautiful Isle of the Sea,” to the
accompaniment of various admiring attitudes
and exclamations. <‘ And fair are the smiles
of thy daughters.”

Meantime Mercy, oblivious of the comedy
he was performing solo, sat in a corner of the
O’Doons’ cabin, wrapped in frowning silence.
Aunt Polly was holding forth, after having
read aloud various tracts; old O’Doon sub-
mitting passively, as devoid of resistance as
of emotion, for the energy of the man was
gone from within him, and it is -hardly pos-
sible to think he could have been aroused,
even to the interest of saving his own soul.

When she paused, the lull of the silence re-
called him, as any change will upon occasion,
and he replied drily: «I don’t dispute ez the
man war a-tellin’ the truth’ ez fur ez his ex-
perience tuk him, but my opinion allus war
that it ain’t no use a-takin’ a man’s convictions
fur evidence, whar they ain’t give in cole blood.
When a man’s a-dyin’ o’ shipwreck, or any-

 

JACK O’DOON.

thin’ else, he'll promise the good Lord any-
thin’ he’s a mind to; but it ain't no use be-
lievin’ him, tell you sees how he gits along
when he’s prosp’rous. Prosperity’s bin the
devil ter catch many a poor man’s soul afore
to-day. Now that’s one thing I allus ad-
mired ’bout’n my boy Jack. He tuk luck
with a pow’ful steady head ; en my ’pinion is
that them’s the sort what’s born to a savin’
grace.”

This speech was utterly heterodox to Aunt
Polly, who listened with an expression of dis-
gust modified with commiseration.

“Surely you can’t believe that your boy
John was born to go to heaven without a creed,
and without even being baptized, or so much
as repenting of his sins?” said Aunt Polly
aghast.

“Jack allus war that good,marm. I'vetole
his mother afore to-day, that he war too good
to live ;” said the old man with conviction.

Aunt Polly looked at him with a dogmatic
glitter in her pale blue eyes.

‘‘ Madam,” said O’Doon humbly, «I ain’t a-
speakin’ fur myself. I ain’t got no goodness
ter speak on, leastways none in partic’lar.
I war a-speakin’ fur Jack,” he added apolo-
getically. The pathetic leaving of himself en-
tirely outside of all personal claim of merit
reminded Mercy of the contrast between the
Pharisee and the Publican; but she managed
to restrain herself from interfering, and looked
at her aunt, awaiting her reply.

 
 

 

 

 

 

JACK O’DOON.

Now, if sincerity atones for unfortunate re-
sults, Aunt Polly’s good intentions deserve the
shelter of a very broad mantle of charity.

- « But don’t you think that at your age it’s
time you were talking about yourself?” re-
plied Aunt Polly.

«J can’t say ez how I see any particular
good in it, marm,” replied O’Doon, with doubt
and indifference.

“Tt is not only good, but it is necessary,”
cried the lady, edging her chair closer to his,
and adding, with ecclesiastical severity, ‘ ex-
cept ye believe, ye shall a// likewise perish.”

«Believe what ?”

Aunt Polly paused ere she replied. At
length she said, «That our Lord Jesus Christ
came into the world to save sinners, of whom
you are the chief.”

« Well, I don’t know about subscribin’ to
that offhan’, fur there’s been times when I’ve
seed men what I had my doubts about bein’
wusuner. There ain’t nuthin, marm, like a
little honest considerashun afore subscribin’ to
sich like. There ain’t no use fur a man to set
a less ’pinion on hisself than he’s got. It
allus peared to me to be lackin’ in self-respec’.
I ain’t never killed nobody, leastways not ez I
knows on; I ain’t never stole, zever; en I
ain’t had much ’casion ter lie to nobody, fur
lyin’ is mostways the fruits of bein’ afeared ;
an’ I can’t say ez how I’m much afeared,
’ceptin’ o’ the sea, and there ain’t no use 0’
lyin’ to the sea, fur it won’t do no good; nor

JACK O’DOON.

to the Lord neither, he’s sort 0’ apt to fin’ us
out; so I reckon I ain’t a mind to subscribe
to them sentiments, marm.”

After a pause the old man added: ‘TI ain’t
a-makin’ no comments on nobody else’s re-
ligion, but all the same I sort o’ feel ez ef I
would be some sort o’ a hypercrite ef I set up
ter be better’n I be.”

Aunt Polly heaved a disappointed sigh.
Clearly she must shift her tack, if she hoped
to approach the barren land of O’Doon’ssterile
imagination. She looked blankly before her,
as if she were considering the possibilities of
the case, and then arose, and bade the O’Doons
good-bye, saying to the old man, as she shook
hands with him, «I hope you will give this little
talk some serious consideration,” and then,
—it was her way,—having administered her
admonition, she took a blue flannel shirt out
of a hand-basket and gave it to him and de-
parted. The kindness of the act, being an
expression of good feeling and sympathy, prob-
ably did more to impress her homily than any
of the tracts she had applied with unction.
The generosity of a silent example would have
done more and not have aroused the resist-
ance of argument.

However, he looked at the shirt critically,
felt the thickness of the flannel, and, after let-
ting it lie on his knee for a while, gave it to
Mother Margery to put away in the white
cupboard.

Mercy was still sitting by the fire; not hay-

 
 

 

38 JACK O'DOON.

ing accompanied her aunt. It mattered very
little, for the O’Doons’ cottage stood as a kind
of outpost between Blessington House and the
sea, and the girl was subject to erratic wan-
'derings between the two.

«Sometimes I don’t know whether I’ve got
any religion or not,” said Mercy, in a tone of
uncertainty. ‘I don’t think I quite like the
idea of talking love to God; but I believe a
good deal.”

«Well, I don’t know ez I believe very
much,” said O’Doon, looking at the fire, « but
I ain't got no notion o’ tryin’ to fool the good
Lord with no sort o'- humbug. Not ez I mean
ter p'int the idee that your Aunt Polly is the
like o’ that; but them’s my notions all the
same. But I respec’s other folks’s senti-
ments,” he added politely, casting his eye
toward the blue shirt.

«Well, my notion,” spoke up Mother
Margery, who entered into the argument for
the first time, ‘my notion is, that some folks
talks, it’snatur’ to ’em, and some folks delieves,
without talkin’ much; and some folks works.
Jes’ does what they finds to do and don’t
make no fuss about it. Andsome folksis got
a mixture o’ all sorts. Jes’ accordin’ to the
natur’ of ’em ; an’ every one of us, when we’re
sort o’ took by surprise, is apt to do something
different from what we ever ’spected o’ our-
selves. I've done things afore to-day that

_ was that good they’s surprised myself!”

This was such a long speech for Mother

 

JACEK ODOON. 39

Margery that her listeners looked at her in
wonder.

The memory of many noble acts stirxed in
the old man’s mind, and he replied with a
rough chivalry that touched Mercy to the

heart, “Well, it ain’t surprised nobody else,
T'll be bound !”

i tlh cna orth. ate ot

 
JACK O’DOON.

CHAPTER IV.

gaxeey|HE scene had changed with the fall
AWAY of the tide. The mirror-like pools
were gone from the marshes, and

Mercy followed a dank foot-path

which meandered uninvitingly through them.

Her life, hitherto monotonous, had suddenly
become thrilling ; and she lived from day to
day in a fever of anxiety.

When with others, she resolutely resisted
their depression, endeavoring to encourage
them as well; but when alone, a sickening
dread made her heart sink.

Upon entering the house her presence was
acknowledged by a subdued rattling of chairs,
and after a short interval a little dark man
came in at the door, and crossed the padded
carpet to a dumb-waiter beside the chimney.
Very quietly and quickly he moved in his list
slippers, and after a few moments Aunt Polly
and Mercy sat down at the table.

It would take a long time to tell the history
of each inmate of the Captain’s house ; though
they were all people with histories, accessory
to the central figure, whom all hated, feared,

“loved, would even have died for, so violent
and contrary were his characteristics.

JACK O’DOON. 41

The Captain was a man at once fickle and
steadfast. When he gave way to his un-
governable temper, as he often did, it was
with the overpowering fury of the moment;
an hour later he would go to the ends of the
earth to make amends. Beneath it was a
Solid rock of steadfast prejudice which noth-
ne: could unsettle. Casual acquaintances
often feared or hated him, knowing only the
surface of the man ; but the helpless or poor,
who sought shelter in his strength, loved him
so they would have died for him, if need be.

His «curios,” as those who hated him
called the collection of beast, bird, and human-
kind which inhabited Blessington House,
were extraordinary, and had been picked up
and brought hither from Heaven knows
where.

There was Antonio, who was said to have
come with Columbus, and who looked like a
mummy, stoop-shouldered and bandy-legged.
He had figured in many high travesties at
Blessington House, when the Captain wrought
himself to fury and repented again with
farcical suddenness and contrition.

Antonio, having sailed the wide seas as
steward of the Captain’s brig, in the natural
order of things had settled down on shore
with him when luck and oysters had made
the master rich. He was a Roman Catholic,
whom Aunt Polly had vainly endeavored to
convert from the sin and folly of his idolatry.
But her fervor had slowly subsided, and she

 
——

ee

rt Se a

 

42 JACK O’DOON.

had concluded that his devotion must indeed
be perfunctory, since he held to worshipping a
storm-battered image of the «‘ Blessed Lady,”
and a crucifix without arms and with a
broken nose. There was a pathetic history
pertaining to these strange idols, which her
Episcopalian orthodoxy could never have
understood, although Mercy and the Captain
ever treated the little mystery with a lenient
respect ; for they saw that, in the poetic fancy
of the Italian, each hada meaning. He, also,
was one of Mercy’s phenomenal coadjutors
and humble friends. Whatever she thought,
wished, or said, he swore by, with unquestion-
ing faith and a tropical ardor which neither
age nor climate had cooled.

That morning, having served the omelette
and broiled ham, he had just settled himself
for support against the back of her chair
(which act, of late years, had showed infirm-
ity), when there were demonstrations of impa-
tience at the door. ‘Antonio, do let Sailor
come in!” exclaimed Mercy, looking around.
Antonio did as he was bid, and immediately,
when the door was opened, in rushed a
hideous dog, whisking his tail and bounding
from one lady to the other.

«Oh, you dreadful creature, do get away !”
cried Aunt Polly, flinging up her arms. ‘He
never will learn that I can’t endure a dog,

never !”

Now Aunt Polly had made this speech
every day since she had first come to Bless-

JACK O’DOON., 43

ington House, ten years or more ago.
“Sailor” was a veteran, an Irish poodle, ot
the brownest, kinkiest, most yellow-eyed
variety, and was as jolly an old tar as ever a
dog could be. Hewas devoted to his master,
but with such inconstancy that, in the absence
of the master, he was satisfied with his mas-
ter’s daughter. He sat on his haunches, with
his head as high as the table, and ate small
Scraps of bread and butter which Mercy
placed on his nose, and which, with rickety
wistfulness, he tossed, and caught occasion-
ally in his mouth. Perhaps this trick vexed
him ; at any rate he barked so vehemently at
last that Mercy sent Antonio for a bone.
There were two other of the Captain’s odd-
1ues below. « Below” meant the kitchen, for
the house was run like a ship ashore, and
things went by nautical names. |

Bill Junk was the cook, and had a voice
like thunder, and sang sea-songs and love-
ditties when not otherwise engaged. At other
times he could be heard humming, humming,
as monotonously as the sea itself.

Luncheon was a silent affair, and when it
was finished Mercy and her aunt returned to
the fireside. Aunt Polly’s arm moved monot-
onously as she stitched upon another blue
shirt, and her mind was equally busy com-
posing homilies. Mercy was knitting. It
would be difficult to tell how many comforters
she knit, as, hour by hour, through the long
winter days, her ivory needles moved in and

 
 

 

44 JACK O?DOON.

out, while her thoughts wandered about the
world.

At half-past six there was a commotion
below. The great gate had opened and shut,
and a heavy tread had sounded upon the
shell drive. Mercy ran to the window. She
heard her father’s voice shouting : ‘‘ Hold her

”

steady !

Any locomotive animal was “er in the Cap-
tain’s vocabulary, so that there was no incon-
gruity to him in applying that pronoun to the
large and heavy-stepping Percheron gelding
which, too fat for its own comfort, was kept to
transport the gig across the sands to the
nearest station.

When the master arrived, every one must
needs know it. He was not secretive. He
despised secrecy, as he thought he hated the
devil, and was forever talking about both.
Mercy heard him saying, ‘‘ What the devil
are you fellows about, that you can’t never be
a-lookin’ out fur me when I come home.
Here! I’ve been two mortal hours a-crossin’
them cussed sands in the cold, till my fingers
is nigh onto froze, an’ won't none o’ you take
the trouble to see I’ve got my gloves to start
with, en you—all o’ you with nuthin’ to do
put warm yer lazy shins afore the fire. "Fore
the Lord, I'll be damned if ain’t wore out with
no sort of attention !”

The large horse, with Italian appreciation
of the feminine pronoun, neighed with satis-
faction as he turned his head toward the

JACK O’DOON.

stable, nearly whisking Splugen out of the
gig with a sweep of his long tail; while the
Captain, blowing like a monsoon, entered the
house and swaggered upstairs.

« Well, Mercy,” said he, “you see me !
I've got back, and I ain’t got no news neither,
an’ I wish ter the Lord you'd teach them boys
some sort o’ manners, fur they ain’t got none.
Here, pull off them shoes o’ mine! I must be
gittin’ the rheumatiz! It’s nothin’ but this
damned frosty air what’s a-ruinin’ my consti-
tution. If it wa’n’t that I’m sort 0’ comfort-
able here, I’d clear out! I allus knowed that
no man but jus’ such a idjut ez me would
put a sight o’ money in a pile o’ brick whar the
wind’s that bleak the runtiest ole pitch pine
dasn’t grow high enough to hide nothin’. I
used ter tell yer ma that, but she war that tied
down to these here sand-hills that she couldn't
b’lieve nothing tell she caught her death o’
cole, en ’twas too late!”

The Captain’s breath being exhausted, his
thoughts wandered in silence to the sodless,
wind-swept graveyard, where only wild vines
ventured, creeping like criminals.

« Your toes are cold!” said Mercy sym-
pathetically, taking her father’s slippers off
again and feeling the ends of his socks.

“Cold!” exclaimed the Captain, as if she
had doubted his veracity, “1 should think
they was cold. Damned cold!”

Those who have no knowledge of Scandi-
navian mythology and its purgatorial regions

 
 

46 JACK O’DOON.

rifted with hail-blasted gulches of perpetual
ice may not be able to understand how his
feet were damned and cold at once. Such,
however, by the will of Odin, is possible.

However, we must take the rough old
skipper as we find him, without marginal
notes, and judge him only by his intentions
and actions, which were usually generous if
vehement.

Mercy sat down on the floor and took pos-
session of her father’s extremities as if they
had been two brawny babies, and proceeded
to rub them. The Captain thawed under
sympathy and devoured it like pap, so that
in a few moments the warmth of the fire
after the breezy drive, the luxurious softness of
the cushioned chair, and the gentle rubbing
which had wittingly diminished to a very
comforting and drowsy titillation, caused him
to forget his good behavior and fall asleep.

He slept with such satisfaction, that Mercy
enjoyed it out of sympathy, although it was of
that quality of repose which is punctuated by
blasts both loud and shrill, echoing from wall
to wall, like the blare of a bugle.

This great rough monster, for so he might
be considered if transported into the midst of
a tea-party of fashionable women, was some-
thing about as guileless as a high-tempered,
frolicksome, good-natured, generous and re-
pentant baby would be,—looked at through
a magnifying-glass, and spiritually enlarged as
well.

JACK O’DOON.

Mercy knew her father like a book; she
could as freely open his heart and read it ; and,
when she was satisfied with the result of her
manipulation, she arose from the floor, and,
settling herself comfortably in a chair, re-
sumed her knitting.

Aunt Polly having retired to her room,
Mercy spent half an hour alone with her un-
conscious parent, until a snore too great for
utterance awoke the Captain with a shudder.
After looking around, rubbing his eyes, and
yawning, the surprised exclamation escaped
him, « Why, I must ha’ been asleep !”

“Yes,” said Mercy, ‘it sounded so. You
forget walls have ears! Do you know I had
the funniest time to-day.”

“How's that?” inquired the Captain,
wide awake at once, with his mind quite re-
freshed.

“Why, I had my portrait painted.”

“By Jiminy!” The Captain was awake
in earnest.‘ Who the devil’s been here ?”

““Nobody’s been here; I've been some-
where.”

Now there’s no curiosity equal to that of a
big, blustering, good-natured man, who pro-
fesses to despise the failings of the weaker
sex. P

‘Where have you been?”

‘Down to Mother Margery’s.”

‘Down to Mother Margery’s to have your
portrait painted ! You may. tell that to the
Marines, an’ give ’em my love.”

 
48 JACK O’DOON.

«Oh, he wouldn’t want your love, he’s a
handsome young man.”

« A handsome young man, painting por-
traits at Mother Margery’s! What the devil
do you mean?”

«J mean what I say. I went to Mother
Margery’s; a handsome young man was
there ; I walked up to him, and he looked at
me, and then he painted my portrait, and
I said, ‘Thank ’e, sir,’ like any good girl,
and came away.”

“Some ragged vagabond peddling sign-
boards for a living, I'll be bound,’—with dis-
gust.

« Yes,” doubtfully from Mercy, “made a
good one of me, and | thought ‘twould suit
you for your shop,” indicating, with a nod, the
other side of the house; ‘‘and so! said tohim,
‘fetch it along,’ and perhaps he will.”

« What in creation did you do that for?”

«So you'd have a portrait of me when you
and Aunt Polly send me away to be a fine
lady.” This last in rather a quavering voice.

The father bristled at once. ‘Who said I
was goin’ to send you away?”

«Well, you just needn’t, I can tell you, for
I'll come home, if ] have to walk; and you
can buy the young man’s picture too. It’s
beautiful, and just like me, and I want it.”

«Sounds like it. What's your young man’s
name ?”

«I’m sure I don’t know. He’s very well
behaved, and he’s got red hair.”

 

JACK O’DOON.

“Red hair! Good Lord!” with an expres-
sion of disgust. «You may tell him to send
along his pictur’, and stay at home hisself.
Damn a fellow with red hair !”

“Oh, he’s quite lovely, I assure you,” said
Mercy with an enigmatical smile.

«Some little jackanapes from Richmond I'll
be’ bound, dead-beat I bet, to be huntin’ a
livin’ at Cassandra Bay, less’n he can live off’n
clams and seaweed.”

“TI think he may be poor enough. Indeed
I don’t doubt it, for his coat was threadbare.”

«“ Hungry did ye say?” with a manner at
once softened.

«He might be,” said Mercy slyly.

‘Why didn’t you bring him up? Bring him

up by all means, and give him something to
Gate ‘

‘* How could I when he’s got red hair?” -

“We can’t allow a man to starve outside
our very gate!” cried the Captain excitedly,
with an oratorical gesture. “Look out and
see if he is there!”

« Why, father, how you let your imagina-
tion run away with you! It’s pitch-dark out
of doors. He was a real gentleman, with the
most elegant manners and a_ threadbare
coat.”

“ Painting sign-posts for a living!” inter-
rupted the Captain, chuckling contemptuously,

«* Now, listen to me; I said he painted me ;
I’m not a post.”

“No; but let me hear about it.”

4

 
prem ere

50° JACK O’DOON.

«Well, this was the way. Old Ned and
Mother Margery were dragging driftwood on
the beach es ieee

« There it is again,” interrupted the Cap-
tain, “I told them confounded old fools to
let the wood alone, and I'd have it draw’d
for ’em !”

«Well, all the same, they were hauling on
the old sled, and I went to help haul too.”

« By Jiminy, hear that !”

«And when we got to the door, Isaw a
man on the beach with the funniest easel, and
I made it my business to see what he was up
to. When I got nearly to him I found he
was painting a picture of Mother Margery’s
cottage and the sea ; and I’ knew by the way
he looked at me that he wanted to put me in
ee

« Damned familiar.”

«Why, no; I thought it was splendid, and
I told him so. So he painted me in, and it’s
beautiful !”

«“Humph!” Long silence, broken by Mercy,
persuasively,—

« And I knew that you would like a nice
picture of me, and so I told him to be sure
and bring it here for you to buy.”

«Who pays for all the things we buy, you
or me?”

«I could if you’d give me the money.”

«Yes, there’s no doubt you could.” This
“was said in a tone intended to be sarcastic ;
but satire was not the Captain’s forte, so he

 

JACK O'DOON. 61

relapsed into what he wished should be inter-
preted as surly silence; but even that was so
easily misunderstood that Mercy said quite
cajolingly: “Say, now, you will buy it, won't
you? Promise me you will, and”—thought-
fully—« I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll tickle
your toes till you go to sleep for a week.”

«IT don’t want to go to sleep for a week. I
ain’t dead !”

«T meant every afternoon for a week, till
you go to sleep.”

The Captain looked at his slippers reflec-
tively. When he paused to consider, he
paused to yield ; and when he yielded, it was
not in miniature.

«How big is the pictur’ ?”

« About so big,” indicating sixteen by
twenty inches.

«Now, what does you spose, at my time
o’life, I wants with such a damn little scrap
as that? Do youthinkI wants to be a puttin’
on specticles every time I look at a pictur’
o’ you? Fetch him along; ‘long as you will
have it, I know there ain’t no peace fur me
till I gives in to you, and while you're ’bout it
tell him to put up somethin’ handsome, and
damned handsome too! None o’ yer pewter
platters for me!”

The Captain considered that he had an apt
mind for comparison.

A retort was ready upon Mercy’s lips, when
the door was quietly opened, and Aunt Polly,
astickler for propriety, entered, dressed for

 
 

52 JACK O’DOON.

dinner in an old-fashioned tabby silk, with
the lustre and cut of a quarter of a century
ago.

Mercy, knowing it was late, hastened to her
room. The Captain rang the bell, and An-
tonio carried out a programme which had
not been altered in his memory of Blessington
House.

“Fetch her out, Tony,” said the Captain
affectionately ; he could not realize that the
old steward had arrived at the dignity of
Antonio. Surely he did not look like a
mummy to his master. Antonio promptly
glided across to the old mahogany cupboard
and brought thence a decanter of gin and
four large tumblers, which the Captain placed
in a row beside his own plate upon the table,
already laid. He then filled the glasses, each
in turn, half full from the decanter, and, with
a smile of the most cordial hospitality, waved
his hand to three imaginary dons camarades,
drank his own down, fiery and undiluted,
with the exclamation, “Let her go!” as if he
were dropping an imaginary anchor in an im-
aginary haven of rest. Antonio waited until
the skipper had finished his performance, and
then, with a profound bow, disappeared with
the four glasses, three of which were yet un-
tasted ; and a moment later, with a strange
imitation of the master’s manner and cordial
smile, the three d0us camarades down below
waved their glasses and cried, ‘‘ Here’s luck to
her!” meaning the roof over them, and all

JACK O’DOON.

under it, and drank, as the master had done,

the undiluted liquor.
Then Antonio, thus enlivened, hurried the

hot dishes into the dumb-waiter, sent it whiz-
zing upward by a twitch of his elbow, and
pattered after it with his slippered feet.
«They sends obedience, sir,” said he, proceed-
ing to arrange the dinner.

Mercy returned in a few moments, looking
very sad. When she was not cajoling her
father she seemed to have no power to force
a smile to her face. Her heart was heavy,
but she was studiously alert to hide it. The
conversation at dinner was spasmodic, and, as
soon afterward as it was possible, she stole off
to bed ; but once within the seclusion of her
own room, with the door locked behind her,
the girl threw aside the deception as a masker
his mask, and, sinking down upon the rug be-
fore the fire, abandoned herself to an exhaust-
ing outpour of bitter tears and imploring

prayers for Jack.

 
 

JACK O’DOON.

CHAPTER V.

24jT an early hour the next morning—
and the same will hold good, with

=

the year—the Captain’s door was heard to bang,
and his voice, more or less interrupted by a
muscular struggle, heard shouting, as if to a
watch aloft :

“Mercy, Mercy, git up!” Another almost
suffocating effort: «Git up, it’s high time you

was up! Sleepin’ away the whole day, and
leavin’ yer poor ole daddy with nobody to talk
to, instead o’ gettin’ up betimes and seein’ as
there’s some sort o’ breakfus’ ready fur a
hungry man to eat!”

His ejaculations became more muttered as
he interested himself in his performances.

The truth is, the Captain always awoke in
a bad humor, and with an oppressive sense
of loneliness ; for he was excessively commu-
nicative, and as soon as he was wide awake
he wanted some one to talk to, and no one
suited him as well as Mercy.

As for the poor child, she only turned un-
easily upon her pillow and fell asleep again.

Now, each morning, no matter where the

rare exception, of every morning of ,

JACK O’DOON.

thermometer ranged, it was the Captain's cus-
tom to have a good swad off, probably con-
sidering that his broad chest bore some re-
semblance to the deck of a ship. After that,
when sufficiently arrayed, he would fling his

_door open and bang it after him.

Finding his shoes ready outside, he would
thrust his feet into them and begin panting
and lacing up and shouting for Mercy, all in
a breath—swearing vehemently at the shoe-
tackle which exasperated him.

Having accomplished tying his shoes, he
would stand upright and shake himself to
settle his trousers, struggling into the loops
of his suspenders, which had hitherto been
festooned about him. Then he would fling
on his waistcoat, which, with his watch—which
was a steady old machine and defied corrup-
tion from bad treatment—in the pocket, had
hung on the door-knob all night.

As soon as he had elbowed himself into his
coat he considered his toilet complete, and
descended the stairs.

«Get down!” angrily to Sailor, who met
him joyfully at the foot of the stairs, and
could not learn that his master always got up
ascrossasabear. ‘There ain’t room enough
in this house yet. Positively I can’t set my
foot down without stepping onadog!” Still,
he managed to find his way to the back door,
which he unbolted and flung open, letting in
a shivering draft of wind and fog. Looking
around, peering into the mist, he presently

 
erst erpLrearet

JACK O’DOON.

discerned a dark object, which proved to be
Bill Junk, returning from the ash-pile with
an empty cinder-box. .

«JT say, man, spread out the mainsail, en
turn her about, it’s time we was done break-
fast long ago! Lyin’ in bed till the mornin’s
half gone. Send up Tony, and be damned
quick too ; I ain’t got no use fur sich a lazy
crew!” With this he was sufficiently chilled
to relish the dining-room fire ; so he slammed

to the door, and, jerking out the big silver *

watch by a chain as stout as a dog-collar,
retired, muttering objurgations between his
teeth throughout which the fact of the hour
being six figured conspicuously. Then he
settled himself in his arm-chair and took a
nap, while Antonio noiselessly crept in and
laid the table. Inconsistency, thy name is
Solomon Blessington !

He was insensible to Aunt Polly's matutinal
greeting, and had to be spoken to with em-
phasis when breakfast, in reasonable time,
had been served.

Before he sat down, the ceremony of
“grog” was repeated, and then the Captain
and Aunt Polly proceeded with their meal.
But before helping himself, or allowing any-
one else to be helped, he took the carving
knife and fork and felt all over the beefsteak ;
and when he had decided, by that process,
which was the tenderest spot, he cut that part
out carefully and transferred it to a plate
which Antonio held ready, spread a spoon-

Uy
JACK O’DOON. 57

ful of dish-gravy over it, and bade him « keep
it hot.” The old man placed it in the dumb-
waiter and consigned it to Bill Junk. Aunt
Polly, prompt and punctual, remembering the
deserts of the early bird, for ten years had
had cause to resent this partiality, and habitu-
ally straightened her lips with indignation ;
but it was lost on the Captain, and equally
so on the object of the little attention, who was

still asleep upstairs.

He was now ready to proceed with break-
fast in earnest. He gave Aunt Polly the best
of all that remained, which might have satis-
fied her had she not had an inordinate sense
of her own dignity, and could she have realized
the moral of the fact that he was content with
what might have been considered the scraps,
for himself.

In about two hours Mercy appeared and
gave her father a loving greeting, which he
accepted with a grunt.

The fog had lifted and there was a clear
prospect for the day.

After ringing for Antonio, Mercy went to
the window and looked out. Far away, be-
yond the garden wall, stretched countless
rolling sand-hills, and on the summit of one
of them was the painter with his easel.

« There he goes!” cried Mercy excitedly,
laughing so immoderately that the tears came
into her eyes. Her father’s curiosity being
aroused, he came and stood beside her at the
window,

 
 

JACK O’DOON.

« Who goes? I don’t see nothin’.”

«Why, the painter and his easel. Look
over there ; the wind has blown them both
down and is spoiling his picture with the
sand.”

«A redic’lus fool! To expec’ to stan’ up
agin the north win’ with them rickety sticks
and no sort o’ stanchions.”

« Let’s go out and see him,” said Mercy.
« But wait a minute for me, till I’ve finished
my breakfast,”—beginning to eat it in a great
hurry.

The Captain meanwhile stood watching the
other man, muttering to himself, «« Deserves
to blow down! Any cussid fool what'll stan’
right squar’ in front o’ a solid house and not
make no efforts to git inside an’ work, the
same as me, a-lookin’ out’n the window, don’t
have no right to succeed.”

Being uncommonly fond of giving advice,
he was not reluctant to accompany Mercy
when she had put on her cloak and hood, but
strode after her, attended by Sailor, who ran
ahead, wagging his grisly old stump of a tail,
upon which the brown hair kinked in knotty
little curls like cockle-burrs.

It was rather cold, and the Captain thrust
his hands in his pockets to keep them warm,
as he marched along with a reminder of the
sailor’s roll in his walk, although he had ac-
quired, with his increasing corpulency, some-
thing of the rich man’s swagger. He wore a
broad-brimmed black silk hat, considerably

JACK O’DOON.

wind-shaken and shaggy, which, with his
spacious trousers, cut with sailor's breadth of
style, gave him altogether a portly and im-
posing appearance, and there was an assurance
of authority in his double-breasted broadcloth
coat notwithstanding that it glistened along the
seams.

Mercy, buttoned up to the ears in sealskin,
followed him. When the Captain arrived
within shouting distance he began: ‘’Pears
to me you might a-chose a better place to
be a-tumblin’ aroun’! It’s a frosty mornin’ to
sport yerse’f like a weather-cock, afore ye
fin’ out that the gale’s a-blowin’ three p’ints
to east o’ north. I say, stranger, I dunno yer
name, you’d better come over and warm up
a bit.”

The artist looked at him in astonishment.
He had been so interested in his own exploits,
that he had not observed the approach of the
party.

“Oh,” he gasped, proceeding to pack the
dry sand around the unstable easel.

The Captain, accustomed to pouring forth
advice in unmeasured quantities upon the
humble folk about him, expected all others to
receive it with equal avidity, and was indig-
nant and disappointed if they did not.

«Thank you very much,” said the stranger
graciously, pausing for breath, “but I have
only a few days to spare and I must make
the most of them. I seem to have made a
mess of it thus far, however.” Suddenly

 
60 JACK O’DOON.

catching sight of Mercy, he blushed crimson,
with that excessive sensitiveness peculiar to
persons with hair of a golden red.

«Well, I don’t see no sense in this sort 0’
thing at all. What's it you are tryin’ ter git ?”
inquired the Captain, floundering up the steep
side of the sand-hill, and getting very red and
angry, with his shoe-tops full of grit, against
which the vaunting breadth of his trousers
offered no protection. ‘I can’t see ez you
‘pears to be accomplishin’ much o’ nothin’,” he
volunteered, when he had reached the top,
wind-broken and red, shoving his hat back to
get a better view of what the young man was
about. The faint blear of blue sky in the pic-
ture was smudged with sand, and the artist
looked crestfallen and disconsolate.

«IT say, Mercy, is this here your young
man ?” inquired the Captain, suddenly recol-
lecting the agreement which had been perpe-
trated over night.

«Yes, he’s the one,” said Mercy, smiling a
little at the absurdity of the quéstion, and at
what the “ young man” must think of it.

“Has you got yer pictur’ along?” asked
the skipper, turning to the artist, who was
suffering another relapse of blushes.

The Captain could not conceive what he
was blushing about, and stared vainly at his
pockets, expecting to see the picture sprouting
out of one of them.

Algernon Abercrombie, artist and gentle-
man, looked in bewilderment from one to the

JACK O’'DOON,

other and at Sailor, who, with a genuine touch
of masculine curiosity, had begun to mix mat-
ters still farther by tramping in the color-box
and bursting the tubes of paint.

«I don’t see no portrait,” said the Captain
blankly, turning to Mercy with an injured ex-
pression. ‘ How’s that,young man? By the
by, what’s your name ?”

« Abercrombie,” replied Algernon.

«Well, Mr. Aber—Aber—Abercorn, jes’
fetch em along, an’ we'll find some sort o’ snug-
ger port than this here,” replied the Captain,
making a face at the bleak wind, and speaking
as one having authority. « Iain’t got no use fur
no sich,” glancing around with large contempt ;
« there ain’t nothin’ like solid comfort ; nothin’
like sittin’ down behin’ a wall when the win’
blows. I’m aman o’ solid notions, sir! Did
ye ever have the rheumatiz ? Well, we'll allon
us have it, if you don’t hurry ; an’ thenex’ time
you happens along here, jes’ step in, and don't
stop to ax no questions. The mos’ | hates,
is folks what's a-holdin’ off all the time. Yes,
come on along o’ us; you won't be the fust
stranger, an’ "lows you ain't a-goin’ to be the
las’, what’s drunk a dram with Sol Blessin’-
ton ; ‘less’n the mainsheet breaks, en I ain’t a-
hearken to it. Come along with ye! I ain't
got no objection to helpin’ ye myse’f,” said
the Captain, suiting the action to the word,
and, without further parley, uprooting the
easel and starting down the sand-hill with it.
But he had not proceeded far when the sand

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

JACK O’DOON.

gave way beneath his feet and he flung the
slight structure far into the air in his vain en-
deavor to right himself. He failed in that
attempt; and both the artist and Mercy, not-
withstanding their efforts to the contrary,
shook with suppressed laughter at sight of
him, as, with widespread arms, and legs vainly
clawing the loose sand which followed him in
showers, he slid down the hillock. ‘If he
hadn’t a-been such a darned fool, none o’ this
wouldn’t a-happened,” cried the Captain, strug,
gling to his feet and endeavoring to spit the
sand out of his mouth, breathless with anger
and embarrassment.

“No,” said Mercy sympathetically, «if
you hadn’t been so kind trying to help him and
make him more comfortable, you could have
looked out for yourself better.”

«It’s jes’ the way with them idjuts, always
a-tryin’ ter do things without no sort 0’ reason
about the wind or the weather, an’ jes’ see
what it’s come to!”

«Qh, you'll soon be all right, you’re cold.
Let’s go home. I'll carry the canvas and you
carry the easel, and he'll be sure to follow.”
So she picked them up from where they had
fallen, and, giving her father the easel, re-
tained the canvas herself.

Meanwhile Algernon, standing on the sum-
mit of the sand-hill, was enjoying the comtre-
temps immensely, fully realizing that “a
-hearty laugh is often the best introduction,”
and making a very sound estimate of the char-

JACK O’DOON.

acters and relations of his new acquaintances.
He shut up his paint-box and followed them.

As they walked along, the Captain was too
disgusted for words, and Mercy much too
wise, while Mr. Abercrombie submitted with-
out resistance to the fate which was dragging
him, «will he nil he” into the great brick
house, looking for all the world like a county
jail, with its heavy, nail-studded gate set in the
moss-grown wall coped with battered glass
and cement. Still, the childlike overgrown
simplicity of the skipper, and the earnestness
of his daughter, who appeared to be a chip
out of the very heart of the old block, made
the young artist yield himself, without reserve,
to these powers that be. Even Sailor had an
uncommon ugliness which appealed to human
sympathy at large.

Algernon felt a sense of protection when the
oaken shutters swung to after them, and in-
cluded him within their fold; and an undi-
vided curiosity possessed him as he looked
around at the: stunted wind-break, the chalky
Shell borders, and doubtful flower-beds before
the door.

Antonio, Bill Junk, and Splugen, accom-
Panied by the inevitable green parrot, peep-
Ing out of the mess-room window, with their
heads in a line, seeing their master and mis-
tress so unusually laden, came out, eager to
relieve them.

“Here you are, one and all!” roared the
Captain, as glad of a chance to bellow as

 
 

——

Puta

aa |

|
|
|

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

JACK O'DOON.

a bull with a bee-sting. ‘I'll be bound fur
it, got nothin’ to do but to be a-investigatin’
everything ye see! I suppose you'd all like
this here gentleman to think we ain't never
seen a artist before !”

Out of the very fullness of the heart the
mouth sometimes speaketh, and it is not to be
doubted that this was the first time a person
in that line of accomplishment had crossed
the threshold of Blessington House. But hos-
pitality speedily changed his temper, and
turning to Algernon with a sudden bland
smile the Captain exclaimed, ‘Come in, sir,
come in, it’s agreeable!” waving his hand
majestically, so that no doubt was left in
Algie’s mind as he entered the deep-set and
massive portal, the open door of which An-
tonio was holding in his hand ready to close
after them.

« Hurry up, Bill Junk, and let’s have tea!”
cried a harsh voice in the dark corridor, which
sounded so supernatural and uncanny that it
made Algie start. «It’s that damned bird ;
jest don’t make yourself oneasy,” said the
Captain apologetically, leading the way up
the stairs to the dining-room, and almost lan-
guid with affability.

When the Captain had himself chosen a
chair for Algie and induced him to occupy it,—
for in his own house he was as polite as a
mandarin,—he rang for Antonio.

«“ Fetch her out, Tony!” he cried, with his

hospitable smile and a gracious wave in the

JACK O’DOON.

direction of the cupboard, and Tony produced
the decanter and glasses, adding one for the
Stranger. The Captain poured out his usual
half tumbler, apologizing for not making it
stronger, and then offered the decanter to the
young man, who looked at it with a little un-
certainty.

“ It’s mild, sir, mild as milk!” said the
Captain impatiently, holding his glass already
patiway to his lips. « Howsomesever, I ain’t
pressin ; suit yer own convenience, Mr.—Mr.
Applecorn—I clean forgits yer name.”

“Abercrombie,” suggested Algie, pouring
out a shallow quantity into the bottom of his
tumbler and looking around vainly for a ju
of water, :

“Water!” exclaimed the Captain. «Pshaw
man, that ain’t no mor’n a shadder. Pace
fetch him the water,” returning his tumbler i
the table with an exasperated sigh. Antonio
brought the water quickly, and the Captain
resumed his glass, along with his smile, and
the usual toast followed, « Here’s luck,” to
which the other responded with its repetition.

At this moment Mercy came into the room
and Algie expected her to retire in disgust
at sight of two men drinking together, with
three other glasses standing half full upon the
table. Instead, she manifested no surprise,
but composedly took a seat by the fire. Be-
fore he was done with Blessington House he
half wondered that’she did not swear and
drink also. ‘

5

 
 

 

JACK O’DOON.

«Well, now, jest come straight to land.
I ain’t much give to tackin’ round a p int.
How’s it ‘bout that pictur’ you painted o’ my
Mercy here ?”

Algie blushed and looked hopelessly at the
girl, who, surprised to find even the top of his
head sending a rosy gleam through his hair,
came to the rescue.

«Well, I——.” he had begun desperately.

«Oh, don’t worry about it” exclaimed Mercy.
«T admired the little picture so much that I
told my father about it, and I did hope you
would be willing to part with it, and that he

might arrange for it.” oe
«J told Mercy,” said the Captain, interrupt-

ing her, “ there ain’t no use o’ me a buyin’ no
sech a scrap. When I wants somethin’ I
wants it bad, and I don’t want no trash. Now
ef you could paint somethin’ handsome !”’—
indicating an unoccupied space upon the wall
where the pattern of the paper meandered
wearily through a large Arabesque design.

«Yes, yes, I understand. Something that
would fill a good space and be companion-
able,” responded Algie.

Recovering himself, he wished that the old
man would leave him alone to talk to Mercy,
or that Mercy would leave him to her father.
He detested to be cornered into talking busi-
ness before a woman. He looked appealingly
at her, and she promptly left the room.

“Bright girl,” thought he, following her
with his eyes.

JACK O’DOON.

What man was there ever. so susceptible
as Algie! In love with the nursery maid at
three years of age, he had never since been
free from one thrall or another.

« Now, young man,” began the Captain, «I
don’t make no obligations I ain't got the
money to meet; just name yer figur’ and let
it be reasonable. But let me say before ye
begins that Solomon Blessin’ton ain’t one as
flings money aroun’ broadcast. He knows
the value o’ every dollar; so name yer bot-
tom price, an’ let’s hear.”

“I can't see quite how it can be managed
at all,” replied Algie, who, although far from
reluctant to take up the old man’s offer, was
anxious to cover his eagerness with the ap-
pearance of indifference; for already the
romance of the situation had begun to work
upon his fancy.

‘“How’s that?” exclaimed the Captain, his
face blank with surprise.

«Well, you see,” answered Algie, who could
sustain a part if necessary, “I already have
some engagements; and then I haven't a
studio which would do for a lady to pose in,
and the weather is too unreliable to work out
of doors; so, altogether, I don’t quite see
how-——”

“Damn your studio!” interrupted the
Captain excitedly. « Ain’t Solomon Blessin’-
ton’s house good enough for a paint-shop?”
—looking with pride around him,

«Oh, it would be quite out of the question,”

 
'
j

 

Basi shore Bey HE

JACK O’DOON.,

protested Algie, «I could not presume upon
your hospitality.”

«Now look a-here, young man,” said the
Captain gruffly, «the sooner you are satisfied
to let well enough alone, the better for you.
The little you'll eat here won’t be nothin’ to
me, and you're welcome toit. You jes’ make
up yer min’ and say what yer figur’ is; I’m
allus willin’ to be far, but I don’t want to be
beholden to nobody, and I want yer to talk
quick, and don’t pester me, a-keepin’ me a-
waitin’ !”

« Well,” replied Algie reluctantly—he hated
bargaining over his pictures, which were a
part of his life, as if they were sticks or
stones,—‘ well, I could not undertake it
for less than three hundred dollars, and it
would probably take me a month, and I’m
afraid I should tire you out before that time.”

The old man sat silent fora moment. He
was reflecting. When he reflected, he
yielded ; this was invariable.

«Well, young man,” said the Captain at
length, with a sigh,—«I disremembers yer
name, it’s a oncommon one,” he interpolated
apologetically,—“long ez ye’re here, and I
don’t ’spect to indulge no sich a extravagance
agin soon, and I ain't got but one chile,
and there ain’t no tellin’ how soon she'll want
to be a-startin’ a home o’ her own, and gittin’
away from mine, and seein’ partic’lar ez
she’s sort o’ sot her heart on it, I reckon ez
how I'll agree.”

JACK O'DOON.

All this peroration was intended to recon-
cile himself to what he thought was a per-
sonal extravagance. And thus it came about
that Algernon Abercrombie found himself in
clover, and was paid for it, at the rate of three
hundred dollars a month, boarded and lodged,
and provided with a new heroine to entertain
his fickle fancy. Who could blame him,
since the Captain had been eager to instate
him as the companion of his daughter, and to
pay him to study her day by day! Alas!
the old Captain was making a venture with-
out knowing the dangers of the game he was
playing.

No man was more sincere than Algernon.
He could not help being fickle, although, of
his own free will and accord, he had never
unloved one of his numerous flames.

Mercy, without being beautiful, had the
Most winning and eloquent of faces, with
just enough pensiveness at times to inflame
the sympathy of his ardent temperament.
Having arranged to paint her, he felt priv-
ileged to study her, and there was a little
feeling of tender proprietorship in the smile
Algie gave her when she re-entered the
room.

‘Well, Mercy, we’s agreed!” announced
the Captain, with a similar look of ownership,
implying that the young artist belonged to
him for a month.

Mercy reassured Algie, who colored as he
looked at her, by saying: “1 am very glad

 
70 JACK O’DOON.

indeed, very glad; but do you know I have
such a fancy for that pretty sketch of yester-
day.”

«So have I,” replied Algernon, gaining
confidence with her, “the tone is so good ; I
fear I shall not get it again as well!”

«What do artists mean by ¢ome ?” inquired
Mercy.

“J fear I cannot tell you easily,” said he,
studying the face before him. ‘If you look
up the beach you will observe that the objects
lose force, as well as color, until they fade
into the haze of distance, or become too
minute to be seen; and that, however strong
the contrast, they diminish equally. Now
the preservation of the contrast of color with
a just degree of diminution is meant by szs-
taining the values. A number of values so
diminished are harmonious when they sus-
tain each other without disagreement. Ina
grand piano a note is made of three strings,
each of which is a value; the three together
form a tone, and several tones in satisfactory
relation result in harmony. In painting,
values which agree make harmony.

«Many harmonies sometimes exist in groups
in a picture and combine into a greater coex-
istent harmony, which we call Zzoze. Tone
describes the average color of the whole pic-
ture. Transmute the idea; take a rainbow,
which is nature’s picture on the sky. You
will have seven primary colors, which, although
distinct, are of such equal value that they har-

JACK O’DOON.

monizeintoagraytone. Blue gray, yellow gray,
red gray, green gray, and so forth. The tone
of a rainbowis gray. A picture is low in tone,
not by being dark, but by lacking accent, and
being dull. It is-high by reason of contrasts.

High-toned pictures are more vivid, and have
greater chiaro oscuro.”

“And what is that?” exclaimed Mercy.

Algernon began to feel as if he had lent
himself for a school-teacher, but it flattered his
vanity all the same to have two earnest eyes
fixed upon his face, and he was stimulated to
proceed.

“That means light and shade,” said hes
“but not only the light and shade you see
but what you force in, to bring a stronger focus
Into the picture and prevent it from looking
flat ; because, when you paint from nature,
you are obliged to take such a small part ata
time of all you see that you often have to
leave out the natural high light of the land-
Scape, and therefore you force the picture by
transferring to it something which you did
not find in that place. When a picture is
forced so much that it has only the fine things
in the scene, and none of the commonplace
ones, it loses its sincerity, and we Say it is too
chic, or ‘goody-good.’ Pictures exagger-
ated, either in light and shade or in tone or
values, are more dramatic, but they are not
simple and sincere and truthful.”

Algie was very much in earnest as he uttered
these last words, and paused, astonished to

 
42 JACK O’DOON.

find that he had made so long a speech, while
Mercy, looking at him kindly, said :

«J wish I could paint.”

«You could not paint,” said he, « without

learning to draw; color without form is de-
formity. Still you are welcome to amuse your-
self with my colors while I am here, and I will
help you allI can; but you would do much
better to have a sketch-book and a blunt-
pointed pencil, and reduce the tones and
values to ‘ black and white.’ ”

Thus they laid plans for the future: he,
enraptured with a new heroine, and full of the
best intentions ; she interested in a new ac-
quaintance, and ingenuous with the trust of a
childlike innocence which knew absolutely

nothing of the ways of the world.

JACK O’DOON.

CHAPTER VI.

AJERCY’S eager attention flattered
he Algie, although he saw it was intel-
M44) lectual interest only, unleavened by
desire for personal admiration. Such
tee the virgin coldness of her innocent smile
pes not believe it possible that passionate
Eee could co-exist with such reserve. It is
res to him, therefore, to say that, al-
Soe ee felt a great desire to win her
ee e had no misgivings regarding the
ees nor was there any unmanly vanity in
S wish that she should think well of him.
Mercy sighed so heavily that Algie looked
at her in surprise.
Soe needles had dropped from her fingers,
ae e stealthily brushed her eyes. She was
Xperiencing that poignant self-rebuke one

feels i
. Is on awakening from a distraction to the

Se 2 a great sorrow momentarily for-
Shiva : ne reproached herself with having
ee Pepe talk of this pleasant stranger, who
eee, ing to her, while poor Jack at that
See sens be suffering all manner of tor-

e » €ven that of madness or death.
Sie thought her the most phenomenal

 
 

74 JACK O’DOON.

creature he had ever seen, and was at a loss
to account for such an hysterical transition,
until Mercy, perceiving his surprise, said to

him :

« Of course you do not know that we are
in despair about one of our vessels, and are
awfully distressed for the safety of the crew.
My foster-brother is the mate of the ship, and
his death would be insupportable.”

« Oh, I dare say he'll turn up all right—
some day when you least expect him,” said
Algie, feeling a cloud dim the sunshine of his
thoughts. Algernon was mercurial and be-
came silent after a slight endeavor to cheer
Mercy, and fell to meditating upon the man
who had thus unexpectedly arisen. He found
himself a party to a romantic contract, bound
to devote himself to a lovely young woman,
whose duties to himself as hostess and model
were quite as imperative and stringent. He
did not feel pleased at the prospect of a rival
with eighteen years the start of him, since
eighteen years against one day is a race sadly
at odds. It was a strong proof of his kind-
ness of heart that he devoted his ingenuity to
devising possible and plausible coincidences
which might have conspired to promote Jack’s

rescue and salvation, all vividly portrayed with
an eloquent tongue and a marvellous voice. I
dwell upon Algie’s voice, because it was his
great gift and his great responsibility as well.

He could not have chosen a more certain
manner of winning the girl’s heart. She

JACK O’DOON.

really needed a youthful friend. Jack was
the only friend she had ever had, except
Mother Margery. Algernon, judging her
aS a stranger, thought he had discovered a
secret ; but he was wrong in supposing the
rough mate of the “Marianetta” to be her
lover, declared or undeclared. Such a
thought had not entered her mind. Jack had
not dared lift his hopes so high. She was
and had ever been an idol to him, which he
never expected to woo from the safe-keeping
of its present shrine. Worship forbids equal-
ity, and this idolatry in a rude way was wor-
ship, the worship of a great physical power
for an exalting moral one; and Mercy knew
she must miss that devotion which had never
failed in its constancy and faith.

Had she known more of men, she would
have discovered speedily that Algie was
much too impatient of trifles to render her
such daily and hourly homage. He con-
densed mighty emotions into a few days of ex-
“ggerated passion, which ended in nothing
Save remorse or disgust. No woman had
hitherto been found with sufficient far-sighted
courage to wait with faith for the Phoenix to
arise from the ashes, believing that it would
arise,
oe was capable of living a nobler
ca an he had lived ; but he needed the
Rennes of hourly contact with a more con-

nature—or, at all events, one strong
Where he was weak. Mercy’s truth and

 
76 JACK O’DOON.

purity appealed divinely to his imagination.
She could not conceive of inconstancy since
she had never known it, and during his stay
at Cassandra she showed such faith in the
sincerity of every word he uttered as almost
to drive him wild, since he could not quite
decide whether it resulted from indifference
or confidence, forbearance or contempt. The
pendulum of his heart beat to and fro, with
ever a settling to the mean distance.

Algie’s fickleness had. hitherto been a con-
stant cause of anxiety to his friends, although
it was the result of fastidiousness and impa-
tience, rather than shallowness and want of
force, as they had imagined. Many a man,
of great and varied powers, fails through
want of a single quality which another per-
son, closely allied to him, might unconsciously
supply. His extravagances were a subject of
censure as well, and it is to be feared that
New Year’s Day too often found the generous
vagabond with a balance-sheet weighing
heavily the wrong way.

Still he was accounted a good fellow,whom
every one loved with too genuine a feeling to
be quite willing to speak ill of; and even
that may be worth something in the long run ;
since he that is not against us is for us,
although it is to be regretted that those who
had been the objects of his generosity had
not found occasion to make good words
available.

The Captain, meanwhile, had been agi-

JACK O’DOON.
; 77

tated to a fresh realization of his respon-
sibility as a father, by Aunt Polly, who, not
having come under the seduction of Algie’s
charming manner, had vehemently assailed
the judiciousness of the Captain’s hospitable
intentions ; finally asserting, with angry ve-
hemence, that he had gone out of his way,
with childish giddiness, to drag a stranger
into the house, whose threadbare coat was
proof sufficient that he was a tramp.

«All the more need of a chance to earn
his bread,” the Captain protested.

“He might be the most corrupt person in
the world!” Aunt Polly insisted. « Here
are Mercy and I, exposed to the contamina-
tions of a wandering vagabond, who might
have no moral character. Indeed, Solomon,
it is wickedness ; I can call it by no other
name !”

** Now look-a-here, Polly, do ye s’pose I
don’t know men, and can’t tell a gentleman
when I lay my eyes on him?” exclaimed the
Captain, exasperated ; and, turning impatient-
ly away, he started with surprise at seeing
three pair of eyes in a row blinking through
the mess-room door, slightly ajar. Now the
Captain knew very well that, in the secret
places of their hearts, the three old shipmates
detested Aunt Polly ; and there was a child-
like satisfaction to the skipper in the knowl-
edge that even if Aunt Polly got the better
of him, somebody was taking his part, and he

 
JACK O’DOON.

felt suddenly robust with moral support and
returned to the charge.

Aunt Polly, changing her tactics, granted
that the artist might be a gentleman, but she
assured the Captain that, if he were, Mercy
would certainly fall in love with him. The
Captain was too obtuse to see anything mon-
strous in that idea, and the three sailors lis-
tened with increased interest.

But the Captain’s curiosity being equal to
Aunt Polly’s imagination, he determined to
settle the matter at once, and proceeded to the
dining-room, which in winter was used as
a common sitting-room as well. Finding
Mercy and Algie in what seemed a suspi-
ciously confidential attitude, that is, Mercy
reclining in her chair, and Algernon leaning
eagerly forward, still holding his hat in his
hand, he might have felt there was some
truth in Aunt Polly’s prognostication, had not
the sadness in Mercy’s face contradicted it,
and the extreme deference of Algie’s manner
reassured him.

«Um, well, aw— !” began the Captain with
such evident embarrassment that even Mercy
looked up with surprise, «« Mr. Abercorn, I wuz
a-thinkin’ that you ain’t got no stuff here to
work on, and I’ve got some sort o’ business
what'll take me to town, to Richmond
more’n like, and it struck me of a sudden
p’raps you’d like ter go ‘long and fetch ’em.”

_ The Captain smiled self-approvingly, for he
had conceived the plan of making it his business

JACK O’DOON. 79

to find out all there was to know about the
unconscious Algernon, although that person
would have been quite equal to giving a pretty
bad account of himself. As events proved,
however, the victim of this plot gained con-
siderably by it; for, as I have said, Algie’s
friends were sufficiently bound to him to

bestow a good word when they had nothing
more convertible.

«But, really,” began Algie, reddening, «I
am in such a plight I could not present myself
with you in Richmond.”

The Captain’s brow clouded, but he was a
man of such habitual kindness that it quickly
cleared. «Well, I ain’t proud,” he replied,
looking at the young man with self-evident
compassion.

Algie smiled to himself. «An Oyster Cove

“skipper ashamed to be seen in company
with Mr, Algernon Abercombie. What next !”
His mother would have said it “served him
just right for mixing himself up with such
vulgar people!” But when he looked at his
old painting-coat, as ragged as it was com-
fortable, he began to feel a little of the wonder
of a stranger’s eyes.

“My dear Mr. Blessington!” he cried
deprecatingly, «I am so ashamed to have put
in such an appearance, but my clothes are at
a tavern near the station, and I fear, if I should
delay to make a change, you would miss the
train, and that would interfere with your
plans. Really you must allow me to return

se Saale ieee

 
JACK O’DOON.

to my lodgings and make myself presentable.
I did not expect to meet a lady when I left
this morning.”

« Ah, indeed,” exclaimed the Captain, in
some confusion, berating Aunt Polly in his
secret mind, but casting about wildly for
something to say. Pulling out his big watch
by way of diversion, he regarded it studiously.
«No, it ain’t late. I'll have her got ready,
and we'll go over thar in no time at all, and
ye ken jes’ fetch yer tackle here and make
yourself at home, like, don’t ye know ?”

« Certainly,” replied Algernon, with well-
feigned alacrity, although he would have
much preferred spending the morning with
Mercy to rushing off to Richmond with this
blustering old mariner. But it was a conso-
lation to know that it would soon be done and
over with, so he made the most of the short
interval before the Captain summoned him.
He could not resist turning back at the last
moment to give her a parting glance. Hos-
pitality alone prompted Mercy to say, “I
hope you will be back early to-morrow, Mr.
Abercrombie.”

Aunt Polly, prim and severe, was just en-
tering the doorway, and, overhearing her
remark, looked at the Captain with the most
« T-told-you-so” expression, and afterward
gazed stonily at the young man as if he were
a thief.

Algernon, at all times over-sensitive, colored
until he was crimson, and his hair and mous-

JACK O’DOON. Sr

tache stood out in relief like new bronze.
Mercy’s instinct to protect was as ready as
her compassion, and, knowing the meaning
of Aunt Polly’s lofty mien, came forward
promptly.

«* Aunt Polly,” said she, « you have not met

my pleasant acquaintance of yesterday ; this
is Mr. Abercrombie, who has been so very

good as to promise to paint my portrait.”

Aunt Polly bowed grimly, and Algie, re-
covering himself, gave Mercy a look of unut-
terable gratitude.

“This here young man an’ me’s a goin’ to
the city to fetch home some things; and, Mer-
cy, you jes’ tell Splugen to put her in the gig
while I go up an’ shave, and holler for Tony
to fetch the hot water. Long ez ye ain't got
yer clean close here, Mr. Wha?’s-yer-name,
jes’ set down and make yerself comfortable
by the fire till I get dressed.”

Algie, having mistaken the Captain’s nod,
which had been intended for Mercy, and per-
ceiving that he was expected to return to the
fireside, followed Aunt Polly.

When Mercy came back, she found him
endeavoring to make himself agreeable, and
failing utterly.

Aunt Polly sat, grimly assertive of her own
virtue and immaculateness.

Her hair was _ rolled smoothly over round
combs upon each side of her pale forehead.
Her collar was wide and white and very stiff,

and would have choked any other person, but
6

 
ws

Oo Ee IB z
~ en

wl |

 

82 JACK O’DOON.

her face was bloodless. Her eyes were ofa
light, uninspired blue ; and her white hands
were folded upon her lap.

«By Jove!” Algie was thinking, «this is
more than I bargained for! It is a mistake
to give the sweet first, and the bitter after-
wards.” He suspected, shrewdly enough, that
his old coat was his evil genius ; so he began
making apologies.

«Twas just saying to Mr. Blessington,
madame, that I was ashamed to have put in
such an appearance ; but I came out this
morning intending to work very hard; and
when that happens, I dare not trust myself in
decent clothes, or I should live at my tailor’s.”

Aunt Polly relented a little, and cast upon
him a half-inquiring glance.

«7 am ever and always shocking my
mother. She declares I ought to belong to a
junk-shop,” he added, seeing she did not
speak.

«You have found your destination here,”
said Mercy laughing, ‘for I have been think-
ing you might use father’s lumber-room for a
studio. It’s the most awful place at present.
Would you like to see it? Won't you come
too, Aunt Polly ?” she added, rising and lead-
ing the way.

Aunt Polly was too much amazed at Mercy’s
forwardness to reply, and Algie, frantic to es-
cape, followed precipitately. She crossed the

- hall, and, opening the opposite door, they en-

tered a long room, It held, in outlandish

JACK O’DOON.

mixture, the probable gleanings of a seafar-
ing life heaped in the corners, about the floor,
or rudely piled against the walls.

«‘T have so often wished I could arrange
these,” said Mercy, after allowing Algie time
to look around.

«« By Jove!” he exclaimed, «what fine prop-
erties for a studio! If you say so, and your
father is willing, we will do these things up
magnificently before we begin the picture at
all.”

“T will see if I can persuade him, but you
must leave it entirely to me. These queer
things have all been brought to him by sailors
he has befriended, for my father has a very
kind heart.”

“In the mouth of many witnesses,” quoted
Algernon, who was fond of making quotations
and never made them accurately.

“Father never would quite consent to let
me arrange them, but, if you help me, he
may.”

«T will show him my studio,” said Algernon
with pardonable pride, at the same time cast-
ing his eyes, with the practised knowledge of
an artist, over the extraordinary collection of
things, both hideous and _ beautiful, which lay
in dusty confusion about him.

His face shone with pleasure, as if he would
have enjoyed going to work then and there,
but at that very moment the Captain was
heard descending the stairs, talking to him-
self; and Algie, being alone with Mercy,

 
84 JACK O’DOON.

impulsively offered his hand to bid her good-
bye.

«You will certainly see me again,” said he,
turning toward Aunt Polly, who was standing
in the hall, «for you know I am leaving the
best part of me behind.”

Aunt Polly was scandalized and looked re-
proachfully at the young man, who, in truth,
did not mean his heart, but his paint-box.

JACK O’DOON.

CHAPTER VII.

AI LGERNON experienced some diffi-
MOAN culty in accommodating himself to
the smal] space which remained in
the gig, the Captain having further
increased the amplitude of his stout figure by
arraying himself in an enormous Irish driv-
ing-coat with capes, which was a part of the
collection. But, being determined to make
the most of his situation, Algie clung tena-
ciously to the back of the gig, half-embracing
the Captain.

The old skipper had conceived a wonderful
liking for the younger man, .and when he
came forth from his lodging dressed in the
perfection of fashion, he sighed to think he
could not take him bodily and present him to
Aunt Polly.

It was late when they reached Richmond,
and the train slowed up for the long bridge.
The red glow from the iron-works gleamed
across the river, and the lights of the city
sparkled like fire-flies in the hollows of its
hills.

“I hope you won't mind my leaving you
at my studio for a little while,” said Algie
to the Captain, «and after that we'll have a

snug little dinner together. Here we are,”

 
 

36 JACK O’DOON.

he added, a few minutes later, as the carriage
drew up at the curbstone.

When he had opened the door of his studio
with a key from his pocket, he touched a but-
ton, and the room became instantly ablaze
with electric light. The Captain was para-
lyzed with wonder. To his eyes, confused by
the sudden change from the darkness, it was
like a scene from the « Arabian Nights.”

Algie loved luxury, and had been rash
enough, upon his coming of age, to cut a slice
from his inheritance and deliberately invest it
in what his friends called “trash.” He could
not dispute their wisdom, but had maintained
that ugliness shortened life and limited intel-
ligence ; and ugly things, as household gods,
he could not have.

The Captain, by instinct, had good taste,
and the young artist felt great satisfaction in
watching him as he walked around, handling
the heathenish bric-a-brac, exclaiming at in-
tervals, « Well, I never !”

«You'll have time for a good rest,” said
Algie, assisting him to remove his coat, «and
what would you say to a brandy smash ?”

«T’m agreeable!” said the Captain, with-
out coquetry, settling himself in a very large
arm-chair and passing his hands through his
white hair, until it stood on end.

Algie rang for his servant, and placed the
Captain under his care before leaving.

Chance, or Mr. Algernon Abercrombie, de-
_ veloped the Captain’s plot.

JACK O’DOON.

“Go seek a man’s valet, if you would know
the man.”

The old skipper sipped his grog, as he
stared into the newly-lighted fire, smiling to
himself the while, and admiring his own
shrewdness. But Algernon Abercrombie
would not have been himself if he could not
put Aunt Polly and the old painting-coat to-
gether, and have worked out the combina-
tion.

“ Does all these here things belong to this
here young man?” inquired the Captain of
Jarvis.

«Yes, sir; an’ lots more beside, an’ more’s
always a-comin’!”

«How’s that?” said the Captain, wonder-
ing.

«He's such a favorz¢e with the ladies, sir.
There ain't hardly a day passing but brings
something for a present. He’s a gentleman,
sir, of the choicest. There ain’t no more ofa
gentleman in this here town of Richmond ;
that’s the reverend truth for sure.”

«Don’t he have no men folks for frien’s ?”
inquired the Captain uneasily, feeling some
misgivings about the fulfilment of Aunt
Polly’s prophecy.

“Oh, yes, sir! Indeed he do,” answered
Jarvis, brushing a few motes of dust off the
mantelpiece with his forefinger. ‘He's got
more of them poor artists runnin’ after him
than it pays him to have. I was a-sayin’
yestiddy to Mr. Jinks, what waits below, that

 
 

 

 

88 JACK O'DOON.

Mr. Abercrombie was Zoo good-natured—kind-
hearted, so to speak—for his own accumula-
tion. He’s one o’ them sort as is too mach of
a gentleman to take proper keer of theirselves.
He’s always gittin’ imposed upon! Why, sir,
you kin believe me if you choose, but if /
didn’t take keer of him he wouldn't have
nothin’ !”

The Captain eyed his empty glass and
sighed. «You ain’t got no good ole Jamaiky,
is ye?” he said at length.

“Tm afeared I ain't,” said Jarvis, ‘‘ but
here’s various sorts,” he added, rather pom-
pously, pulling aside the curtain of mandarin
yellow brocade which hung across the cup-

board door.
« How’s it that yer young man don’t take

one o’ them gals en anchor by her? I
reckon if he did, t’others might let him have a
chance ter war out them slippers.”

«Well, sir,” answered Jarvis, dropping his
voice mysteriously, “it do seem sometimes ez
efit wa’n’t nothin’ but contrariness; but I
‘lows he’s kinder choice. I reckon he ain't
found one yet as'll please him satisfactory.
Then, agin, I ‘lows he’s sp’ilt, they all makes
such a fuss over him, continual.”

Meanwhile Algernon had found his way to
his mother’s dressing-room, where, robed ina
black satin peignoir, with a towel across her
shoulders, she sat, submitting to having her
hair dressed for a dinner-party.

«I told you so, Algernon,” she was saying.

JACK O’DOON.

«JT knew there was a girl at the bottom of
It

«What I came to say,” replied her son,
ignoring her remark, « is, that the Captain
has agreed to give me three hundred dollars
for painting the picture of his daughter, and
it will save me a lot of expense for a month,
besides putting money in my pocket. More-
over, I shall have a good rest and keep early
hours and be with the kindest people in the
world. A new state of things, you must con-
fess, for me.”

«« What sort of people are they?” inquired
his mother anxiously.

«As common as they make’em! That is,
all except the daughter, who is the purest-
looking girl leversaw. The old skipper owns
a number of vessels and a fleet of oyster
smacks ; and there is an old maiden aunt who
is a living terror, a small maid who is never
to be found, three old sailors, a hideous
brown dog, and a green parrot. All live in
a big brick house in the sand-hills, where it
is as lonely as the North Pole and just about
as primitive. But the Captain’s a jolly old
torpedo, with a voice like a roaring tempest
and a smooth red face like a big baby’s. I
know you'd like him. Do let me bring him
around in the morning!”

«« My child!” exclaimed Mrs. Abercrombie
in dismay. ‘I couldn't receive the man before
breakfast. Couldn’t hecome up another time?
I am so sorry to refuse you,”

 
 

go JACK O’DOON.

«Well, go with me to the studio this even-
ing, and let me show you off before dinner,
you would give me no end of a character !”

« What time is it now?” inquired Mrs.
Abercrombie, hesitating.

« Only a quarter-past seven.”

« But I am to dine at half-past eight.”

He finally overcame her reluctance, and
persuaded her to make the time for him, and
they presently set out together.

« Now, my dear boy,” she said, when they
were in the coupe, “ promise me not to fall in
love with this Captain's daughter. If you only
knew the anxiety so many love-affairs cost me!
Positively, it keeps me awake at night.”

« Now look here, mother, if you talk like
that, I'll believe you’re jealous. Mothers are
such selfish creatures!” answered Algie,
laughing. ‘But here we are, and do be nice
to him,—I want to make an impression.”

« An impression on whom, the mariner or
the mermaid?” said she, taking his hand to
get out of the carriage. Algie did not reply,

but busied himself with holding the train of

her gown as she crossed the sidewalk and
_ ascended the stairs.

When they reached the studio the lights
were still lowered, and the Captain asleep.
Jarvis was nowhere to be seen.

Algie and Mrs. Abercrombie had _ the
advantage of the situation.

When the old skipper discovered them he
started to his feet with a bound, astonished to

 

JACK O’DOON. gt

find himself in the presence of a beautiful
woman. He rubbed his eyes, and shook him-
self to see ifhe were dreaming, pulling down
his waistcoat and smoothing his hair to make
himself presentable.

«Captain Blessington,” said Mrs. Aber-
crombie, taking a step forward, and offering
her hand to the Captain, who received it like
an oyster, and let it slip out of his grasp,
‘my son tells me that he is going to you for a
month, and I came down for a moment to see
you, and beg you to take good care of him.”

«There ain’t nothin’ to hurt him, ma’am,”
answered the Captain artlessly ; ‘he ain't
sickly, I hope?” taking his spectacles out
of a tin box and putting them on to look at
Algie.

« He tells me you have a fine large house.
I thought there was nothing but barren sand
at Cassandra Bay.”

«It’s come by boat, ma’am. I like things
solid an’ comfortable, and don’t go in fur show
without no foundation. Reg’lar ole Virginny ;
I ain’t got nothin’ fine, ma’am—'lessen ’tis my
Mercy. I do count her "bout ez fine a young
un ez steps ‘long our parts. Got lots o’ solid
nat’ral sense. Not ez I goes in fur praisin’
my own flesh an’ blood.”

Mrs. Abercrombie, worldly though she
might be, looked in appreciative surprise upon
the Captain as he swelled with pleasure and
pride at thought of Mercy, and she and her
son exchanged glances.

 
 

 

g2 JACK O’DOON.

«I wish it were possible for me to stay and
see more of you ; but I am late as it is, and I
dared allow myself but two minutes to meet
you.” She looked at her watch, suddenly rec-
ollecting the dinner-party. «I am obliged to
say good-bye; but some day, when you're in
town, you will let me have the pleasure of
seeing you again, I know.”

She shook hands with the Captain, who was
considering her appearance with a good deal
of wonder.

Her hair, without a trace of silver; her
beautiful white throat, relieved by lace from
too severe contrast with the black dress ; the
elegance and grace of her figure, as round
and erect as in youth; and the almost lover-
like pride with which her son regarded her,
—were altogether different from the Captain’s
preconceived ideas of a woman of fifty.

For once in his life he cursed his luck that
he had not Aunt Polly by the ear to say to
her, “I told you so!” However, it would
bear repeating.

Algie accompanied his mother to her car-
riage and then returned to escort his guest to
dinner.

The next morning, a few minutes before
train time, both men were at the station ready
to return to Cassandra Bay.

It was with a sigh of heartfelt relief that
the younger man turned his back upon
_the city, with its life of debt and dissipation,
and abandoned himself to the enjoyment

 

JACK O’DOON.

of a month’s immunity from care and temp-
tation.

He was free-hearted and lavish, and loved
to be thought well of by others, and he knew
for a truth that his injudicious extravagances
had been for the benefit of others rather than
himself; but his heart sickened none the less
at the harvest which awaited him, and it was
with satisfaction that he left his own home,
with its singular complication of pride, affec-
tion, affectation, and extravagance, and looked
happily forward to a new field, where none
but harmless paths enticed his steps under
the reposeful and ennobling influence of
Mercy’s presence; for if Mercy had seemed
brusque and self-asserting to him at first, she
had lingered in his memory ‘with the refresh-
ment of an ocean breeze arousing an unknown
energy. Life at Blessington House had a
meaning, and each individual a purpose ;
and Algie, whose years hitherto had been
spent in getting rid of time, began to ex-
perience a new and different interest in cast-
ing his lot with theirs, or, more accurately,
with one who, young as she was, seemed to
have accepted, as her mission in life, the effort
to make better, by the stimulus of her per-
sonal sympathy, all who came about her.
He dimly realized that all men approach
their fellows with a purpose,—the purpose
to be admired, the purpose to be loved, the
purpose to rule. Having an affectionate
nature, he could not rest satisfied until he

 
 

 

JACK O’DOON.

made the thing which was near him love
him ; and the interest which he had devoted
to that effort even-he had mistaken for love.

He now proposed to spend a month in the -

proximity of a woman too noble for coquetry,
and too generous in her estimate of others
not to give him more credit for virtue than he
deserved.

In their mutual relation, she was interested,
and he was eager.

Unquestionably it gave her pleasure to see
the easel and paint-box in the corner, where
they stood in surety of his return.

The sun was shining, but the ragged clouds
scudding across the sea gave feeble assur-
ance of spring in face of the rigors of winter
which remained, when the tramp of the old
horse was heard upon the shells, and the
Captain’s voice shouting for Splugen.

The whole house revived as from a slumber.
Sailor wagged his tail against the Captain’s
shins, and howled with joy ; the green parrot
screamed, and moved excitedly from one leg
to the other, as if on hot iron; Antonio and
Bill Junk, on the watch for something to turn
up, were staring out of the window with their
noses flattened against the pane. Algie, per-
ceiving that Mercy and Aunt Polly were
above, lifted his hat, and hurried indoors out
of the wind.

JACK 0’DOON.

CHAPTER VIII.

(AAR LGIE looked so well-dressed when
GANG he entered the sitting-room that
PAD Aunt Polly was struck mute with

surprise, and put out her hand,
almost unwittingly, to greet him.

‘‘T hope you will forgive my wearing my
Overcoat to the fire, but Iam so cold!” said
he, shaking hands in turn with each of the
ladies. After a few moments he removed the
Coat and threw it carelessly over the back of
a chair, so that its satin lining gleamed in the
light, while he stood shivering and warming
his hands over the grate. He was excep-
tionally well dressed, and his cut-away fitted
him to a nicety. His hair, fresh from the
barber, was fine, smooth, gleaming, and
faintly perfumed ; as if lately washed in eau
de cologne, and of a beautiful golden red,—
much too lovely fora man! His full mous-
tache, worn rather long, and his firm, almost
obstinate chin, were marked features of a
face and head massively put together, and
well set upon the shoulders.

“It was so nice of you to come back to do
the picture,” said Mercy, with a kindliness
which showed her quite mistress of the situa-

 
 

96 JACK O’DOON.

tion, and also made Algie conscious that he
had left no impression upon her.

His vanity was piqued to its supremest
effort; and he felt his interest increase with
the sense of resistance.

«Work in any other form, Miss Blessington,
was never a temptation to me,” said he gal-
lantly, as he took up his coat to lay it aside.

«Don’t trouble about the coat, Mr. Aber-
crombie,” said Aunt Polly, now all effusion,
« Antonio will take it to your room, and the
Captain will send Splugen for your luggage.”

«You are much kinder to me than I de-
serve Vs

« There ain’t no use talkin’ ’bout it,” ex-
claimed the Captain, jerking the door open
and blustering in; ‘I'll be sent to a better
place—” (this was the occasional compromise
under Mercy’s efforts to reform his desire to
go to a worse) ‘‘—ef I ain’t a-gittin’ a spell o’
rheumatiz this very minute. Mercy, whar’s
that gal? Come here and pull off my shoes.
Where’s them slippers ?”

Mercy brought the slippers and, much to
Algie’s astonishment, sat down on the floor at
her father’s feet.

Aunt Polly detested such familiarity and
left the room. Then the Captain spread him-
self, like a vast human wonder, in his big chair
before the fire, and there seemed nothing left
for Algie to do but to sit down in another.

With the unaffectedness of a child Mercy
‘unlaced her father’s big shoes, exchanging

 

JACK O'DOON.

them for his slippers, and, perhaps out of def-
erence to Algie, made an effort to arise.

“Rub them ankle-bones!” cried the Cap-
tain sententiously, closing his eyes and turn-
ing his head away from the light. Mercy re-
moved the slippers again and proceeded to
rub her father’s feet, whilst Algie amused

y looking into the fire
and studying the Captain, until at length his
eyes rested upon Mercy, who must heave for-
gotten him. It goaded his pride that she should
sit cuddling a sleepy old man, even though he
were her father, whilst he, the invincible Al-
gernon Abercrombie, was present.

After a while it struck him that she was
very patient with the old skipper in this sin-
gular demand ; though it exasperated him to
see her scorching her face painfully.

He did not remember that she had told him
she gained her influence with her father in big
things by sacrificing herself to him in little
things. She sat down near him, but, after a
very few moments, seemed to be oblivious to
all about her. He wondered if this habitual
absent-mindedness was not due to an effort
her mind made to escape from irksome and
uncongenial surroundings.

Her face in the firelight had such a look of
Sweet endurance as to confirm the thought,
although her whole manner, when speaking,
tended to draw his attention to the best in
the people and things about her, and the very

effort: to hide her own individuality threw a
ZZ.

 
Hy |
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JACK O’DOON.

veil of mystery about it which perplexed
him.

She did not strike him as « goody-good,”
but as having that sort of forbearance which
nothing human could shock, and which gave
to her character the quality of moral tough-
ness.

« Shan’t I ring for Antonio?” inquired
Mercy. ‘Wouldn't you like to go to your
room and rest for’a few moments? I fear
you will find it stupid here ; for father always
sleeps an hour at least when he has been out
in the cold.”

« Oh!” replied Algie, delighted at the pros-
pect, “I had much rather spend that hour
with you, even in grim silence.”

«TI can amuse myself with my knitting,”
said Mercy.

«“ Do you knit every day ?” inquired Algie.
«Such stupid work!” he added, with a man’s
contempt for monotony.

« No, indeed!” said she, “I am so fond of
reading, that 1 read or study every day; but
when I am worried or uneasy—and we, who
have friends at sea, must be so at times—I
knit, because the stupid repetition seems to
rest my brain.”

«Your father brought you no news; but
‘no news is good news,’”’ said he kindly.

«If you comfort me with proverbs, I must
answer that ‘hope deferred maketh the heart
sick,’”

«What use can you make of so much

JACK O’DOON.

knitted work ?” said Algie, anxious to change
the subject.

«©QOh, I knit these long comforters, and the
men take them to sea. I think they have a
little sentiment about my work, although per-
haps that is vanity. When it happens that
they never come back again, I am glad that I

gave them a piece of my own work before
they went.”

«You must think about such lots of things
when you are knitting, only I can’t conceive
what you can have to think about, your life is
so lonely.”

“Tam not necessarily lonely because I am
isolated,” said Mercy, looking up surprised,
and encountering a commiserating sympathy
in his eyes which made her drop her own;
but she immediately aroused herself to resist
his influence, and added, «so long as I know
that some one depends upon me, I can never
feel quite useless or alone. The necessities of
others make me a necessity to my position. I
have no time to be idle, therefore no time to
be lonely.”

Algie withheld a hasty compliment, which
seemed too trivial to offer to one so in earnest.

If Algie thought her life lonely, he might
have suspected that words of appreciation
were rarer still than friends.

But Mercy’s character seemed so well
balanced and complete, that, out of the very
reverence he felt for her, he ignored the nat-
ural craving of her human necessities. Thus

 
I0o JACK O’DOON.

it seems at times, that those who struggle
after a high ideal must be satisfied to meet
with no other approval than that of their own
consciences.

“Ts there a fire in the other room?” he
asked abruptly, indicating the one containing
her father’s collection.

“No,” said Mercy, « would you like one?”
«Oh, no, I only thought that if there were, we
might look over the things together; but I
like it immensely here with you, and, if you
don’t mind, while you knit, I will sketch you
in my book. I will be so silent that you
could think the sky full of thoughts. So say-
ing, Algie took a book from his pocket, and,
sharpening his pencil bluntly, put in a very
broad line sketch.

“Do you always carry a book?”

«Yes, itis such fine practice, and then, too, it
is pleasant to be able to illustrate accounts of
my expeditions when I get home, especially to
mother. For example, if I told her that your
father was asleep in his chair, and you were
sitting beside him knitting yarn comforters,
and making me feel very happy and at home
near you, my words would not make half the
impression which this little sketch would.”

“Do you know,” said Mercy naively, « that
I have always so longed to know an artist ?
I am so fond of pictures, and there seems such
a mystery in their creation, that it is quite an
ideal thing for me to have you thus sitting be-
side the fire and skétching even me, without

JACK O’DOON,

jarring in the least upon my humdrum life ;
except that I have dropped this stitch through
thinking of your work instead of mine,”

“I wish you would drop it all through such
a fault!” exclaimed Algie impulsively.

Mercy looked at him with a smile and
said: «I might, if you held the key of the
North Pole, and could promise there should
be no more cold noses or aching ears. But
since you cannot, I shall have to pick it up
again.”

If she had simpered, Algie would have been
bored, but the fact that his flattery was ridic-
ulous to her nettled him.

“« When we get father’s room all to rights,
you can always come here and paint when-
ever you want to sketch at Cassandra. We'd
all like it, you know. It'll be much better
than tumbling around in the wind on the top
of a sand-hill. Moreover, I’m going to watch
you paint, and then I shall try too.”

It touches a man at his weakest to be
imitated by any one, but when his mimic is a
young and pretty girl it turns his brain, Algie
cast upon Mercy, quite thoughtlessly, another
of his tender glances.

‘You think you can persuade your father
to let us, don’t you?” A slight softening of
the voice made that «us ” sound very pleasant
in Mercy’s ear. The exchange of you and me,
for we and us, was an appreciable pleasure to
Algie, which Mercy perceived without under-

standing ; though she blushed slightly, and

 
 

JACK O’DOON.

his heart, which had been warming steadily,
melted as it had done so often before.

Ere the drowsy old Captain awoke, Algie,
without thought of harm, but prompted by the
desire to be fully in sympathy with all who
came near him, had exerted himself to impress
a nature which was not susceptible, but which,
having conceived, never lost even the memory
of an affection ; whilst he, luxuriating in the
love he habitually inspired, took no thought
of the future, and could not believe that he
must hoard his friends as well as his money
against a day of want. It was quite sufficient
for him to be happy. At that moment he de-
sired nothing more for happiness than to have
Mercy beside him, developing new charms for
himself alone.

Something of this happiness was visible in
the little sketch growing under his pencil, for
even that was lovingly done. He had put
into it the grace of Mercy’s bending head, and
her own sweet look of protective benignity, as
if her heart were a sanctuary where the weary
found help to rest them, and the disappointed,
the wicked, or the wavering might find con-
solation or encouragement to do better.

At times a pang of remorse tightened the
chords of her heart, for, whilst she hoped for
the best for poor Jack, there arose between
her and her memories of him, mingling with
her sorrow, a faint sweet sense of satisfaction
in the present, which the loyalty of her heart
resented.

JACK O’DOON.

Had Mercy known more of the world and
understood that sincerity was no proof of con-
Stancy ; that the meteor, while it lasts, is just
as real as the star,—she would have been on
the defensive ; but, by defending herself, she
would have lost the confiding innocence which
was her charm in Algie’s eyes.

He continued silent and absorbed, finishing
his sketch, with Mercy knitting quietly near
him, till the Captain awoke with a start which
brought him to his feet.

“Father,” said Mercy, «we've been laying
a trap for you!”

“Well,” said he, with a growl, “is that
anything new ?”

“Yes, very new indeed; we want to get up
a studio.”

aes What the devil is that for?" he exclaimed
in astonishment.

“Because I want to learn to paint, and
while Mr. Abercrombie is here it would be so
awfully nice if you would let us have your
room for him to paint my picture in. We
would put all of your things in order and

make it so comfortable. Now, it’s a regular
old caravansary.”

‘Them things pleases me jest so,” said the
Captain demurely, feeling rather insulted.

“But they'd do you much more good if
they were dusted and hung up; and when
your old friends came to visit you, they would
see that you set some store by their presents,

 
104 JACK O’DOON.

Indeed, it would be a great thing for you if
you only knew it!”

« Lord, jest hear her talk!” cried the skip-
per, looking helplessly from one to the other.

« Yes,” said Algie sympathetically.

« Did you ever hear a gal talk like that ?”
her father asked, looking for protection—even
beguiled into imploring it—from Algie.

« Never,” said the young man gravely.

« No, nor nobody else,” said the Captain,
sitting down. ‘A stoody fur me! when it
takes purty nigh all the strength an’ enter-
prise I got to keep alongside o’ her ! Confound
it, I couldn’t do nothin’ with it ef I had it.”

“Jt would be a good place to eat apples,”
suggested Mercy.

The Captain wiped his spectacles, after
taking them down from the top of his head, put
them on again, and looked at her in surprise.

«J can eat apples, or anything else con-
venient, right whar I be, always providin’ I

got an apple and an appetite.”

«JT don’t mean to limit you ; I only mean
that while Mr. Abercrombie paints, you can
eat apples or smoke, or otherwise entertain
me, to induce a smiling expression.”

« Why can’t we do jest the same right
here ?”

« Because there are so many interruptions
all the time, and not space enough. Mr.
Abercombie would be certain to tread upon
Aunt Polly’s toes.”

«T wish to the Lord he would !’” exclaimed

JACK O’DOON. 105

the Captain devoutly. After a moment's silence
he added, «I'll be blowed, if I won't thank
the Lord Almighty when I kin git a place to
myself; if it ain’t mor’n six feet long ; whar,
when I do settle down, there won’t be nobody
to pester me! Why, Mr. What’s-yer-name.
there ain’t been a day sence this here Mercy’s
been born, that she ain’t imposed on me for
Somethin’. Little or big, it’s etarnal some-
thin’. When she was a baby, she begun it
with cryin’ for a coral stick off'n my watch-
chain what I was a-carryin’ for luck, an’ she
would have it, an’ I give in! She got it,
‘cause I was afeared she would die if she
didn’t git it; and it’s jest got to be all my
life’s worth to cross her. Ef she’s sot her
heart on a thing she can’t rest, nor let no
body rest, ‘tell she’s got it. Now this here
Pictur’ o’ yourn is a fair sample o’ her doin’s.
She’s jest a turnin’ of me bodily out’n the
house, and me gittin old too.”

“Tt does look like it,” said Algie solemnly.

Tears sprang into Mercy’s eyes, and her
mouth quivered like a child’s.

The Captain looked from one to the other
scowling. This remark of Algie’s showed
wery clever insight into the character of the
skipper ; for as soon as he found any one will-
ing to take part against Mercy, he turned
bodily over to her side whether the argument
was for or against himself.

““Humph !” said the skipper ; « what did
you say, young man?”

 
JACK O’DOON.

«I said it did look a little that way,”
replied Algie, deprecatingly.

« Well, I don’t exactly know, young man,
whether it do or not. Speakup, Mercy, ain’t
you got no tongue? Do you mean to sit thar,
and hear this here young man accusin’ you 0’
turnin’ your ole daddy out o’ doors? What's
you got to say for yerse’f?’”

« You know I don’t,” replied Mercy, almost
with a sob, and furtively drying her tears.
«J want to turn you in; for you never go in
there now, except to take some old sailor to
see a tortoise-shell, or a fish-net ; and, if we
could make it pleasant, you could get out of
the way when things are not quite right
heres:

« Then where the devil would you go? ”

«Of course I'd go there with you. It’s
big enough for two of us, gracious knows ! Be

«« Now why couldn’t you say that at first,”
exclaimed the Captain, smiling suddenly.
«You're a sharp young one, jest fixin’ a way
to git rid 0’ Polly. I know’d it! Take me
for findin’ out what a gal’s up to!”

He chuckled delightedly to himself, and
turned half round to the others, bubbling over
with satisfaction. «Why can’t you speak
confidential-like to your ole daddy, an’ not be

a-makin’ a strange young man think you're
tryin’ to hurry him off?”

«You dear old darling, you will, won't
you ?” cried Mercy, jumping up and throw-
ing her arms around his neck, and giving

JACK O’DOON.

him two sounding kisses, at which Algie
almost fainted.

oe Now did you ever see the likes 0’ that ?”
inquired the Captain with pride, turning a
beaming countenance upon Algie, who ad-
mitted that he had never been obliged to
witness anything of that sort before. The
old fellow enjoyed being the hero of domestic
episodes, though he assumed a look of endur-
ance which was almost tragic.

“Young man,” said he severely, « take my
advice, and don’t never let yourse’f begin to
be bossed by a woman, for jest ‘as the twig is
bent the tree inclines.’”

“Yes,” said Algie demurely, « butI can’t
say I’d mind being bent that way.”

“Say you're going to let us,” insisted
Mercy,

“Did I ever have a say about nothin’,—
ever once, sence you was born ?”

“Well, granted. Will you wait to begin
next time ?”

‘“‘Lord-a-massy, I never seed sich a gal!
Talk about wills; there ain’t no man livin’
what can hold a candle ‘longside o’ some

women. They’re that persistent they're
feyus t”

“* But you say yes, and it'll be over with.”

“It’s worse than havin’ a tooth pulled, I
declar ! I ain’t had no time to consider.
But it’s a clean waste of breath to argue a
P int with a woman. They ain’t got no judg-
ment. What the Lord ever made a man with

 
JACK O’DOON.

two women for, I don’t know. Here’s my
Mercy, insistin’ all the week, and Polly with
her prayer-book, exortin’ all of a Sunday. I
ain’t even got no prospect o’ peace. For Mer-
cy’s a-persecutin’ me for my worldly posses-
sions from Monday mornin’ ’tell Sadday night,
and Polly is a-tellin’ of me all day Sunday
that I ain’t got no treasure laid up nowhar.
[ll be damned if they leaves me even a ex-
pectation of a chance!”

«It zs pretty rough,” replied Algie.

«T should think it were ; and, young man,
jest you take a ole man’s advice and let ’em
alone. Let ’em alone!”

«That’s easier said than done,” said the
young man.

«You're right about that. For I tell you,
if you give ’em a inch, they’re sure to take a
ell, and it’s a long ways the best sailin’ not
to give ‘em noinch. Tack about, but don’t
let ’em land you nowhars !”

«Well, if that is what you really think, and
you don’t care anything about me, I can let
you alone,” said Mercy.

«Who said I wa’nt goin’ to let you have no
inch? I was advisin’ this here young gentle-
man for his own good. Ain’t I dun let you
take my room, and all my things for a stoody ?
Ain’t I goin’ to have you a pretty pictur’
painted ? Who says I ain’t willin’ to give you
the las’ cent I got, ef 1 had to go a thousan’
.miles to fetch it. And, positively, I ain’t al-
lowed so muchas the privilege o’ complainin’ !”

JACK O’DOON.”

“‘Oh, he should, that he should!” cried
Mercy, cuddling him, «but all the same, we
may have the room ? ”

“Ain't I said Yes ? How many times is I
got to repeat it? You know you ain’t a-goin’
to leave off ’tell you get yer way, and what's
the use o’ so much pesterin’ ?”

“Yes, but I don’t want any such stingy
giving.”

“Well, jest go ahead, I ain’t partic’lar,”
the old man replied, after a moment of medi-
tation, during which Mercy had been draw-
ing her fingers through his hair, and a smile
of contentment slowly diffusing itself over his
face.

“I wonder if women are such dreadful
Creatures after all,” said she sceptically, lean-
Ing upon the back of her father’s chair, and
Continuing to stroke his hair.

_ ‘Whar’s my pipe?” suddenly asked the
Captain, ignoring her query.

She filled it and brought it to him and re-
sumed her position, while the skipper lay
smiling indulgently, occasionally rubbing his
chin,

“Don’t you smoke ?” said Mercy to Algie.

‘‘ Oh, yes,” he replied, producing a cigarette.

= Well, go ahead,” said the Captain, « we
ore got no objections.”

So the two men puffed away in the twilight,
while Mercy continued to stroke her father’s

hair until Antonio came in to air the room
and lay the table for dinner:

 
 

JACK O’DOON.

«Fetch her out, Tony,” said the Captain
briefly, and Antonio set a little table along-
side of him, and placed the decanter and
tumblers upon it.

« Ain't you got no water for the young
man? He’s young, Tony, he don’t want noth-
in’ hot.”

A moment later, Tony fetched a large
brown stone jug of water. «Say when! ”@X-
claimed the Captain, pausing in uncertainty
over the fifth glass.

«Oh, very little for me,” said Algie.

« Well, I ain’t a-goin’ to press you, you kin
bet your bottom dollar on that.” So the skip-

per poured into the fifth glass what he con-
sidered a homceopathic quantity of gin, and
an allopathic dilution of water, just as he
would have mixed them for a child.

«“Here’s luck to our picture,” said Algie.

« And to the very fust woman you kin find,
what can’t git her own way!”

Algie smiled and drank, and slightly nod-
ded to Mercy, who was looking on.

«« Now, Tony, Say it’s luck,” said the skipper
affably, pointing downwards.

Antonio was disappearing with the three
tumblers, when Mercy reminded him that

Mr. Abercrombie had not yet been shown his

room,

JACK O’DOON.

CHAPTER IX.

Sa HE chamber was large and square.

A warm fire glowed upon the

hearth, and Algie, left to himself,

stood before it, meditating upon the

Simplicity of the people amongst whom he
had been thrown.

After a while he turned and looked about
him at the quaint old furniture. One thing
which surprised him was, that, throughout
the house, in unexpected places, there ap-
peared strong touches of original artistic dec-
Oration, In this room it was most apparent.

A great four-posted bedstead supported a
huge feather-bed. At the foot of this struc-
ture was a flight of steps covered with a car-
pet of crimson velvet. The bed was flounced
around with a petticoat of Nile-green cam-
bric, over which a netted fringe fell to the floor,
ik bunchy little tassels, tipping in a row,
ae procession of dolls. A similar netting
ace ce the tester, over long green curtains,

ack to the posts with huge red bows.
The great fluffy pillows had no vulgar cover
of shams, but were meant to be slept upon,

and promised dreamless and comforting
sleep.

 
 

112 JACK O’DOON.

The floor was covered with a red carpet,
thick and soft, which glowed in the firelight.
Algie; loving the pleasantness of the dim
light, had extinguished the candles and yield-
ed to the sense of repose which was due to
the warmth and softness of his surroundings.

He became so lost in thought, that it did
not seem five minutes ere Antonio knocked
gently at the door and called him to dinner.

When he descended to the dining-room,
Aunt Polly was waiting, stiff and prim.
Mercy came in smiling. Her face took on
wonderful changes. To-night the expression
was of bright and intense intelligence, and it
seemed to Algie that the radiance of her
countenance shone upon him when the
features were making no impression. She
had more color than usual, which increased
the brightness of her eyes; and her hair,
brushed a little to one side, added to her in-
tellectual appearance.

« How shall I ever paint her ?” thought he,
regarding her with critical admiration. «She
is not beautitul, but so varying, that I have
not seen her twice the same.”

«What a very pleasant room you have
given me!” said he to Aunt Polly.

«You must remember what you dream
to-night,” said Mercy mysteriously. «“ You
know this is Friday, and whatever you dream
in a strange place on Friday night always
comes true. Be sure you keep half your
senses awake to remember what the other

JACK O'DOON,

half dreams ; because in the morning I shall
require you to render an account of your
Stewardship.”

“Oh, that’s cruel,” said Algie. «I en-
joyed so much the thought, this bleak night,
of sleeping in a feather-bed! Who ever
dreamed in one? They always carry me
back to the country inns in England. I re-
member particularly the old Shakespeare Inn
at Stratford-on-Avon, how I sank into some-
thing like oblivion in that feather-bed !”

‘“No, ’'m_ inexorable; there must be no
oblivion this time. All the properties in that
room are mine. They were left me by my
godmother, and I demand toll out of every-
body’s dreams,” replied Mercy impressively.

“ You ought to write them in a book,” said
Algie, “they would be better reading than
ghost stories.”

“I reckon they would, young man, ef all
the folks was as fond o’ lobster salad ez you
is!” interposed the Captain, helping himself
abundantly for the third time.

# At all events, remember I’m not joking,”
Said Mercy, quite seriously.

‘“‘ Are you superstitious ?” asked Algie.

_ “No, I think not, but when my godmother
first left me those things I dreamed a very
Strange dream, which was repeated in all its
details night after night, until I abandoned the
Toom, because it was so uncanny | attributed
it to reading Voltaire’s L’/nconnu. This is
Friday. Your dream will come true!”

8

 
 

 

114 JACK O’DOON.

The girl became more and more strange to
him.

How on earth had she come to be reading
Voltaire, and who had taught her French? He
looked at her inquiringly.

«Are you wondering if 1 am humbugging
you? No; I never, even in fun, say things |
don’t mean,” said Mercy.

“No,” replied Algie, «I was wondering
who put you in the way of reading French,
when you say you have lived here always.”

«Oh, is that all?” she answered, with a
smile of amusement. ‘Since I know how to
read English, with the help of a dictionary
and grammar, I can learn to read any language.
One winter, I learned a French grammar by
heart, and wrote all the exercises ; and the
next summer I read six or seven French books,
and by the time I had finished that task, I
knew so many words and idioms I scarcely
needed a dictionary at all. That’s simple
enough, isn’t it? Now I’m studying Italian on
the same plan, and next year I mean to tackle
German, and, although I don’t know a sound,
I can read and write anything I want to, and
I shall feel quite prepared to take father and
Aunt Polly in my arms and fly all over the
world with them! Youneedn’t laugh; much
stranger things have happened !”

Algie was not laughing to ridicule the
girl. Her Quixotic perseverance seemed an-
omalous to him, and he smiled at her enthus-
iasm,

JACK O'DOON.

115
: Is that the way you amuse yourself here
when you get storm-bound ?” he said.

I like reading, I get so tired of my-

cCV-OS*
self,”

Z j It’s nothing but selfishness, all said
a done,’ exclaimed Aunt Polly severely.
oure either buried in a book, or building

_ Pie
astles on a knitting-needle, or wandering

about the beaches as if you

were -
sessed !” 23

‘Do you think so, reall
; y, Aunt Polly ?”
asked Mercy, distressed. ‘
“Of course Ido. The first thing you know,

you'll be talking to , li
ea ta g yourself, like old Granny

Mercy’s brow clouded.
i Do ye mean to say my child’s like old
etsy Gooch?” demanded the Captain ag-
seeks peering round the caster at Aunt
a ve that useful article being placed in the
entre of the table and formi
eee ng a screen be-
E $0: said she was so absent-minded, she'd
pon be like Granny Gooch, and wander about
talking to herself.”
= 2 Mercy, my gal,” said the Captain, looking
Sr Inquiringly over his spectacles, « when
y€ ain't got nobody to talk to, jes ye come to
ae old daddy ef you’re lonesome like. He’s
allus ready to entertain ye; there ain’t no use
a-wastin’ time a-talkin’ to yerself.”
. Mercy looked lovingly at her father, who
ad evidently been so interested in a pudding

 
 

 

 

 

 

fi JACK O’DOON.

that he had not quite caught the drift of the
conversation.

When dinner was over they all turned round
to the fire. The Captain smoked his pipe in
silence, and Algie lighted one cigarette with
another. Mercy resumed her eternal knitting.
Such Algie thought it.

Aunt Polly, overlooking the morning's paper,
very soon began sneezing and coughing,
until the Captain turned upon her with a
sardonic smile, saying,—

«Just make the most of it, Polly ; we're
goin’ to fix up a stoody ter-morrow for our-
selves, and after that I don’t reckon we'll have
no more ’casion to trouble ye a-smokin’ in
here.”

Aunt Polly allowed a faint quiver of derision
to pass over her lips, and then left the room,
sneezing violently.

All said «Good-night” very early, Algie
leaving the Captain at the foot of the stairs ;
but for some minutes longer he could hear
him blustering about, shouting to the men
below to “Outen them lights,” to which came
the nautical reply, «Aye, aye, sir.” Then he
talked a little to Sailor, who had come up-
stairs to prowl around, and woke the parrot
from a nap on its tin bar. The bird’s screams
so exasperated the dog that he barked vio-

lently, and Bill Junk cursed the parrot, and
the Captain swore at the whole lot, until, fi-
nally, the lights were put out, and everything
became silent, save for the sounds of the Cap-

JACK O’DOON.

tain stumbling up the stairs in the dark, with
his shoes in his hand, to prove to himself that
he was as still as death.

= Algie, having made himself ready for bed,
lew out the candle and sat down in the arm-
chair before the fire.

Mercy’s dream recurred to him, and he
looked at the bed with a little misgiving.
At length he smiled at the absurdity of such
superstition.

‘“As if a comfortable old bed could make
people dream dreams!” he ejaculated.

He was luxuriously clad. in pajamas of
India silk, and, feeling too inert to go to bed
Stretched his feet toward the fire, and peace’

A Screen stood before the washstand, which
might have been Mercy’s work, and was cov-
ered with pictures and verses gathered ap-
parently at random. One verse, pasted in a
corner, had attracted his attention. It was
familiar enough, but now its meaning was
More significant to him. There was plainly
an untrodden spot in Algie’s heart which was

Opening to an unexpected guest.
“* She doeth little kindnesses,
Which most leave undone, or despise ;
For naught that sets one heart at ease,
And giveth happiness or peace,
Is low esteeméd in her eyes.”’
LowELL.

This quality, as he saw it embodied in
Mercy’s character, made Algie pause to re-
flect ere he blindly wandered into what he
would have ordinarily considered a passing

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

JACK O'DOON.

flirtation. «She’s too deeply in earnest in
all she feels and does !” he murmured.

He represented to himself sophistically that
he was there for. business only ; but he ad-
mitted the propriety of being very cautious.

«No, she’s too good for any trifling,” he
repeated virtuously, again and again, until at
last, feeling in a particularly self-denying and
peaceful frame of mind, he went to bed.

There was certainly something peculiar in
the room ; but it was a pleasant peculiarity.
The fine linen sheets, as light as silk, smelled
of withered rose leaves, and carried him back
to the sunny gardens of Adrianople. Sunk in
the downy depths of the feather-bed, listening
to the bleak wind whistling outside, Algie en-
joyed the consciousness of his own snug com-
fort within, until, weary with listening, he fell
so soundly asleep that even the noise which
the Captain made stalking downstairs in the
morning did not awaken him ; and there
were long gleams of light, making stripes

across the curtains, ere he rubbed his eyes
and reluctantly admitted that it was time to
get up.

Lying back again upon the pillows, he re-
membered that he had dreamed, and it was
not altogether a pleasant dream that he was
bound to tell Mercy.

«You lookasthough you had slept well, and
had not seen any ghosts,” said she, at break-
fast, silently admiring his deliciously fresh

skin,

JACK O’DOON.

we never slept better in my life,” Algie re-
plied.

‘“And so you dreamed no dreams for my
book ?” inquired Mercy.

“Oh, yes! I dreamed a dream like a fairy
tale. But it won’t bear telling,” said he.
Aunt Polly stared at him through her glit-

tering glasses, and Algie became so non-
plussed that he turned as red as red could be.

“But you promised,” said Mercy, smiling
with a tender feeling of compassion as she
watched the color subside from his face.
There is no doubt that men who color easily
have great compensation for their embarrass-
ment in the sympathy of most women.

‘“T ought to have a little time to make it up

with effect !” protested Algie.
“Oh, no!” exclaimed Mercy, ‘because it

ees come true unless you tell it at break-
ast !”

s All right,” said he, «if you give me leave
me withhold all the parts I don’t want to come
rue.”

‘“No, no! You're much too mysterious
already Be,
“ But I really must think it over,” persisted

Algie seriously, proceeding to butter the toast
which he had taken from the rack, and con-

tinuing to talk while he did so. “You know
we are supposed to be in a great hurry this
Morning to go to work on the studio. We
need a cloth hanging for the background.
Could we manage to get a piece of blue

 
 

 

 

JACK O’DOON.

denim anywhere near? But that is so cold ;
say dark-red canton flannel.”

“We might, in the village ; there are shops
there.”

«Could we get it?” inquired Algie, imme-
diately grasping at a possibility. ‘Could we
find the way?”

«How do you mean?” Mercy asked. «It
is much too far to walk.”

«No; I mean, could we go in the gig, you
and1?” Algie blushed at his own temerity.

«T never should have thought of anything
so: funny! You and I, jogging across the
sands in father’s old gig!”

«Suppose it is funny; does that make it
impracticable? You see only I could get it, be-
cause no one else would understand the style
of thing, and I shall need you to go and show
me the way.”

«“Splugen might do so,” said Aunt Polly
satirically. ;

«Tl ask father,’ said Mercy, smiling at
Algie’s evident terror of Aunt Polly.

« You know we ought to be very industrious
to-day,” said he, as she was leaving the room.
In a few moments there was a tumult below.

Nothing gave the Captain such complete
satisfaction as a “jolly good row.”

Presently Algie heard him exclaim: «You
know I ain’t got no ’pinions in this here house !
More like than not she'll break your neck.
But jest have yer own way ; I ain’t a-goin’ to
cross ye!”

JACK O’DOON. tse

Some protest and demur followed from
Mercy, then the Captain’s loud voice was
heard shouting from the stable: -« Confound
that gal! You know I ain’t a-keerin’ fur the
horse, or the vehicle, but I’m more’n certain
she’ll break yer neck.”

«Why, father, you know old Jim’s so slow
his bones creak in the joints,” was Mercy’s
answer.

«At last!” cried she, rushing into the
breakfast-room, brimful of smiles. «Again
I've « stooped to conquer.’ ”

After much more terrific ado, Algie and
Mercy, each with a foot-stove, a great bear-
skin rug, and innumerable precautions, set oft
at a funereal crawl to traverse the bleak waste
of sand which lay between them and the
village on the railway, where a stock of dry
goods was boasted rather than displayed.

«You must tell me your dream now,” said
Mercy, after they had jogged along some time
In silence.

“Do you really hold me to it, and promise
Not to be angry ?” said he.

«Angry about a dream?” said Mercy.
“What a goose you must think I am!”

“« Because I dreamed about you,” said Algie.
Mercy colored and looked away. «I
dreamed,” said he, encouraged, ‘that we—that
is, you and I—went wandering in a beautiful
garden, down a long and pleasant path to-
gether ; and every flower of the spring opened
in succession as we passed it, until we came

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

JACK O’DOON.
123

° Overtake you. It was a much longer way
than Ihad thought, and I was utterly wretched
I wanted to be in that man’s place ; but it oa
too late, and so, all out of heart, I sat down

to innumerable roses, sweet and delicious like
the roses at Booja ; and they were so tempting
that I gathered them for you until they spilled

out of your arms upon the ground. And as
we continued walking, we came to a place
where the way divided into two ways, and I
wished to go on with you ; but a power beyond
my control forced me to take the other road.
I was very reluctant, but I left you with the
roses in your arms. As we parted, you gave

A little tear fell upon it as you gave

me one.
n the

it me, and there seemed to be a charm i
tear. See how foolish my dream was ; you
would not shed a tear for me, would you?”

«Tam afraid you would very quickly dash it

to the ground if I did. Men don’t like tears,”

replied Mercy, “ but go on with your dream.”
« Must I tell you the rest ? "said Algie ; ‘do

you exact it ? es
« Of course,” said Mercy.
« Well, as I went on my separate way, to

my surprise, the flower did not wither as all
other flowers do in my hands , for the little tear-

beside the garden path. Night was coming
on. I could still see your two figures outlined
against the blood-red evening sky, and I
Sprang up, feeling determined that I would
die trying to reach you.”
me, And did you ?” said Mercy, eager to hear
e end of the story, and forgetful that she was
the heroine.
“Do you wish I had ?” said Algie, smiling
and suddenly turning to look at her.
Something in his scrutiny made Mercy
evinie-and drop her eyes without replying.
One said Algie, after a pause, and in an
one, “I had not reached you when I
awoke, but I had gathered again many of the
flowers which had fallen from your arms ; and
when I had kissed them with delight at touch-
Ing once again something you had touched
a came to life in my hands, and, oie
nows, if the sun had not shone in my eyes, I

drop, which still lay in the heart of it, kept it
alive. Time and again, I turned to look at
you across the garden, as you went your own
straight way ; until, finally, I became impressed
that I was going a long and lonely distance to
no purpose ; for my eyes and thoughts were
ever turning back to consider you ; and after
a while I saw that some one had joined you
and was walking in my place by your side ;
and then I turned, and tried to go back and

might have toiled on over the hill, and have
Overtaken you.”
a they were both silent for a long time
a8 Mercy made an effort and said, « How
absurd dreams are!”
: Shall you write a book of dreams, and
€gin with mine ?” he asked.
‘Oh, no,” said Mercy under her breath.
«Why not?”

 
 

 

 

JACK O’DOON.

« Because I could not bear to have any one

know you had dreamed that ! “4

« Are you sorry you know it?”
« No,” said Mercy shamefacedly, but trying

ard to be truthful.

«Good heavens!” thought Algie, with a
faint sigh of contrition, “ what deep water I’m
But then,” he told himself, ‘it
was the fault of that stupid old horse; he was

so slow one had to talk to get rid of time!”
Algie remained silent, reflecting on what he

had done. There was something true and
loyal in him, even though he had spent his
life for the most part frivolously. Hitherto
he had known that he was trifling with
triflers, and he was too generous, realizing as
he did his monetary perplexities, to wish to
act, even upon a fickle sincerity, with Mercy.
He was suddenly brought, by the story of his
dream, to look upon a possible, even probable
state of things, which might await them in the
future ; and he experienced a noble desire to
protect her, in her innocence, from any pain,

even of his own making. Why had he not
invented adream? He had told much worse

lies before.
But as a policy, in the lon
much the best; and should a part of the

dream be realized, and Algie knew very well

it would be, perhaps it would prove a super-
stitious solace to believe the rest might

be ; and as he took that comfort to his soul,

his face quickly cleared.

very h

getting into !

g run, honesty is

JACK O'DOON.

CHAPTER X.

A si soon as they returned they set to
4} work with a will, stirring up such
clouds of dust that Mercy began to
sneeze with igor i
ioe aa a vigor that rivalled
W
fe oo that lady put her head in at the door
ae -aptain informed her that he detested
zing women, and that two
, JO at
more than he could stand. nerds
<a. Junk’s curiosity brought him up from
raha Antonio, with his child-like Neapoli-
Sie also came to proffer his services
Be gen appeared with the parrot, which was
ay gossipy and abusive than ever; and
ay or, in his excitement, invented hee and
Be wee of getting under people’s feet
veryboc i
ce ra y was in a good humor except
TF :
eae look of care was gone from Mercy's
Aas she was brisk and full of life.
es efore long the Captain had had enough
- and retired to his old haunts.
= ne themselves deserted, Mercy wished
ecall Splugen, but Algie had a mind that

TAY AN

 
 

 

 

JACK O’DOON.

two was company and three a crowd, and
preferred the company.

“No,” cried he excitedly, embracing the
step-ladder, and rushing across the room with
it, «let’s do it ourselves.”

So Mercy stood at the foot of the ladder,
handing up tacks to him, and a wonderful
amount of waiting on he required, every time
just managing to touch the tips of her rosy
fingers, and steal a glance into her confiding
eyes.

When it was time for lunch, and Antonio
looked in to inform them of that fact, he grinned

in astonishment at the change.
Mercy, with her sleeves rolled up to the

shoulders, a big striped apron on, and her
arms akimbo, was a pretty enough picture,
and Algie, resting upon the step-ladder to
survey the work, looked at her admiringly.
They ate their lunch in the most undignified
haste, scandalizing Aunt Polly, and returned
eagerly to their work. It was good so far.

They had put wide bands of indigo, dark red,
old-gold, and green around the room, covering
the walls down to the oak wainscoting, which
was good and real, with its solid nail heads,
put in for a purpose, showing at every joint.

«« Now you help me to drape this long silk
fishing-net over these bands of color,” said
Algie, climbing up the ladder with one end of
the net; “and hand me the brass-headed
nails, one at a time, and 1 will drive them

wherever I can find the studding.”

JACK O’DOON.

The net must have been fifty yards long
and ten feet wide, with outlandish cork
floats, which projected at intervals from the
walls.

‘This net carries me back so, to one night
on the Bay of Naples,” said Algie. «We were
not allowed to land till morning—I was only
a boy then—and I became so excited, running
from the deck to the bridge, watching the fish.
ing-boats come out with flaming fires in copper
braziers, and the boatmen paying out the net
and these great things bobbing about so win:
Sically in the moonlight! A white stream of
light from the moon and a red stream from
the fire made it a scene I shall never forget.
And another time, driving along the road
from Castellamare to Pompeii, we stopped
and I got out of the carriage to feel the nets ;
I could scarcely believe they were silk. The
looked like brown cobwebs hanging from Sie
fig-tree to another, drying in the sun. How
little I thought, then, that the next time I
touched one, after ten years, I should be here
with you. It seems strange that I did not
— were in the world then.”

« And ten
ics ef enka now, I wonder where

= Oh, nothing ahead of this day and hour!”
ea Algie impatiently, as if he hated all
ciate the present. «Now, isn’t that beau-
Mul?” said he, screwing up his right eye very
unbecomingly and cocking his head on one
Side to get the effect. «The tone of that net

 
 

ACK O'DOON.

is lovely!” he exclaimed, after an ecstatic
pause.

«And here is another net, a blue one.
What can we do with that?” said Mercy.

«Qh, stretch it like a cobweb over the
ceiling.” Then Algie got together a few
boards to make shelves, and banged, and
sawed, and hammered until he made sucha
racket that the whole family collected again.
Upon the shelves they arranged hundreds of
shells, rosy and shining, black, white, and
brown, from all the seas and oceans. There
were Bahama tortoise-shells polished exqui-
sitely, a harvest of seaweed, and all kinds of
dried and shrivelled things, which it made
one shudder to touch. Then they sat down
to rest.

«That Chinese idol must loaf in a corner,
he’s much too fat and lazy for a god, and the
junk sail shall darken the cross light; and
we'll hang the Egyptian scarfs upon the
mantelpiece.”

The easel which Algie had brought down
from town was set in place, an Alcaldi
saddle-cloth spread under it, and a Mexican
blanket of the old artistic lozenge-pattern
hung over it. Mercy observed that what
were generally considered the off-hand effects
were always the ones which cost the most
pains. And then they congratulated them-
selves as quite successful, and sat down again
before the fire, in the gathering gloom of the

evening.

 

JACK O’DOON.
129

: The girl’s face was tenderly lighted by the
firelight as she fell into one of her long medi-
tations, and Algie watched her in silence,
She was so quaint and original that he was
constantly ‘watching her, as if she perplexed
him. What were the maidenly fancies sie
occupying so innocent a mind? Thinking!
Perpetually thinking! He felt withal a kind
of conscious wickedness that he had never
felt before ; he dared not allow himself to be
So happy with her. How could he, in honor
aa had never known a New Year find
nim rich enough to make ends meet? What
right had he to take the risk of inflicting the
chances of his harum-scarum life upon her ?
se had been well taught the old msi
coe Poverty comes in at the door, Lue
les out at the window.” Yet he sat silentl
Picturing to himself, in his eager saecentine
— how happy he could be with her, for he
elt such satisfaction after this, their first day’s

work together, that he thought he should be
as happy as that every day.

But Mercy, he saw plainly enough, did not

kno W what it meant to str u le to make ends
gs

She had always had her father’s for-

gl at her command, free to give to all ac-
oe to the dictates of her generous heart
ae having been tempted by a thousand
pas ways of wasting money, she would not

nderstand his difficulties if he told them. At

the i
: Same time, she was the sort of woman to
€mpt a man’s confidence.

9

 
 

 

 

JACK O’DOON.

He began to wish he had never come to
Cassandra Bay ; never wandered on the beach
that day; never seen Mercy! It seemed ages
and ages ago to him. In reality, that was
Saturday night, and he had been there since
Wednesday. In his headlong haste he had
lived a whole lifetime in those four days.

The Captain put a stop to their reflections
by thrusting his head in at the door, telling
them dinner was coming on to the table ; and
they hurried to their rooms to dress.

But Algie, notwithstanding the abstinence
of his resolves, could not resist touching
Mercy’s hand, either by contrivance or acci-
dent, as, in the dusk of the room, he moved
past her to open the door.

Then his conscience smote him as he walked
up the stairs, and told him to go home. It
was a conscience which talked a great deal
and acted very little; and was most vehement
when out of temptation. But he was only
twenty-six—the prime age when the heart is
most full and eager to be happy. Moreover,
seeing that Mercy was so anxious about the
ship, he did not apprehend any unhappiness
to others, and redoubled his efforts to please
the family; his conscience to the contrary
notwithstanding. Even Aunt Polly yielded,
and admired him.

The next day was Sunday, and a heavy
gale was blowing. Mercy appeared with her
jacket buttoned up to the chin.

« Where can you be off to?” said Algie,

JACK 0?
DOON. 13 ¥.

looking up. “You had
: much better get
book and keep me company.” eee

«And leave the little b i
sere oys and girls to

“What do you mean? Where are you
really going ?”

«About half a mile across the sands, to
where a half-dozen huts shelter several daca
children whom I regale on Sundays with
Stories of a religious nature.”

“Am I too grown-up to go? I adore
Stories.”

“I’m afraid you are,” said Mercy, abashed.
“I could not possibly interest you.”
“You can only prove that by turning my
mind inside out. Won't you let me go?”
She could scarcely have declined if she had
wished, so when he had donned a pilot jacket
and a shaggy “Tam O’Shanter,” he took the
little basket which she had been holding in
her hand, and they started across the salt
marsh by a path which led over the crest of
eee cliff, and descended abruptly to the
A clamor of voices arose at sight of them
and a few half-savage children gathered about
the cabin toward which Mercy conducted Al-
gle. An old man, crouching beside the door,
removed a pipe from his lips to greet them.
Inside, a woman having a baby at her breast
dusted a chair with her apron, and invited

Algie to take a seat, indicating another for
Mercy.

 
 

 

132 JACK O’DOON.

« The wind were a-blowin’ that bad I
‘lowed like as not ye wouldn’t be a-comin’.
I heard you’uns had company folks a-stayin’
with ye,” said ‘she, dragging up a chest to
the corner of the fire to sit upon. «TI ain’t a
feelin’ so mighty well myself. The baby, he’s
been that bad the whole night I like to not
got no sleep; but ’pears like he’s a little grain
easier now.”

As she spoke, she laid the child across her
knees, so that the head, suspended by a limp
little neck to a meagre body, hung over her
leg like a bag of beans.

Mercy leaned forward in painful concern
for the child. «Oh! do let me hold him,”
she said. «I know you must be worn out.
Poor little thing!” she added, sliding her
hand gently under it, and pillowing its head
in the hollow of her arm. It was not the
freshest baby in the world, and Algie was
rather disgusted that Mercy should put her
hands on it.

The child whimpered, but the woman,
straightening herself with a sigh of relief,
poured out a panful of boiling water, and
proceeded to wash the litter of cups and
saucers which covered the table.

« You must be so uncomfortable here,”
whispered Mercy to Algie. «Don't. feel
obliged to wait for me. You know I’m quite

used to it.”

He shook his head negatively.

Meantime, the children began squabbling

JACK O’DOON.

and shoving each other against the door,
which finally burst open ; and about twenty
of them, in all stages of dishevelment,
crowded in, and huddled together upon the
floor behind Mercy’s chair, fixing their eyes
upon Algie with a uniform and unbroken
Stare.

“IT wonder if you'll ever understand the
verse I teach you so often,” said Mercy, with
a sigh of despair. « He that hath clean
hands and a pure heart.” Continuing to
Sway the baby upon her knees, she took
from her basket a copy of “ The Pilgrim’s
Progress,” and resumed the reading of the
Story where she had left off the last time ;
occasionally pausing to inquire if they under-
Stood her.

Presently the baby set up a piping wail,

and Mercy, fearing they might disturb the
little creature, bade them follow her to a
Sheltered nook outside, where they found
Seats upona wreck. All repeated the creed
and Ten Commandments with her, and after-
wards they said the Lord’s Prayer together,
kneeling upon the sand.
_ The children spoke as if they really be-
lieved that they had a God and a Father, who
would grant them their daily bread if they
asked for it. The faith which Mercy had
taught them went home to Algie.

‘““Who works for others, works for him-
Self,” he said sceptically, but his conscience
told him that Mercy really enjoyed the act of

 
 

JACK O?DOON.

doing good for those who could never do any-
thing for her in return.

When she had finished with the children
Algie left the wreck and walked about the
beach, watching her go from door to door.
By the time her basket was empty the gale
had subsided, and the blue sky was out in
patches.

The water was gone from the pier, and
fishing-smacks lay tilted on the sand, their
gaffs dropped low, and fish-nets hung from
mast to mast.

Algie and Mercy walked along the beach,
facing Mother Margery’s cabin, and were
close upon the spot where they had first met.

She so thoroughly satisfied his peculiar re-
quirements that it seemed impossible to him
that he could have known her for so short a
time, but he felt as if in his innermost con-
sciousness he had held her always.

The scene had changed much since that
day. Then, the tide was in, and the sea tu-
multuous after the night’s storm ; now, for a
long way out, the beach was dry, and two
cliffs held the harbor bar, like a rusty chain,
over which the tide was lapping.

« T shall never forget this spot,” said Algie.
« Some day, when you are not expecting me,
or have forgotten me, you may meet me here.
Do you ever feel a queer desire to repeat
yourself, to do again, perhaps with the hope
of doing better, something which you have
done before ?”

JACK O’'DOON.,

‘© No, never,” said Mercy, ‘the days are
too full, I have no time! But,” she added
laughing, « my days are all repetitions one of
another. I sometimes wonder if I could en-
dure life away from here ; I don't think I
could for long !”

“Wouldn't you gradually forget ?”

‘« No, no,” said Mercy, «when I go away,
I am hopelessly homesick until I get back.
Even when father goes with me, I miss Jack
So. Iam so fond of him.”

“You were so fond of him,” said Algie.
He repented his cruelty ina moment; but it
made him so frantically jealous, wandering in
these haunts, to be forever reminded that Jack
had such advantage of him.

= Jack will never be past and gone to me,”
Said Mercy, with a quaver in her voice which
cut Algie to the quick.

“You will forget your grief in time; every
one forgets,” said Algie, with the assurance
of a man of the world.

_ ‘Forget !” cried Mercy. «Can my own
life ever cease to be real to me? CouldI for-
get you, or this moment? ”

Algie winced. He could not decide
whether her words were satirical ; but Mercy
Was thinking of abstract conditions. «The
Past Is just as necessary as the present,” said
She. «If we had no past, how could we exist
Morally or physically ? If Jack’s influence had

not made in me some of those qualities which
are integral parts of me, how could I be what

 
ot i|
| i
aa

s

~
fou

m6 JACK O'DOON.

I am; and, being what I am, how could I for-
get Jack? So, also, I know [help Jack.”

«Do you think you have no power to help
any save Jack? Can't you conceive that your
faith in Jack is helping to make my faith in
you, and, through you, in human nature at
large? Or do you care nothing about it?
Perhaps youlove Jack because you can patro-
nize him !”

His tone was so sarcastic that Mercy looked
at him in wonder.

«How could I presume to patronize Jack,
who is so much nobler and-more generous
than I am!” she exclaimed.

Moved by an impulse he scarcely under-
stood, Algie replied.

“Ts he refined and cultivated? Is a
woman capable of fully loving, or admiring
with endurance, a person who commands her
moral esteem only, and for whom, in all other
respects, she must make apology? I think
you are in grave error. Men who are only
morally superlative end by being insufferable
bigots, and, in the long run, are detestable !”

«What if I thought that a man, so mis-
judging another who was absent, might be
more detestable !” exclaimed Mercy, with her
father’s hot temper flashing in her eyes.

« Oh, forgive me,” cried Algie, instantly re-
called to himself, «I don’t know why I said it !
You will forgive me, won’t you?” With
heedless impetuosity he seized her hand and
held it until their eyes met.

 

 

 

 

 

 

JACK O’DOON.

_She did not know what to think of him, nor
did he of himself.

“Jack will always be Jack to me,” she
finally said, “nor will any one ever take his
dear place.”

Through Algie’s mind flashed a hope that
Jack was done with ; but he was neither brutal
nor base, and a moment later he felt that he
deserved to be kicked, and said very earnestly,
ae you mind telling me what place he

Mercy hesitated, but the moral compulsion

of Algie’s scrutiny compelled her to speak.
“I hardly know,” said she, at length, « but
when I read the story of a hero of old, I can
always put Jack in his place. There is no
act of self-abnegation, self-immolation, even
which Jack could not achieve, if he felt that
it was necessary and right. Nothing he
would shrink from, even to the helping of the
last old sailor to the last seat in the lifeboat
rae going down alone on a Swamping deck.
Sais who perhaps are no such ‘bigot,’
ECONO ssi certainly could not, and I doubt
if the unidealized Jack of flesh and blood
Could, either, although your fisher-folk are
bred to courage as a Jersey cow is bred to
cream.”

Mercy looked at him in contempt; but he
continued, although he turned very red, «Such
Courage can only be due to a lack of appreci-
ation of the value of life, and to the ab-

 
 

138 JACK O’DOON.

sence of such acquirements as make a man’s
life essential to his fellow-beings. For ex-
ample, a great singer, or sculptor, or genius
of any sort, whose whole youth must be spent
in acquiring an art, can’t afford to die; he
owes it to that art to live. He is just as
heroic when he is starving in a garret, toiling
to make himself perfect, as another who only
suffers once and finishes the struggle. The
two ideals are different.”

«“Yes,” said Mercy, “ but your ideal sacri-
fices himself to an art which repays him in
this world. He lives to feel the laurels on
his brow; but my ideal sacrifices himself for
his fellow-men, and can have no possible
reward except in immortality. He must
display the sublimest courage as well as
the sublimest faith. It is his soul which acts
in him, believing in its own immortality.
Jack’s heroism could only be made perfect
in death, and receive its reward in a future
state, while your hero’s is only a sordid en-
durance receiving its recompense in clapping
of hands and stamping of feet. The only re-
ward worthy of the hero whom I admire is
the smile of the eternal God.”

« That is just the opposite to what I think,”
asserted Abercrombie. ‘There can be no
danger nor death in an immortal state, there-
fore Jack’s courage perishes with him. Per-
haps you may call my hero a fanatic. Which
would you think the more practical—yours
or mine?”

 

JACK O’DOON.

“I think,” replied Mercy, «that for the re-
pose of every-day life, neither would be neces-
Sarily agreeable.”

“You will admit, then,” said Algie, «that
the material for every-day life is best when
not made up of apotheosized Greek heroes,
nor fanatical geniuses, but of the lukewarm
mixture which the civilization of to-day dubs
‘a gentleman,’ or that adaptation of incon-
Spicuous qualities which in the sum of our
Philosophy is called the commonplace man,—
a creature redounding with common sense!”

“It strikes me there is not much common
sense in this conversation of ours, for I have
begun to think you have been trying to con-
vince me that a gentleman cannot be a hero,”
said Mercy.

“Not by any means. Occasionally they
happen to be; but, rather, that heroes are
hot commonly gentlemen. Achilles was a
hero, but, measured by the standard of to-day,

he was no gentleman to drag old Hector in
the dust ; on the contrary, I think he was an
abnormal beast, and deserved to be pounded
with the butt-end of a thunderbolt.”
farts Oh, Mr. Abercrombie, how can you be so
irreverent !” cried Mercy in dismay.

‘I’m notirreverent,” protested Algie; « they
Were savages, and I pretend to be a gentle-
man.”

‘Do you mean to imply that all heroes are
Savages ?” demanded Mercy indignantly.

“Well, yes, if you will have it. It’s the

 
triumph of savage nerve, which has not been
weakened by sentiment, over intellectual
economy. In early days men, for lack of rev-
elation, adored beasts, and the more brutal
a man was, the more blood he could wade
through, the more god they thought him. In
the middle ages men adored mystical reve-
lation, in these days they adore brains!”

Mercy shook her head doubtfully, and
Algie resumed :

«Else why do you study so hard when
you are alone? It is the inherent desire of
your nature to approach the ideal which it
adores. Show me a man’s god, and I will
show you the man, because he will inevitably
try to make himself like his deity, or his
deity like himself. You will outlive the heroic
ideal, as your intellectual desires become
stronger. You will outgrow Jack, just as Jack
will outgrow himself—for old men are seldom
heroes. Their courage changes into magnan-
imity.”

«Do you know,” said Mercy, looking at
him inquiringly, ‘I feel as if you had led me
into a comparison between Jack and yourself.
I don’t agree with you. If old men are seldom
heroes, it is because they have become
cowards through experience, and trust their
judgment to arbitrate where they know they
would be beaten. It only proves to me that

old age is less noble than youth.”
Abercrombie, startled by her remark, had
turned crimson, convinced of its truth, whilst

JACK O’DOON.

she, feeling that she had been too pointed
blushed for herself.

Blushing and confused, they looked at each
other, until Mercy, recovering herself, said
abruptly,—

“IT won't grant any of your arguments, ex-
cept upon circumstantial evidence.”

“ All right!” said Algie, offering his hand ;
“but will you promise, fair and true, that if
I ever should ask you for your conclusions
based upon such evidence, you will give iho
to me without evasion ?”

“Upon condition,” replied Mercy, «that
you also promise me that when it is proven to
you that you are wrong, as it surely will be
you will own up. My premises are, that ee
trepidity is consistent with gentleness, and
that the power to lay down one’s life oud die
for a simple human end may coexist with
mental ambition as well as common sense.”
Se Yes,” responded he, « but always assum-
ing that it be done in the necessary carrying
Out of the demands of every-day life, and upon
no romantic, uncalled-for, or eccentric ad-
venture.”

“Very well, I'll shake hands uponit. It’s
a bargain, and we'll find our proofs,” said
Mercy, accepting Abercrombie’s hand, and
little dreaming of how it should be proven.

 
JACK O'DOON.

CHAPTER XI.

ERCY was a shrewd observer, and
wondered if Algie really thought all

scrutiny and beat the fluted sands
with his stick, feeling that he had been guilty
of a mean act in endeavoring to undervalue
- Jack’s courage. He knew very well that if
the hero had been any other than Jack, he
would have been much less deprecatory, for,
in his secret heart, he fostered a good deal of
hero-worship.
He began to fear that Mercy might think
less of him because of it. How could she
make allowance for this aversion to an

unknown man which had arisen in his

breast ?
He felt detestable, knowing that he had

been decrying the very element of dauntless
courage which was the backbone of Mercy’s
own character, and which, combined with
her intelligence and originality, made her so
fascinating to himself ; and, glancing askance
at the gentle face, he admitted that she com-
bined many of the attributes of Minerva with
the most feminine tenderness,

JACK O’DOON.,

: “T believe you doubt me after all,” said
e

“Ido. Perhaps you are braver than you
think,” she answered.

“Do not make any such false estimate of
me,” he replied earnestly. «I would rather
you thought less of me than I deserved, than
more. I could not bear to be spurious to
you, of all people in the world.”

Algie thought he was speaking truth, for
he felt morally certain that if he had one
Spark of heroism, he would fly Cassandra
and this delicious dallying. He asked him-
self what was to be the end of it. :

How could he tie his arrogant family, fas-
tidious even among cultivated people, to this
Clan of rough fisher-folk, which reminded
him of a great oyster bed—ugly, wholesome,
and nutritious, producing this one pearl? It
seemed madness altogether, for he knew that
the pearl could only be removed with the
death of the oyster.

Abercrombie was ignorant that the Cap-
tain’s dominant ambition was that Mercy
Should be a lady. Dearly as he loved her, he
would have been satisfied to yield her up and
watch her from afar, believing that the igno-
ble bivalve was not worthy to keep the pre-
Clous thing it had begotten. The pride of his
whole being reached its climax in Mercy.
Nothing was good enough for her. Golden
hairpins and ruby rings-were less than fit.
It was marvellous that the girl was not cor-

 
nT

JACK O’DOON.

rupted by such indulgence. ‘The secret lay
in the fact that her ideal, mingling, as it did,
the transcendental with the transitory, was
far above and beyond anything which the
Captain could devise for her. She believed
in the moral exaltation which would result to
her from the endeavor to adapt herself to her
harsh surroundings, and it was that daily
self-abnegation which gave to her counte-
nance the light of saintliness that Algie so
admired.

But the most spiritual of women could have
had no perfect power to withstand the flat-
tery of a man whose plausible devotion had
the polish resulting from constant practice,
and whose warmth, if short-lived, was mag-
netic.

As they continued their walk, these quali-
ties made Jack’s rough and sturdy nature
seem coarse by contrast, and, upon approach-
ing the O’Doons’ cabin, she shrank within
herself in a new and strange way.

But she remembered that in darkness
and danger he had proven himself to be
trusted, as his father and brothers had before
him.

Had not her own father been humbly
enough born? How was she better than
Jack, save for what money brought? She
reproached herself bitterly. Since they had
been little boy and girl together, reading
fairy tales or playing in the sand, there had
been an undefined feeling of loyalty to Jack’s

 

 

JACK O’DOON.

rights, whatever they were, and she now
demanded of herself that he should be treated
with reverence worthy the hero she believed
him. Mother Margery also had always been
heroic to her, and there was a momentary
feeling of passionate resentment toward Algie
as an intruder who had come between herself
and them.

When she and he reached the cabin, they
found the door open to admit the sunshine.
At first no one was visible, but on looking
More carefully, they found the old man lying
asleep upon the bed. He breathed huskily.

_Mercy went and laid her hand gently upon
his head. A painful apprehension came upon
her. His flesh was clammy to the touch.
She looked anxiously at Algie, but, being
1gnorant of illness, he could: not interpret has
€xpression.

‘‘He must be very ill indeed,” said she,
§0ing to the door to look out; “I am sure
Mother Margery has gone for help.” Then
She went to the hearth, raked the coals
together with the stump of a firebrand, and
filled the kettle with water.

: Suppose he were to die before Jack gets
ack,” said the girl; “his heart is almost
broken,”

Abercrombie was no longer capable of sur-
Prise at anything which Mercy might do or
nay concerning the living or the dead, and
Sat watching her mutely, his eyes wandering

wi . . . .
ith keen artistic appreciation over the quaint
IO

 
 

146 JACK O’DOON.

walls. The mind which had conceived the
curious combination was closely in accord
with his own.

There was such unutterable pathos in the
suggestion of each shred. Even the gorgeous
figure-head apologized for its degradation !
Something in the mildewed sails, in the frip-
pery of the gilded door, in the silence of the
little tremulous crabs wriggling in the breeze,
smote him with a pang of pity for the un-
known, unguessable things of which each
fragment had been a part.

Turning suddenly to Mercy, he asked her
who had arranged them.

« Jack,” she replied, and added, quoting his
own speech of an hour before: «Show me a
man’s god, and I will show you the man.”
Then she went on: ‘Here, too, I have spent
much of my life.”

Just at that moment the old man upon the
bed seemed to be strangling. He did not
recognize Mercy ; not even when she lifted
his head upon her shoulder.

Pour a little coffee in the cup and bring it
to me,” said the girl to Abercrombie, who did
so with great agitation. «Try and compose
yourself,” she added, seeing that his hand
trembled violently. He looked at her in as-
tonishment,

Just then a shadow fell upon them, and
Mother Margery entered with the Captain.

«“ Take him, Mother Margery, he does not
know me,” said Mercy, making room for her

 

JACK O'DOON. 147

beside the bed. The old woman lifted her
husband in her arms.

“Yes,” said the old man, endeavoring to
follow with his eyes an imaginary object
across the room, “I know’d he were a-
comin’. He do look well. Extraordinary
well. There ain’t nar’a sich another fine boy
at the fishin’.”. He stopped bewildered, and
then put out his hand, his face alight with an
ineffable smile. «‘He’s a-comin’, I know’d he
war a-comin’.

His hand suddenly dropped heavily, his
eyes lost their light and stared blindly before
him, and his head gradually sank backwards.
Those looking on expected to hear a word, a
sigh, a single shuddering breath; but there
was nothing. He was dead.

Mother Margery looked on as if it were
beyond belief, and then with a dreadful cry
She flung herself across the body.

The Captain blew his nose and walked out,
with that sudden cold in the head which he
always assumed when his neighbors fell into
trouble.

It seemed to Abercrombie that Mercy was
made of humanized iron. She was standing
beside her foster-mother, looking pityingly at
her and trying to draw her away by the hand.

He had never see a man die before, and
was surprised that it was not horrible. Per-
haps the first thought that comes to one, on
Seeing a stranger die, is the wish to be in his
Place, that it might all be over with, since,

 
148 JACK O’DOON.

some day Death must come to us as well.
He wondered to see Mercy treat death so
familiarly, for after a moment the girl, with
great effort, but with method and firmness,
straightened the old man’s back, laid his
arms down by his side, closed his eyes, and
then, turning to Abercrombie, touched his
sleeve and motioned him to follow her out
of the cabin. Involuntarily he felt his flesh
creep when she touched him. Her will was
so strong, and her self-command so resolute,
that he was afraid of her.

« Shall we leave your foster-mother alone ?”
he asked, moving reluctantly from the door,

which he was surprised to see Mercy close
after them.

«“T’m doing as I would be done by,” she
answered.

Walking away toward the little hamlet they
had left but an hour before, they descried
fishermen hastening toward them. ‘I’m so
glad father found you, O’Reill,” said Mercy;
“if you will wait outside the cabin a while,
it will be good of you. You know of old that
Mother Margery fights her battles best alone.
I'll come back after a while and take her
away.”

So the fisherman went and sat down beside
the door of the cabin in the sun, and soon
others came and sat beside him, waiting, in a
kind of awe-stricken silence,until Mercy should
come back.

Meantime, she and Algie climbed the cliff

JACK O’DOON.

where it was shelving, and followed the path

_through the salt marsh. At length Mercy,

observing that her companion was silent,
looked at him inquiringly.

«IT don’t know what to make of you,” said
Algie abruptly.

It was wonderful what startling truths
Mercy’s eyes probed out of people.

« You think, perhaps, that I have no human
feeling,” said she in reply, as if she had reat
his thoughts ; “ but,” she added after a pause,
“do you really believe, that if I had no feeling,
I, young as I am, could have forced myself to

. look at death so often and in so many dread-

ful shapes, as to appear to look upon it now
with indifference? I have learned the neces-
sity for absolute self-control, and that, by
means of it, I can often do for others what
they are too excited to do for themselves. I
can’t remember the day when the first dying
hand was clasped in mine! They are rough
people, you think,” she added, after studying
his face for a moment, “and one cannot do
much for them; but they know they will
never call upon me in vain, and more than
all, they feel that they are mine, my very own.
And rough, asI freely grant they are—wrang-
ling, swearing, drunken, drowning—they all
have that heroic stuff in them which you de-
Spise and I prize beyond everything. Doubt-
less it is the savage in me which gives me the
Power to endure the sight of it all. Qh, believe
me, there can be no other life so hard.-no

 
JACK O’DOON.

such suffering—as upon the sea; and because
no such suffering, no such heroism ; and when
I see an old sailor die, it makes me feel such
intense sympathy for him, that I almost could
be heroic. The grandest power of the sea is
the strength it brings out in those who suffer
at their work upon it.”

As she ceased speaking, her eyes filled with
passionate tears, and she could not have said
more if she had wished; but her breast
heaved, and it seemed to Abercrombie that
there were many thoughts she would have
uttered if she could. Mercy covered her face.

The man saw that her nerves had been
overtaxed, but, as she approached the garden
gate, she dried her eyes.

Bill Junk was at the door, and Mercy told
him of O’Doon’s death, and ordered a basket-
ful of food to be sent to the cabin.

When they were once more in the sitting-
room, the girl sank into a chair, shaking vio-
lently.

“What is it? What is the matter ?” cried
Algie in desperation, endeavoring very gently
to take her hands from her face.

‘Oh, nothing,” said Mercy, “ but it seems
as if I could stand all kinds of things like a
rock, until they are over, and then all of a
sudden, oh, something—I don’t know what—
gets the matter with me, and I feel as if my
heart had almost stopped beating, and some-
thing hurts me. so, here!” she exclaimed,
pressing her hand on her breast.

JACK 0’DOON. 15k

“ You are killing yourself for all these old
ruffians !”

‘« They are mine, I should be willing to die
for them.”

The speech and look, although they would
never have been expressed had she not been
exhausted beyond control, were such exponents
ot Mercy’s character, that Algie always re-
membered them. Such a passionate devotion,
Misguided though it often was, he had never
Seen. But when the excitement had subsided,
her cheeks became livid, and Algie rang for
Antonio. As soon as the old man saw his
young mistress, he hurried to mix a “hot
Scotch ”; and, while the water seemed slow to
boil, sat grumbling over the kettle, exasperated
at Mercy’s unqualified self-sacrifice.

“Look a-here, Tony,” interrupted Bill Junk,
“don’t you be a begrudgin’ ole Ned his little
bit 0’ comfort at the las’ ; you knows ef ‘twas
you (and you may bless the Lord A’mighty it
ain’t) you’d a been glad to a-had her thar.
The Lord’ll give her her due when the payin’
time comes. Jest don’t you be a-grumblin’ at
the chances she’s took to save up His favors.
All yer little beads, and yer grimy little doll
babies ain't equal to one live woman by a
long shot. Hurry up them kettles and don’t
be puttin’ no complaints in the way o’ the
Lord’s doin’s.”

Tt Was not often that Bill Junk was struck
with even an emotional wave of religion, but
when he was he managed to let it fall with a

 
aa See

cairns eae eee
= aye 4 ¥

——-

SO

JACK O’DOON.

good break, on both Tony and Splugen, both
of whom stood rather in awe of him.

« Here comes the old skipper now. He’s
a-blowin’ his nose frightful,” said Splugen,
who was looking out of the window.

«ll jest cook this here beefsteak about
half,” said Bill Junk, turning it over on the
broiler, ‘an’ they can finish it to-night. Like
ez not, I'll be thar myself,” for Bill dearly loved
conviviality, and a “wake” was better than
nothing festive at all.

The Captain ascended the stairs with a slow
and ponderous tread, grunting at every step.

« Well, there ain’t no more of ’em!” he
said, slamming the door behind him, and
stuffing his red handkerchief half way into
his coat-tail pocket. ‘When the young ones
goes, it’s time the ole ones was gittin’ out oO’
the way; and I never yet knowed the day
when ole Ned didn’t do the right thing in the
right place, an’ darn’d quick too !”

The Captain’s manner was brusque and
severe, and did not suggest the fact that, be-
cause of the tenderness of his heart, he had
been wandering among the sand-hills, talking
to himself, for a good half hour, and I fear the
old fellow would resent it if I added that his
eyes were red, as though he had been weep-
ing.

« The Lord bless him !” he ejaculated after
a pause, during which he had been chasing
his handkerchief around his legs and blowing
his nose again. “I ain’t never know’d no

JACK O’DOON.

honester man. Mercy, you'd better fetch ole

Margery up here. There’s bread enough for

one more, I reckon; an’ there ain’t no use of

us keepin’ up two establishments like” (as if
he did not already support a dozen). “Jest
you fetch her along, and tell her I’m agreeable;
and I ain’t got no objections. Not that there's
any use o’ my havin’ none, ef I were a min’
to. There ain’t no use fur no man to have no

’pinions in this worl’! I tell you, young man,
the day’s a-comin’, an’ it’s close on han’ too,
when men’s rights is got to be purtected !
Where ye gwine to now?” interrupting him-
self impatiently to interrogate Mercy.

“I’m going to Mother Margery’s,” said
she.

“ Lord, ain’t you got enough of it! It do
turn my stomick to see a woman run after
dead folks so! Set down! Send Splugen !
Send Tony! Send Polly! Let her take ‘em
some of them little bits o’ paper. It'll ’muse
em like ; but do set down !”

Just then Antonio appeared with the hot
toddy. The smell of it roused the Captain,
and he braced himself up, while Tony
“fetched her out !”

Mercy shook her head negatively at Algie,
whose glance implored her to stay, as she
moved toward the door.

_The Captain spread his handkerchief over
his knee, and proceeded in a tone of disgust :
‘There ain’t no use a-talkin’ to her! I ain't
no more vally than a green catapillar what

 
’
154 JACK O’DOON.

can’t do more’n hatch a butterfly, and theré
she be!” crooking his thumb over his shoul-
der tragically, and looking at Algie for sym-
pathy, which was given abundantly.

JACK O’DOON.

CHAPTER XII.

g\F Mercy had ever experienced any
great personal sorrow, she could
not have so courageously borne
such a constant strain of sympathy

for others. As it was, she had the ignorance
and energy of youth to sustain her, and, full
of the benevolence of her mission, went on
her way, although with a divided heart.

Abercrombie had been so devoted that,
never before having had so charming a com-
panion, she felt for the first time how painful
it was to tear herself from youth and pleasure
to devote her thoughts to old age and death.

In her extreme conscientiousness, she took
herself harshly to task, as she plodded along
through the sand-hills, because her heart
perpetually reverted to the fireside at home,
Where her father sat grumbling, and Algie
morosely silent.

It did not occur to her that that young man
would stand at the window with his hands
in his pockets and a scowl upon his face,
damning his luck in being left to watch her
racing before the wind, and wishing he were
going too, even into a graveyard or mortu-
ary chapel, rather than being left alone.

 
{
|

~~

on te a ae yg

|

RE a ae mes ? sna el ll oe,

156 JACK O’DOON.

He pulled his moustache fiercely.

Her determination, her unyouthful youth,
her over-positiveness, exasperated him. “ Why
couldn’t she stay quietly at home, and leave
the O’Doons, dead or alive, to the fisher-folk
now gathering like crows about that wretched
hovel? But no! she must gratify her own
predilections at any cost. Women of that
type have very fine sentiments, but they take
care never to do anything they don’t want to
do!”

The Captain was thinking about the same
thing ; but he hated solitude, and grumbled
very loud, although neither man paid the
slightest attention to the other.

Just then Algie caught sight of Splugen
coming out of the house with a huge hamper
upon his shoulder, and, rather than be alone,
seized his yarn cap and rushed after him.

When they had gone but a short distance,
he was exasperated at finding that his com-
panion would talk only of Mercy’s goodness.
He was sick of that already, though free to
grant that she nursed the sick, fed the poor,
and comforted the miserable. But he was
tired to death of it. He was miserable him-
self! Why dawdle with an old sailor and
listen to his yarns ?

What was Mercy? Nothing but a stub-
born, goody-good little prig! He detested
prigs. He preferred girls with more com-
mon sense and humanity. Saints were so
self-righteous !

 

JACK O’DOON. 157

He got out a cigarette and a box of wax-
matches ; but the wind was as outrageous as
the people, and blew them out one after an-
other.

He threw the cigarette away and stamped

upon it, rubbing it into the sand with the toe
of his shoe, until he felt like a fool and looked
like one, walking on in angry silence.
But the fact that Mercy was not easily won
from her old friends made him so much the
more vehement that she should turn wholly
to himself; and notwithstanding that he had
berated her, he was tenaciously thinking of
her, and found himself saying : «So fond and
true and companionable.”

Though he had deserted Splugen, his steps
trended toward the sea, until he arrived at
the village, whither he had been but a few
hours before in her company.

It was deserted. The cabin-doors were
Open or ajar. Only one house seemed inhab-
ited. The inside of that, as regards material,
was much like the O’Doons’; but it lacked
the poetry which pervaded Jack’s home. An
old woman was sitting beside the fire with a
child at her feet.

“Come in,” said she, in a querulous voice,
sf there ain’t none o’ the folks to hum. But
bein’ as ye’re here, ye kin jest set down,”—
Tapping a chair with a cane she had taken
from the chimney-corner.

‘‘I suppose,” said Algie graciously, «they
are all gone to the O’Doons’.”

Se Be nee me TL ONG a ep ee Pe eS Oe

ae Per

55 rete

ame RR OFT ST SSR I EAD

oes BELIEF

 
 

 

JACK O’DOON.

«Yes, they says ole Ned is dead at las’,
He have seen a sight o’ tribulation in his day,
not ez he didn’t desarve every bit, an’ more.
I hearn ez Mercy, en some sort 0’ strange
man, jes’ happen’d thar in season. Like ez
not you be the man?”

« Yes,” said Abercrombie, chafing at her
rude familiarity in calling Mercy by her
Christian name.

« That Mercy be allus a-steppin’ in when
there ain’t nara a soul a-lookin’ fur her.
She’s sort o’ like her daddy en her mammy
both. Like ez not ye never seed her mammy.
She died afore your time p’r’aps. Leastways
Mercy never seed her herself. Them O’Doons
allus war a prancin’ lot. With their heads
so high, they kinder b’lieve that gal b’longs to
’em. An’ that Jack, a fine lad they say, but
settin’ up ter be a scholar! I ain’t got no
patience with no sech!” She stopped speak-
ing, and, taking a clay-pipe out of her mouth,
spat into the fire.

She was so rank of turpentine and tobacco
that Abercrombie could scarcely endure
her.

«I’m afraid the family is about wound up
now,’ said he.

«Yes, that’s my notion, but Mercy is that
obstinate, ’tain’t nothin’ but pure contrari-
ness, she won’t believe nothin’ she don’t see,
en’ she keeps a-tellin’ that ole fool Margery
not to give up hopes ; but it’s a rare luck to
hope agin sich evidence ; en we uns, least-

JACK O'’DOON.

ways, we Sailor folks, knows well enough, the
sea don't give back no dead.”

She poked the fire with her stick, talking
almost inarticulately with the pipe in her
mouth. Then, withdrawing it, she chuckled
to herself, like a hideous witch grinning at
the thought of youth and hope.

«‘ Miss Blessington is devoted to you all,”
said he.

«Who, Mercy?” she exclaimed  scorn-
fully.

« Yes,” responded Algie, provoked.

“Yes,” she repeated, ‘an’ well she may
be. How many on us is lost our young men
folks, a-toilin’ in her daddy’s boats to make
money fur him !”

«« They were making a living for themselves
as well,” said Algie, angry at her ingratitude.
“Do you think Mercy owes you anything
because her father gives your men employ-
ment, and doubtless good wages as well?
They choose their calling, and must take their
chances.”

“‘ Oh, the Capting is fa’r enuff, fur ali I knows
to the contrary. | ain’t never hearn o’ his
Owin’ no man nary a dollar. But he’s that
big a fool, and there ain’t no fool like a ole
One, his head is jes’ completely turned with
that gal. Not but what’n she’s a fine enuff
gal, I'll’low! There ain’t bin a Sunday this
Whole winter, an’ many’s the day besides, but
She’s brung me a bowl o’ soup, er a beef-
Steak, er a sassage, er somethin’ like; but

 
 

ho JACK O’DOON.

that nasty fellow, Bill Junk, I hates the groun’
he walks on. Don’t never put no salt in
nothin’! I likes things tasty ef I were
poor !”

«Jt seems to me,” said Abercrombie,
«that you ought to be thankful to her, in-
stead of grumbling so much ; for there are not
many girls, none that I know of, who would
be willing to take so much trouble for an old
woman like you; especially when she doesn’t
get any credit for her pains.”

«Oh, that’s jest the way with ye rich uns.
Ye gits a sight o’ money out’n us poor folks,
and then ye gits the big head, an’ is so stuck
up, ye ain’t got the time to spar’ to be a-
thinkin’ about the likes 0’ us. Git out’n here,
I can’t abide ye!” she cried suddenly, waving
her cane at Algie, who backed out of the
cabin in sheer horror, and only recovered
himself when he was at some distance upon
the beach.

Had he reflected, he would have seen that
the old woman’s jealousy of the O’Doons was
the cause of her spitefulness.

If Mercy could forgive her, after listening
patiently to such tirades whenever she came
within hearing, it was quite absurd that Aber-
crombie should be indignant, when he had
left the house on purpose to ventilate the hate-
ful thoughts he had been thinking of her, and
which had emanated from the same cause,
namely, jealousy of the O’Doons.

But though he was quite willing, upon oc-

JACK O’DOON.

Casion, to abuse those whom he loved, he re-
Sented it fiercely if others did so, even in a
milder degree.

When still far from Mother Margery’s cabin,
he saw two figures wandering on the beach,
which finally disposed themselves upon a pile
of wreckage. He correctly surmised that
they were Mother Margery and Mercy.

Satisfied to be within sight of her, he sat
down upon a spar and watched the incoming
tide, with that practised habit of study which
an artist acquires through his imagination,
ever carrying about with him the spiritual
body of a color-box.

Abercrombie began saying to the artist-soul
within him, «Cobalt, rose, madder, white,
and a touch of Naples yellow,” mixing them
upon an imaginary palette, with an imagin-
ary knife, and trying them against the extreme
distance. «Antwerp blue, raw umber, yel-
low ochre for the deep hollows of the waves ;
Indian red, and white, perhaps a very little
cadmium for the shrimp-pink lights where the
waves leap up and catch the sun.” Then he
painted away briskly, all on a visionary can-
Vas, until at last some trifle aroused him, and
he found himself robbed of his canvas, sitting
with empty hands, alone upon a shining beach,
watching the foam drawing a little nearer every
time the waves came in.

After a while, having waited in vain for

Mercy to notice him, he returned to Blessing-
ton House. ‘
II

 
 

 

 

JACK O’DOON,

The Captain was still asleep in his chair;

and Aunt Polly, having rigid ideas of Sabbath-
keeping, was not visible.

At length, overpowered by the loneliness,
he went into the studio.. It was a long room
and allowed a good length to walk; but his
thoughts hovered about the little hut under
the sand-hill.

Again and again he stopped at the window
and peered out into the twilight to see if
Mercy were coming.

But at last, as there was not the faintest
vision of anything moving, quite out of heart,
he took his cap and went below. The door
which led into the room used by the three
sailors as a galley was ajar. He paused upon
the threshold and looked in.

«Has Miss Blessington come?” he asked.

«Lord, no, sir,” said Bill Junk affably. «She
ain't goin’ to leave ole Margery, not her, sir.”

«Can she be going to stay in that awful
place all night!” he exclaimed, half aloud.

‘«©There ain’t no tellin’, sir, she do pretty
much what she’s a mind to.”

Algie went out and started along the path,
which was obscure in the moonlight ; but he
felt’ as if possessed. Suddenly turning the
angle of a sand-dune, he espied a dark figure
hurrying toward him. He was startled, but
Mercy’s voice reassured him.

«Don’t be afraid of me,” she said ; « why
have you come out ?”

Abercrombie grasped her hand, as if he had

JACK O'DOON.

not seen herin years; he was so glad to touch
her once more, after all the hard things he had
been thinking about her.

«I don’t know why I have come to look for
you,” he replied, «since I could not imagine
that either my wishes or opinions would
weigh with you one atom; but it did seem
So unearthly for you to stay there all night,
that I might have been guilty of the folly of
going to beg you to come back with me.”

“I could not come before,” she said, al-
though she did not tell him how much she
had wished to. «I have been trying to get
Mother Margery to come home with me, but
she won't come, although half the village is
there to wake the dead. She feels that this is
the very last one of all, and I suppose it is
Natural. If I were she, I should wish to be
faithful, even to the grave. However, that is
but a dog-like, senseless kind of fidelity, which
can do no good to any one.”

“I’m thankful you’ve come home,” said
he almost tenderly, and his voice sounded
More gentle in the darkness. «Aren't you
afraid to walk alone across these marshes ?
Suppose you lost your way. There surely
Must be quicksand hereabout, for the tide
Tises and falls in the lagoons. You are

reckless, I think, and I certainly should not
allow it.”

‘‘Perhaps not,” said Mercy, so quietly that
Abercrombie fancied she was satirical.
The girl felt that it would be a great relief

 
 

 

 

JACK O’DOON.

to her if some one would take the burden of

her conscience, and say distinctly what she

might and what she might not do. But in-
stead of expressing that desire, she turned to-
ward him and said half mockingly, ‘Who
made thee thy brother’s keeper ?”

The bantering tone belied her heart. How
could he know that she had been reviling her
own want of humanity in wishing herself at
home with him ; and now thrust him bravely
from her, in order to protect herself from the
glamour of his fascination ?

« Every man has a right to look out for any
woman when occasion demands it; else do
you think I should be groping among these
sand-hills, with the hope of relieving you from
a kind of self-inflicted martyrdom ? I wonder
your father permits you to act so!”

Mercy was silent for a few moments, then
she replied with the same half-laughing voice,
«Perhaps it’s a lucky thing for me that you
are not vested with my father’s authority. I’m
afraid I should become quite timid!” never-
theless she thrilled with pleasure that he had
shown the desire for that authority.

Though women are often thus perverse,
their perversity is used to protect themselves,
just as men joke to divert attention from tears
they are ashamed to show. Women hate to
have their hearts escape from their own keep-
ing, and, to blind the inquisitive eye, will
sometimes belie their tenderest feelings.

Abercrombie was sensitive, and felt re-

JACK O’DOON. ; 165

buffed. The path being narrow, he walked
ahead ; but it widened as they approached the
house, and he offered her his arm.

Mercy felt snubbed and very quiet ; he felt
snubbed and quiet too. How ‘could he know
that, although her conscience was forever
saddling her with some new burden, nothing
short of death could ever lay aside an old
one? The more he thought of her, the more
a martyr the girl seemed, and the more he
fancied that he would like to be master of the
Situation.

The road was abominably short, although
he walked as slowly as he could.

The next day Mercy persistently devoted
herself to Mother Margery. The Captain
was as cross as two sticks, and Aunt Polly
Worse than nobody, so Algie was forced to
drudge at putting a sky into a picture ; work-
Ing from the window, whence a fine cumulus
Cloud could be seen floating grandly.

In the evening he went again to meet
Mercy.

“How much longer is this thing going to
last ?” he inquired impatiently.
“They will bury him to-morrow and that

will be the last of it,” said Mercy reproach-
fully.

‘Well, I'm glad of it,” he exclaimed, with
More candor than feeling. Mercy did not
reply. Perhaps she thought the same.

She had reason to be weary of the strain,
having played a tedious part all day, and

 
JACK O’DOON.

done justice to the feeling she imitated, so
that none save her own heart had known its
weariness. .

The next day was Tuesday. After break-
fast the Captain spluttered around with more
steam on than usual. The day was overcast,
but he appeared in his best black broadcloth
coat. A new broad-brimmed silk hat was in
his hand, and, when not otherwise engaged,
he took his handkerchief and twirled it
flightily around the crown, and held the hat
to catch the light.

He was altogether brand new from top to
toe. Even his shoes had an extra shine, and
he had taken care to provide himself against
contingencies, with two handkerchiefs, one in
each coat-tail pocket.

Aunt Polly presently appeared in a rustling
black silk gown. She wore an old-fashioned
black bonnet, very flat on top and very full
over the ears, to which was attached a love
veil.

Mercy went about her affairs much at
usual, and at length came downstairs carry:
ing a large prayer-book in her arms.

When they left the house, Splugen and Bill
Junk accompanied them. Antonio, being a
Roman Catholic, remained at home, and sat-
isfied himself with making occasional remarks
in a conciliatory tone to the image in the cor-
ner, at whose feet he was busily engaged in
rubbing the household silver. Now and then.
he glanced in the direction of the graveyard.

JACK O'DOON. 167

The Captain and Aunt Polly walked ahead,
he stepping out with imposing swagger,
while she minced along, her silk dress crink-
ling in the light.

Algie and Mercy followed, and afterward
came Splugen and Bill Junk. They could
hear the parrot screaming angrily at being
left behind. Sailor, suspecting that some-
thing was about to happen, had hid outside
the gate, and came cringing after them.

When they reached the O’Doons’ cottage,
they found a goodly number already assem-
bled—very plain folk, with rough skins and
Sunburnt locks. Some of the women had
babies in their arms, others led young chil-
dren by the hand.

All gave place to the Captain’s family.
Mercy, leaving Abercrombie, joined Mother
Margery. ;

O'Doon's body had been sewed up in a
hammock, and lay stretched on a rude bier.

The scene was strange to Abercrombie.
It was grief without ceremony, but the tears
were real.

Six men took up the bier, and started along
the beach with it, and the rest of the folk fell
zoR a double line, and followed. Some one
with a nasal voice raised a droning hymn to
the moan of the now ebbing tide, and all
Joined in the singing, keeping step to the dis-
mal cadence.

_ The Captain walked beside the bier, carry-
ing in his hand the prayer-book which Mercy

 
JACK O’DOON.

had provided. He had some difficulty in get-
ting his great silver-rimmed spectacles out of
their long tin case, but having succeeded, he
closed it with a snap and returned it to his
pocket. Mercy having placed a conspicuous
marker atthe first page of the burial service, he
was able to find the place. Holding the book
well up before his eyes, and leaning his head
‘very far back, he read a few paragraphs in his
deepest voice, while the people left off singing
to listen.

Then they sang another hymn, I had al-
most said another incantation—it was so dron-
ing and oracular—dying away at times to one
voice. It sounded barbaric to Abercrombie.

He looked at Mercy, but she was preoccu-
pied with Mother Margery, who walked along,
staring at the passing sand.

When they had left the sea and skirted the
little hamlet, they took an indefinite path
across the hills, and came at last to a forlorn
graveyard, enclosed by a writhing windbreak
of pitch-pine and cedar. There were graves
in it marked with gravestones driven by
hard gusts into every attitude and covered
with black lichens like hieroglyphics of woe.

One grave only bore wreaths of immortelles.
The graveyard was on a high white bluff, so
that the grave was deep and dry, and a box
was already lowered into it.

They all stood around, while the Captain
proceeded with the solemn service.

When they had finished the last sad duty

JACK O'DOON. 169

of filling the grave, the people waited for the
Captain to move away, but the Captain had
something to say.

«My friends,” he began, after a moment's
silence, during which he had blown his nose
reflectively and put on his hat, «we have all
come here this day to perform the last solemn
duty o’ layin’ away our ole frien’ O’Doon.
He were a good frien’ to all on us, to you,
€z well ez to me, en while he was livin’ we
loved to call him Ned, ‘ole Ned,’ some did,
not ez he were so very ole neither, seein’ ez he
Were jes’ ten year older’n me, andI am—
Tam—let me see! How old am I, Mercy?”

“‘ Fifty-seven in June.”

“Yes,” continued the Captain with em-
Phasis, «seein’ ez I be fifty-seven in June.
But when ye see his name, we'll put Ed-
ward on the tombstone, bein’ ez it’s more
Polite like; en when the likes 0’ ye what's
§towin’ up to catchin’ no fish at all—but livin’
In idleness,” glancing at the small boys,
“when the likes. 0’ ye sees the name o’ Ed-
ward O’Doon on his gravestone, ye’ll remem-
ber he were a man that ain’t had no superior
for darin’ ter do whatever he were bid. I've
seed him when he were a strong young man,
and I were a cabin-boy, knocked ez flat. ez
a flounder, when a sail’s a-busted, an’ the
Tagged ole canvas had flung out a arm like,
and struck him dead fur a time! He war a
brave man to the backbone. An’ I’ve seed
him climb aloft when the win’ war strainin’

 
170 JACK O’DOON.

the ship-timbers that hard, it ’peared like the
jib-boom war a-tryin’ to swop places with the
spanker. Thar wa'nt nothin’ he know’d he
war afeared on.”

The Captain paused, and glanced contempt-
uously at the rabble of boys collected in a
group and staring curiously at him, apparently
much impressed.

« An’, I guess thar ain’t many 0’ ye'll be like
him! An’ his sons, what war every one on
’em chips 0’ the ole block, is climbed ter the
very top-gallant mast, and the Lord knows,
ez I believe, they're keepin’ on a-climbin’
still!”

The Captain’s voice broke and, he stopped
and turned away, blowing his nose, and so

burying his face in his handkerchief that he
did not see the short, broad, muscularly built,
open-browed young man, who stood at his
elbow ; but Mercy did, and uttered a cry, en-
deavoring to reach him, but fell at his feet

insensible.

JACK O'DOON.

CHAPTER XIII.

SUDDEN look of joy in the
stranger’s face had responded to
Mercy’s recognition, while the
crowd, aroused by the cry as she
had fallen, turned to look at the man.
Mother Margery pressed her hands upon
her temples as if she were going mad ; the
boys stared curiously at him, and Algie, with
Premonitory aversion, felt his heart sink, for
the stranger was none other than Jack O’Doon,
who, as if to belie the Captain’s words, had
appeared thus mysteriously amongst them.
“OQ God! Can it be true?” passed like a
questioning prayer from Mother Margery’s
lips, for she doubted the evidence of her
Wearied senses, and drew back incredulous.
Bat Jack, who had a full and terrible realiza-
Uon of the scene, leaned across Mercy's pros-
trate figure and touched his mother’s hand,
Saying :
“Yes, thank God mother, it is true.”
And then he stooped down and lifted the
girl, who lay looking as if she were dead.
_ “Mercy, Mercy!” cried the Captain, shak-
ing her roughly in his distress. But there
Was no appearance of life.

 
 

172 JACK, .O?DOON. SACK O'DOON.

The crowd pressed forward breathlessly, As usual, Granny Gooch’s door stood o
ruthlessly trampling over the new-made and Jack strode in, terrifying the old pen,
grave. almost out of her wits. nine

Abercrombie, pale with fear and jealousy, She thought he was a ghost and be
volunteered a conjecture: «She must have shrieking so wildly that she could am
fainted. Lay her down.” be quieted. POL eae

“No!” said Jack, glancing with weather-
wise eyes at the cloud-rack beating in, ragged
and black from the sea. ‘No!”he repeated,
with the decision of a man accustomed to

Her dirty bed was covered with a ragged
Fake but not seeing anything better Jack laid
Mercy upon it, though he could not relinquish

: sto her head to Granny: Gooch’s pillow, which
command, and taking Mercy up in his arms was soiled with snuff and smelled of turp
2 en-

as if she had been a child, he stolidly walked tine and grease; so he knelt beside her, hold
away with her toward the cluster of huts. ing her head on his arm. pages

The moment he had gained a few steps in
advance of the others, he looked yearningly
into the pale face against his shoulder, and
heaved an anxious sigh, muttering: “ My ‘
darling, my darling !” Mother Margery unb ?

He felt that he had been of late under an drew off ee Oa? ee aoe a
evil star, which, in default of bringing death Cold! Miss Polly, you an’ the a Bein
to himself, had seen him saved out of deadly better pull off’n her shoes an’ rub ee :
peril to find his father dead, no doubt of grief _*No, I can’t do nothin’ !” dn ine) pate
for him, and Mercy overwhelmed at his re- Captain, weeping like a child : aoe ee
turn. “Here, let me,” sai : : :

He recollected that he had often seen her that te eee aca are:
press her hand upon her heart as if there the hut had become as oy abe case)
were pain there, and heard her say that it and helpless people. ot wih ee
felt as if it were stopping.

With this sudden terror in his breast he

: «Come and see what's the matter,” said he
= soon as his mother and Mercy’s people had
nished their slower steps to the cabin.

Aunt Polly was in a rustling fidget, while

ercy’s feet were like stone, so cold and

White and Al aa in ‘extra-
ee , gie and Aunt Polly i .

look d at her ge ir ‘ | ing her cl = and Ordinary collaborz ti I chaf | é 2 ‘

e again, clasp ose! auion, cCnalec them vhi (2)

leaning his ear over until his cheek almost Mother Margery

é y loosened h S
touched her lips. She was very cold, and he rubbed her hands. Sabah
could not perceive her breathing.

At length, with a shudder, she threw out her

 
 

 

ACK O’DOON.
J. JACK O’DOON.

174
arms and turned her head from side to side, again. Her breathing now was less labored ;

moaning faintly and settled her face against and. her
Jack’s shoulder without opening her eyes. warmer. eho ae persis

The moan was answered by a sigh of relief could have remained quietl veh noon if she
from those watching about the bed. Granny Gooch’s bed hao ai He eeping, but

Jack’s breast thrilled as he drew her im- Es sie isd canna, pi ite. place.
perceptibly closer, and an indescribable look soning © sald’ Jacks and k me bin storm
of devotion overspread his ingenuous face. the door, ‘Mother aie Bema gone to

of Mercy 1” he whisper ed. ‘*« It’s a’most here.”
There was no answer and the watchers «We ve m h
: tcher ly must get her ho e
, fe home at: once,”

waited in silence until she should move again. said he, « and I shall carry her, She eee
The Captain was S on the beach, blag ee lie on this bed, and she can’t walk ” mustn’t
frantically around an around in circles, at «No ae ; :
intervals rushing up and down the sands and ain’t oe she Hee ed bee Cony ee
into the cabin as if he were « possessed,” ges- “She sha’n't stay hard ee Miss P
ticulating to himself and sobbing like a child. hanged !” said Jack : Miss Polly be
At last he could bear his anxiety no longer, ‘« My son, ain’t cei ot achat
and, shoving people right and left, he came to Nor that ?” asked Nabe Maicacs ec ne
the bedside, and, taking Mercy’s hand, shook ‘* All the same, I mean to ja h D
it, saying: ‘Mercy, can’t you wake up no put on her shoes and stockings a fe)
more?” She shivered, and opening her eyes up her clothes. I must take her es oh
looked at him in alarm. There ain’t no time to waste. Git pe
«What is it?” she cried, starting up, star- down here in the rain, there won’? be iia
ing from one to the other of those whose eyes tin’ hér home. If you women folks vy oe dees
were fixed upon her. « Oh, I can’t think—no on her shoes, why let me do it mys i pe
—no—I thought it was Jack!” and she fell ole skipper’s that skeered he oe x n
back upon his arm again, closing her eyes. Sense, an’ I don’t know nothin’ ’bout a ee

«It is Jack, dear Mercy,” he said, «I have clothes.”
So Mother Margery, under the influence of

come back.”
« Dear Jack,” said she, opening her eyes Jack's assertiveness, put the things on, and
Algie buttoned the shoes. :

and looking at him with aloving smile which
gave to her face ineffable beauty. But the The Captain stood by with the acquies
effort was too much, and she closed her eyes of a man dazed by a-blow ae

 
176 JACK O’DOON.

«“ Now, Captain,” said Jack, when all was
ready, “ there ain't no use a-wastin’ precious
time here talkin’. Mercy wants to sleep ;
she’s plumb wore out, and I’m goin’ ter take
her straight home to her own bed, if you
ain't got no objections. This ain’t the first
time you've seed me tote her, and I’ll jest
walk off so.” Suiting the action to the word,
without so much as a glance at Aunt Polly,
Jack, who had thews and sinews of iron,
leaned over the bed, picked Mercy up, and
carried her out of the house, whilst she,
opening her eyes, and conscious of her help-
lessness, put her arms around his neck to
steady herself.

“ You'll give out afore you git thar !”

“If I do, then you come help,” said Jack, in
answer to the voice from the crowd, but whether
in derision or earnest it was hard to tell.

« That’s jest the way these peert young ‘uns
‘ll git a-settin’ down some fine day,” said
Granny Gooch, with bitterness.

‘Shut up, you thankless ole hag!” crieda
sailor in reply.

Algie, disgusted at such rudeness, and
sick with emotion, looked about him at the
rough faces which were grave with anxiety,
and gave him little comfort.

He could not bear to follow Jack with
Mercy in his arms. He was so alone amid
all this rude life, glowing with love for her,
that he felt as if he were in a distant land,
where men were speaking among themselves

JACK O’DOON. 177

an unknown tongue. He moved away, assur-

ing himself that the girl’s illness was hysteria

Consequent upon excessive nervous strain, and

refusing to believe it heart-disease.

Then, too, Jack had taken her in his arms
with such assurance, as if she were his very
Own, and had shown such affection in every
word and glance.

If Abercrombie had been just, he would
have realized that a man of such masculinity
as Jack’s would have acted just so toward
any woman who required such help.

Algie must have felt the raw wind cutting
him in the face, and heard the thwarted surf
Taging to reach the cliffs, and seen the clouds
Sinking lower and lower, and growing blacker
even while he walked.

Jack had known their menace, but knew his
Strength as well; for many a time he had
clung to the sheets when the wind was strug-
gling like a giant in the sail and his arm had
Seemed as dead. That practiced strength
would not fail Mercy in her need.

He might have carried her to his mother’s,
but it was only a matter of endurance to take
her a little farther to the luxury of her own
bed.

_ There Was not even a cart-road from the
village direct to Blessington House. In sum-
mer, or when the day was fair, the men
fetched Provisions in the boats, which were

now rocking distractedly, their keels aground

in the shallow water.
2

 
 

 

178 JACK O’DOON.

So now that Jack’s strength was essential,
he felt an exultation in it joined to a tender
sense of possession, as he strode rapidly along,
carrying her upon his breast.

When they had gone a third of the way,
Mercy whispered to Jack to put her down,
and she leaned against him.

“It was my heart,” said she. ‘When I
saw you, it gave a great jump and stopped,
and my throat got rigid, so that I couldn't
move my tongue, and it choked me ; and then
everything got smoky, and | didn’t know
anything more.”

Aunt Polly and the Captain overtook them,
and presently Mother Margery came up, with
Bill Junk and Splugen. The Captain was
speechless with delight ; but Mercy, seeing the
wet furrows in his cheeks, realized the anguish
he had suffered.

«I’m all right now,” she said lovingly,
‘cand can walk if I lean against you.”

«Let me carry you where the path is nar-
row,” said Jack.

Mercy took her father’s arm, and Jack, fall-
ing back to join his mother, held her hand
quite boyishly as they walked along.

When Abercrombie emerged from the sand-
hills, Jack enquired who he was.

‘«‘He’s a painter man what’s come down from
Richmond, and is a-stayin’ at the Captain’s to
paint Mercy’s picture,” replied his mother.

Jack frowned a little, and surveyed Algie
with a momentary feeling of suspicion.

JACK O’DOON. 179

But Algie came eagerly forward to congrat-
ulate Mercy, and offered her his additional
support.

“Thank you, very much,” said she, ‘I’m
doing very well, but, as you know already, I
have much more confidence in Jack than in
myself; and this is Jack!” she exclaimed,
turning to present the two men.

“‘T certainly am glad to see him,” said Algie,
adding, as he shook hands with Jack, “you
never can know how welcome you are back,
unless you could know how great was the
despair of seeing you again.”

Jack looked at Mercy, but, suddenly feeling
his heart too full, left them abruptly by the
path by which Abercrombie had come.

“Come, mother,” he called, «I reckon
Mercy don’t need us any more now, and
home's the place for you.

“Good-bye,” he added, nodding once or
twice to those he was leaving.

Pulling his soft hat over his eyes, he walked
away among the sand-hills, leaving his mother
to follow more slowly.

Mercy stood watching them for a second,
and then, as if apostrophizing them both, ex-
claimed. « How good they are, dear souls !”

“Come on, Mercy! don’t stand about so
long,” said Aunt Polly, who, after making
every allowance for sentiment, could not feel
otherwise than exasperated at Jack’s reap-
pearance.

Mercy walked along slowly with her father ;

 
 

180 JACK O’DOON.

and Abercrombie, silently cursing his luck,.
was forced to escort Aunt Polly, who bored
him intolerably, even to the creaking of her
shoes and the crinkling of her stiff silk gown.

When they had reached the house, Mercy
wanted to go at once to her room, but the
Captain was still in such anxiety that he in-
sisted that Aunt Polly should have a lounge
brought into a corner of the dining-room, and
that Mercy should be put to bed there, so
that he might watch over her without interfering
with his daily routine, for there was nothing
quite so odious to him as having his regular
ways interfered with. He had felt all topsy-
turvy for the last three days, and wanted to
get head up again without delay.

«JT declare, father,” Mercy remonstrated,
“you must think my wings are ready to fly!
I’m all right, only I’m tired and want rest.”

The Captain looked at her with misgiving,
while Aunt Polly, with grim impatience, held
the door open.

At length the old man followed the girl up
the stairs, holding her arm to support her;
while Abercrombie, listening below, heard the
murmuring of voices, and Mercy’s plaintive
protest : « If you will only let me alone—only
let me rest.”

“For the Lord’s sake, Polly, don’t be-a
contraryin’ the chile with no more o’ your
damned talk!” the Captain had finally ex-
claimed.

Algie’s heart sank within him at the pros-

JACK O'DOON. 18r

pect of another day without Mercy. It never
occurred to him to ask himself how he had
endured twenty-six years. He went into the
studio and looked at his picture. The sky he
had thought so fine yesterday looked ghastly
to-day, and’ he was disposed to fling a brush
at it. Howcould a man paint when in such
a vile temper! He was about going to his
room when he was amazed to find the Captain
planted like a sentinel beside Mercy’s door,
apparently settled there for the remainder of
the afternoon.

« It do pester me so,” he began, ‘“ to see
folks what won't let nobody alone !”

«Don’t be troubled,” said Algie, sympa-
thetically, «I think she’s all right. She goes
on her nerves until she’s nearly dead, but all
she needs to set her up again is rest.”

« T'll see to that!” exclaimed the Captain,
shaking his head.

Abercrombie, locked in against intrusion,
sat down in the chair before the fire and de-
termined to be miserable. But he wished to
enjoy that frame of mind in the most thorough-
ly comfortable way ; so he took off his shoes
and put on his slippers, stirred the fire a little,
thrust out his legs until his feet rested on the
fender, and then became luxuriously wretched.
He understood this form of reverie thorough-
ly, although occasionally his thoughts diverged
from it, just as irrelevant ideas are said to
strike men who are going to be hung. He
leaned the finger-tips of one hand against

 
JACK O’DOON.

the finger-tips of the other, and gazed admir-
ingly at them. —

Then he abused his luck and the coast
of North Carolina, and wished that that for-
lorn State had never been discovered, and
altogether abandoned himself to feeling as
hateful as possible. After a while, a purpose
formed amid the chaos of his mind. He must
find out the real claims of this Jack O’Doon,
since he had so inconveniently come to life
again ; or else, he reluctantly added, he must
come to some clear understanding of what he
himself was about, and not allow this com-
plication to drive him mad. His heart and
mind were like two Babes in the Wood—at
one moment ready to lie down and die, at
another, feeding on crumbs of comfort not
bigger than berries.

He thought of Mercy as she lay, silent and
white, upon Granny Gooch’s bed, and such a
pang of remorse smote him that for a moment
he closed his eyes, and, as he folded his arms
over his breast, his face quivered with the
longing he felt for her.

It was the first time his heart had been
riven with such yearning for any woman.
He knew her now in the extremity of her
weakness : before, she had seemed so resolute
to help herself, so strong to help others, that
he could not realize the spiritual effort which
had forced the body beyond its powers. But
now, when the body had failed, and the spirit
was cowed by a menace from indignant nature,

JACK O’DOON.

his mind put the query, ‘What if Mercy
really had trouble of the heart, and some fair
day, when the flowers were blooming, and the
sea-waves shimmering, she should fall again,
and there should be no more Mercy?” He
could not think of death coming to her, who
made gladness for so many, without roses and
forget-me-nots.

An awful dread stole over him, and he paced
his chamber to and fro. He had shut himself
in to coquet with jealousy, and a_ possibility
had struck him as even jealousy could not.

 
JACK O’DOON.

CHAPTER XIV.

exoRe HEN Jack and his mother had left
, a Mercy they passed through the sand-
hills in silence.

Mother Margery’s eyes were wept
out and vacant ; and Jack, although so lately
rescued from acruel death, hung his head with
a blackened brow. Occasionally his eyes
wandered across the sludges where the water
seeped and oozed among the coarse grasses
as the tide rose.

Both mother and son felt that there was
little to cheer them.

Jack was more wretched than his mother,
because he was more conscious of his misery.

Occasionally a few tears of compassionate
regret came to Mother Margery’s eyes, when
she remembered that «Old Ned” had not
been spared to see Jack again. She shrank
visibly from re-entering the cabin whence her
faithful spouse had been carried away forever,
but Jack, when he had opened the door, led
her in. After placing a chair for her in the
chimney-corner, he brought a great armful of
wood and piled it upon the coals.

The day after a funeral is a grim time and

JACK O’DOON.

seems interminable. We get so inured to
ghastly thoughts that every pleasant thing in
life seems a mockery.

When a man suffers acutely, he endures
until he reaches a point whence nature re-
bounds and declares that any more of that
sort of thing is intolerable. Jack just then
stood in that regard to death. The loss of
his father had been a dreadful blow to him,
but he had lately faced such horrors that
death at home in a bed was not horrible.

His mother had forgotten him, so he took
his sharp knife from his belt and amused him-
self with splitting up a pine stick to make the
fire blaze, for the room was very dark. The
narrow window, like a band of light across
the eastern wall, revealed nothing save the
scurrying clouds without. The tide had
turned, and the roar of the waves increased.
The wind howled dismally, and the sand scat-
tered down the chimney.

When he looked about the room, he knew
he had not been expected. There were no
new books, such as Mercy habitually left ;
her forethought and care having made it easy,
through well-considered marginal notes, for
him to get the best out of them. She had
devised that means to help Jack educate

himself, and make him intimate with her
thoughts.

Jack was unreasonable in feeling neglected,
for her very anxiety about him had rendered
it impossible for her to settle herself to any

 
acer ag sn ta Neat

ee a Fae ae

JACK O'DOON.

work requiring mental effort; but the recol-

lection of the stranger made him uneasy.

Having been saved from the sea, he had
come home, eagerly anticipating a joyous
welcome. Instead, he had stood unnoticed
beside a fast-filling grave, wonderstruck at
the Captain’s words. He had been like an
apparition among those whom he loved, and
even Mercy had been stricken at sight of him.
And, to crown all, this stranger had cqme,
as Jack mistrusted, to loosen the tie between
her and himself. All other sorrows were
dwarfed by this enormity. It was as the
parting of soul from sense.

What would the devotion of his life count
for against the fascinations of this man of
the world? He answered himself bitterly :
« Nothing.”

The Captain had been poor and earned his
own bread, but had lived to marry a lady.
Why should not he ?

Hitherto, Jack had accepted the difference
between Mercy and himself as the difference
between soul and body ; now, the soul seemed
breaking from its bonds of clay, and the body
was no more necessary to it, but must fall
again to the dust from which it came. Alas!
though his love were as boundless as the ocean
and as fresh as the sweeping breeze, it could
only serve to bear the butterfly floating away
to the sky.

He had never been jealous before. Now
he was almost mad,

Pevsyrpssesetreshsiss:

JACK O’DOON. 187

« Mother,” said he, «I will go and see how
the storm holds ;” and he thrust his bright
knife into its sheath.

Mother Margery arose, and with difficulty
they shut the door after him) and she put up
the bar within. Jack, at last alone with an
immeasurable despair, strode out toward the
breakers. The surf was almost upon the
sand-cliff, and with a feeling of sympathy
he watched the abortive efforts of the mighty
waves as they struggled to lick up the
bubbles which the shrieking wind had
whirled into the seams along the shore.

He looked at the hut, and thought of Mercy
in the luxury of her father’s house, and laughed
contemptuously at himself, and half-pitied his
own heart-ache and presumption. He knew,
better than any one else, how impossible it
was that his longing could ever be fulfilled ;
but all the same it was there in his breast ;
and he leaned against the crumbling cliff as
if its sands might help him to hold up his
heavy heart. He did not heed the wind
which was blowing bleak and cold upon his
Open throat, where the loose collar of his
Sailor-shirt was turned back from his hairy
breast. He was longing to get out upon the
Sea again. He felt as if he had proven him-
self invulnerable to death ; but the touch of
Mercy in his arms had made him faint in
his innermost senses, down to his trembling
knees.

He felt himself a man, every inch, when he

 
 

JACK O’DOON.

was straining a mainsheet over a belaying-
pin, but here he was no better than a fool ;
and from that sickening sense of feebleness
he longed to escape—to get away—any-
where—even to put half the earth between
himself and this fine gentleman; for Jack was
too honest to belittle Abercrombie.

In this state of lonely misery and desire for
sympathy, he stood for a long time, mutely
looking out upon the sea.

« Perhaps it’s for the best,” he muttered, as
he turned away, ‘for, after all, I’d give any-
thing I possessed to make her happy, and if
that’s so, I’d better let her alone to be happy
after her own heart.”

Recalling his mother, he returned to the
cabin and rattled the latch. In a moment
Mother Margery opened the door for him,
and they barred it again behind him. She,
too, had come to herself, and when he sat
down, put her hands affectionately upon his
shoulder, saying :

«You ain’t had no fittin’ welcome, Jack,
but it ‘pears like my senses is gone daft this
last week.” Her tone was apologetic.

« Dear mother,” he cried, springing to his
feet and embracing her, ‘don’t think of
me!” He took her in his arms, and fondly
kissed the tear-withered eyelids and the
sunken lines which sorrow had made in her
cheeks.

«“ You ain’t never told me how you got
back,” said she, sitting down again, “ but I’m

JACK 0’DOON. 189

jes’ that helpless, seems like I ain’t got the
courage to listen.”

« We won't talk about it at all,” said Jack,
«for it wa’n’t so bad but it might ha’ been
worse, so just don’t pester yerself.” . When
Jack talked with his mother or the sailor -folk,
he lapsed easily into their parlance ; but when
he spoke with Mercy, his respect for her, and
the influence of her example, made him en-
deavor to respond to her in good English.

Seeing that his mother was listening, he
continued: «I’ve heard the newspaper stories
about never seein’ us again, and they were
likely enough, for after we'd cut away the
ropin’ and yards, and flung off the topmast to
right ship, though it didn’t help her, and sent
the masts after ’em, she kept on gettin’ worse,
seein’ as we had such a slippery cargo aboard.
We'd pretty much given up all hope, till just
as night was comin’ on, we struck a current,
and drifted ; the Lord knows where we were
driftin’ to. The waves were rollin’ like cliffs
and tumblin’ down on the deck, and the cold
was awful! The fo’c’sle got beat in, and the
bulkheads filled with water, and there didn’t
seem a livin’ chance !

«Jim Simmons got licked off’n the poop,
right before our eyes, and none of us ever

saw him again.

“Oh, ye ain’t got a notion o’ what it was
like ; and I ain't able to tell you.

«And then we set to workin’ the pumps,
and we worked till we were worn out ; and it

 
Ct re Se eye

JACK O’DOON.

seemed as if our hands would freeze to the
pump-handles, it was that cold!

« And the fires got put clean out! Just
soaked, The stoves full o’ water! So we
didn’t have any place to warm, and we dasn’t
walk a step to keep from freezin’, for the deck
was covered with ice, and as slippery as glass,
and slopin’ like a house-roof. There wasn’t
a thing standin’ up straight, ’ceptin’ o’ them
things as ought to been crank-sided !

«“ The wind was drivin’ the sleet in our
faces, till they were bleedin’ awful. I ‘most
hate to talk about it.”

Jack looked into the fire and remained
silent.

«Go on,” said Mother Margery, who, by a
singular process of emotion, found the stir-
ring recital of such active dangers a relief
from her memories of the numb apathy in
which her husband had died.

« Well,” resumed Jack ‘toward morning,
the wind sort o’ veered off and the stars
came out, afew atatime. Thesun rose clear,
and the sea was the most beautiful sight I
ever saw! Somehow, whenever I'd thought
about shipwrecks, I pictured the ships gettin’
crushed down into the sea in the dark, and
the waves splittin’ over ‘em like those outside.
May the Lord help any poor dog on the sea
this night!” said Jack, suddenly pausing to
listen, and shuddering as a blast of sand
came rattling down the chimney.

After awhile he continued: « But the sun

JACK O’DOON. 1gt

was that bright it was blindin’, and the water
was foamin’ and shinin’ like quicksilver, and
beatin’ over us, glad and mad both.

«There was hardly a chance to get a
mouthful to eat, albeit there was -plenty
aboard. Biscuits and junk, and the hold
nigh to bustin’ with fish !

« But we dasn’t open the main-hatch, for
one of them big waves would have foundered
us alive; and so we just made a shift o’
eatin’ biscuits, a carryin’ em round in our
pockets.

«« Well, we had better weather, and drifted
south-southeast all the next day, as near as
we could tell, for the compass was stove in,
and we pitched about so we couldn’t calculate
much by the sun, but nigh on to eight bells
the sea went down, and we set to work to
straighten her out a bit, seein’ as we might
keep on floatin’ till we came across some sort
o’ craft. It got warmer, too, as the wind
slacked, and we emptied the stoves and
managed to get a fire a-goin’.

«But we’d lost our tiller, we didn’t have
any canvas, nothin’ in God’s world to rig her
with, and when night came on, and it got
gloomy and lonesome, Joe Hawkins started
to talk about jumpin’ overboard, to keep from
dyin’ some worse way. But we all reasoned
with him, and the skipper ‘lowed to tie him,
and I reckon maybe now he’s glad he held
on.

“We were just like a floatin’ island, slap-

 
 

 

192 JACK O’DOON,

pin’ around with the wind blowin’ us some-
where, though the Lord only knowed where !
But she’s a-tough old hull, and I'll stand by
her, if ever she puts to sea again!”

His mother shook her head.

« But one day, seems like it was Friday,
we hove in sight o’ one o’ them ocean
steamers runnin’ between Savannah and New
York.

«Our old skipper hoisted our signal, and it
appeared at first that they didn’t want to
notice us, but after awhile they run closer,
and when they came up and took us aboard
were for scuttlin’ our old bark, but the
Captain and me, I bein’ mate, recommended
to tow her in, for she had an uncommon
tough hull, that brig o’ our’n,” said Jack,
dropping his voice affectionately, «for if she
hadn’t had, I wouldn’t be here, that’s sure !

«We got into New York yesterday, and
here I be to-day !

“There were lots 0’ passengers, and the
ladies made a great fussover us. One of’em,
a pretty young one, gave me this. Took it
out of a hand-bag, and gave it to me.”

Jack drew from his pocket a silver flask.

«1 reckon she was sorry for me,” he said,
as he handed the pretty trifle to his mother.

««T wouldn’t mind much havin’ a good hot
grog, right now,” he added.

“Ye ain't had no dinner, is ye?” Mother
Margery inquired.

“No, nor breakfast neither, nor supper last

 

JACK O’DOON. 193

night!” Jack replied, with a sigh at remember-
ing his impatience. “I ain’t thought about
eatin’. I was so took up with thinkin’ about
gettin’ home. Don't ye disturb yerself. I
ain’t a sailor if I can’t cook.”

So saying he filled the iron pot with water,
hung it onthecrane, and swung it over the fire.

« There’s victuals like ez not in the cupboard,
my son,” said Mother Margery, pointing to
the corner.

It was too dark to see distinctly, and Jack
picked upa fire-brand to light his movements.

“Will ye eat a ship’s pie, mother, if I
make it ?” he inquired, collecting the ingre-
dients.

“I ain’t got no heart to eat, John,” she re-
plied ; « "pears like this ole cabin ain’t nothin’
but a big coffin, and I must git away!”

Jack glanced around the quaint place.
‘«’Tain’t long since I thought that same thing,
mother ; but it kind o’ hurts me when I hear
you say it. Like as not, we won't either of
us spend as happy days anywhere else as
We've seen and done with, here.”

Before Mother Margery could answer, some
One rattled the latch, and Jack opened the
door to admit a dishevelled child.

“Lord ha’mercy, chile!” cried Mother Mar-
gery, bringing the new-comer to the fire, « an’
what be you here fur ?”

‘‘ Mammy sent me ter ax’ Jack whar were
Grand-daddy Pete. She'lowed to ha’come her
Own self, but the baby’s that bad she couldn't

*3

 
 

 

 

 

“> r r
194 JACK O’DOON.

fetch it, en’ I ain’t big enough to stay at home
‘long o’ it.”

« And so she sent you over the beach, when
the tide’s in, and the quicksands are rottener
than common !” exclaimed Jack.

«JT ain’t afeared o’ nothin’!” replied the
child with assurance, brushing aside the lank
strings of wet hair which fell over her face.

« Your old drunken grand-daddy ain’t worth
such a risk!” answered Jack, disgusted.
« Sit down and wait a bit, and I'll go back
with ye a piece as soon as the kettle boils.
Just tell your ma he’s safer than he ought to
be, for he ain’t any account. Your grand-
daddy was along with us when we were taken
up by a fine big ship, a steamship, chock-full
o’ passengers, and they made no end o’ fuss
over us. The Captain treated us fine! He
asked our old skipper and me, seein’ as I was
mate, to eat at the ‘Captain’s table, and they
gave us no end o’ good eatin’. Your old
grand-daddy was in the bulkhead, and the
very first thing he did was to get drunk. I
wish yer ma would let old Pete slide. It’s a
shame for her to waste money on him, that
ought to be spent on you little ones.

« All the folks aboard made up a purse for
our men, The skipper and me declined, but
the strange Captain said a speech and gave it
equal around to the others ; and the very first
thing old Pete did, when he got to New York,
was to fetch up at a dram-shop, and spread
himself abeam, dead drunk.

JACK O'DOON.
195

« There he’s stranded, and like to stay,.as
long as he’s got. a nickel, and I ain’t certain
when yer ma'll see him; not before he’s
starved out, I reckon.”

The child grinned as if it were a normal
and satisfactory report.

« ’Tain't anything to laugh at, child !” said
Jack, «there ain't any belayin’-pin for ole
Pete like a silver dollar before a dram-shop
door !” 3

« All the folkses down to Hope Shingle axes
ye to come down, en’ yarn ’em awhile,” said
the little girl after a pause, looking at Jack
with unutterable admiration.

The young sailor was open to flattery, even
from a dirty child.

“Tell ’em, when you get home, that I'll try
and go to-morrow. I haven't had anything to
eat to-day; I’ve been in such a mighty on-
rest.’?

The child, at this information, looked hun-
grily at the beef and pork Jack was mincing
on the table, and wonderingly at Jack.

3 You must be pretty nigh starved, child,”
Said he, looking at the little girl thoughtfully,
“Just keep on sittin’ there, and I'll pretty
Soon give yea taste o’ boilin’-hot ship-pie with
Inguns in it! Ireckon ye likes that sort, don’t
ye, honey ?” He said this while scraping to-
gether the minced meat and cutting an onion
into it, after he had set the spider on the fire,
to get hot.

“You didn’t know I could cook, did ye?”

 
 

196 JACK O’DOON.

he asked, endeavoring to beguile the time for
her. ‘Ye ain’t got an idea o’ half what [can
do! Jest you watch me now. Make a good
fat short-cake, just so; put it in the spider ;
an’ when it’s done cookin’, just split it open,
and fill it cram’ full o’ hash, and then put it
back in the spider, and brown it nice with
gravy. Will you tell me I can’t cook ?”

The child watched the operation with an
interest more vital than curiosity, and prompt-
ly accepted an invitation to sit down with him
at a table, upon which he had spread a white
cloth, and soon afterwards placed two heaping
plates of hot pie.

Mother Margery declined to participate, and
so Jack made her a cup of tea, and then mixed
a mugful of hot grog for himself.

«Did you ever hear o’ folk’s eyes bein’
bigger than their stomicks? Well that’s
what they say when little gals like you look
as if they wanted to eat all they sees on the
table, and their stomicks ain’t big enough to
hold half. So here’s luck to ye!” said Jack,
drinking his grog, ‘but if ye eat so fast, ye'll
choke.”

The child devoured her pie in hot haste,
pausing at intervals to bestow a look of won-
dering admiration upon Jack.

« This ain’t a real proper sea-pie,” said he
after a while, with his mouth full—but the
child took no exception to that breach of good
manners ; “ because, in a proper sea-pie, you
must keep on pilin’ up short cakes, and differ-

JACK O’DOON.

ent sorts o’ meat, till ye get three or four
decks of em; but this little single-decker, I
reckon, is big enough for you and me. Look
at this here, ain’t it a pretty ? "producing, as
he spoke, the silver flask from his pocket. “A
fine young lady give me that, on the big steam-
ship. I guess you ain’t never seen anything
like that before.”

The child handled it gingerly with a mute
smile upon her face, but after a moment's re-
flection she asked : «‘ Were she finer than our
Mercy ?”

«No, honey, there ain’t anybody finer than
our Mercy,” replied Jack, looking caressingly
upon the child, who had unwillingly uttered
the thought nearest his own heart.

‘Come, warm up yer toes now, quick as
ever ye can,” said he, sitting down on a chair
before the fire, and taking her on his knee ;
“case if ye ain’t a-gettin’ home pretty quick,
it'll be night, and yer mother'll be that skeered
about you, she’ll cry, that she will!”

_ Mother Margery was surprised to see Jack's
interest in the little girl, although it never had
surprised her when, since he was a little boy
of seven, and Mercy a baby of one year, he
had devoted himself with indefatigable interest
and ingenuity to pleasing her. ‘ Well, come
on now,” said he to the child ; « we'll try it
over the sands. Your little toes ain’t snug as

they might be, so I guess I'll tote you some 0’
the way,”

They opened and closed the door again,

 
 

 

 

 

198 JACK O?DOON.

Jack holding it from without while his mother
barred it within, and then he took up the little
maid in his arms, and strode away with her,
moving in the direction opposite to the village.

The surf was heavy and bold, and reached
far into the land ; indeed, in one place, Jack had
to be alert to escape a breaker ; but he carried
the child safely to within sight of her home,
where the beach was wide and sound.

« Now, get along with you,” said he, good-
humoredly, standing her on her feet, and
watching her safely started ere he turned to
retrace his steps, looking back from time to
time to see if she were getting on all right,

Jack was devoted to children, and they clung
to him.

Before he returned to his mother’s cabin
he took the path to Blessington House, and at
the mess-room door stopped and looked in.
« How's Mercy got?” said he, refusing the
chair which Bill Junk offered him.

« She’s freshin’ up a reef,” replied Bill, lay-
ing down his pipe and urging Jack to sit down
and tell the news.

«« What’s she doin’ ?” inquired Jack, ignor-
ing the other’s curiosity, and anxious, yet
afraid, to hear the reply.

«« She’s a settin’ by the fire in the Capting’s
ole room, what she an’ the young man’s a-fixed
up fur a paintin’ room—stoody, I b’lieve they
calls it.”

Jack’s heart sank, but he ventured one more
query. ‘Is she by herself?”

>
JACK O’DOON. 199

«No, indeed, man; she’s a-talkin’ to the
young gentleman,” said Bill.

«« But ef she know’d you was here she’d be
a-axin’ you to come up, Jack,” said Splugen,
who was Jack’s staunch ally.

« Well, I ain’t got a mind to interrupt ’em,”
said Jack sadly ; ‘ but, Tony, I’d be mor’n ob-
leeged to ye ef ye’d fetch me some sort 0’ book
to read,” he added, apologetically.

« Here, take this here,” said Bill, handing him
the last “Century,” “take italong. We's done
with it!”

«Give my love to Mercy,” said Jack, turn-
ing rather dejectedly towards the door. « Tell
her I just came by to see ef she were mendin’,
an’ good-bye to ye all. I'll step in again to-
Morrow, mor’n like.”

«’ There’s a storm a-brewin’, sure,” said
Bill, when the door was closed.

‘« There ain't no better fellow than Jack de-
Servin’ to skip a brig,” said Splugen, watch-
ing him from the window as he passed out of
the old oak gate.

Poor Jack, he would have done better to
have spared himself that thrust! But whom
had he ever sought with the trust he felt in
Mercy ? When had he come home before,
and not gone, as soon as he had seen his
mother, to spend an hour with her in the
friendliest confidence ?

This afternoon he could not face the other
man, and his heart was heavy as he turned
away; shrinking from the contrast between

 
 

 

JACK O’DOON.

himself and Abercrombie, who was so elegant
and altogether just what Jack knew that he
himself was not.

Jack came and went so noiselessly that
Mercy had not heard him as she reclined in
her father’s chair before the fire, her feet
covered with silk stockings and thrust into
slippers lined with fur.

She had never before seemed so softly femi-
nine to Abercrombie, her pink gown billowed
with lace reflecting a tender glow upon her face.

The Captain was asleep on a lounge beside
the chimney, leaving Algie and Mercy to en-
tertain each other.

Presently she roused herself and began talk-
ing gleefully. Jack’s return had lifted such a
weight from her heart.

A golden contrast to Jack himself, who. had
met nothing but disappointment at every turn,
until, looking back at the Jack who had left
New York the morning before so full of hope,
he could almost have wept for him as for a
stranger.

He stood irresolute when he had closed the
gate behind him, and pressed his hand to his
eyes to blur the tears which he scorned to
shed. But he could not repress the heaving
of his breast nor the shudder that shook his
frame.

Till now he had been content with things
as they were, believing that if he did his best
something would come to his aid before it was
too late.

JACK O’DOON.

He suddenly flung out his arms and clasped
them behind his neck, and looked up to God
inquiringly—then wished he were dead, and a
cruel temptation came to him.

Looking at the sea, he pondered, knowing
there was acertainty of escape. The night
was closing in; the water was boiling and
black; but a holy and generous thought
rescued him in his temptation.

A tender smile overspread his face.

«Perhaps I have been spared to help Mer-
cy,” he said'to himself. «Who knows how
soon the hour may come when she will need
some one who loves her to help her, and I
will be that one, even though she does not
love me now, and cannot love me then.”

Jack’s great sympathy with the sea enabled
him to find relief for his own emotion in its
turbulence, and as he ‘gazed upon it his heart
found the peace of passive endurance.

Jack’s was a chivalrous heart, and his out-
ward roughness did not prove him less noble
than many a knight who, in olden times,
buckled his lady’s sleeve in his helmet and
fought for love and died.

In his expanding eyes there was the power
of a heathen god’s, and when he was angry,
men let him alone; for it was a power of
authority, and his eyes glowed until all else
was lost to sight, even the lion-like strength of
his shoulders.

Thought of one woman only could soften
them, and bring a veil over them as now,

 
 

202 JACK O’DOON.

when he felt that he could not endure the
fainting confidence within.

As he neared his mother’s cabin, Jack ob-
served that no smoke issued from the hole in
the sand-hill. She had let the fire go out, and
his conscience smote him that he had for-
gotten her.

The cabin was utterly black within. Mother
Margery sat moping beside the hearth. He
could scarcely find her. When he had re-
kindled the fire, he went to a place in the wall,
removed the canvas hanging, and opened a
door behind it, disclosing a smaller cabin
with a single bunk and locker. Ona shelf at
the head of the berth stood a good lamp.

‘«« How is it, mother,” said he, returning with
it to the table, “that you never will use my
lamp when I am gone?”

“I am used to the firelight, John,” said she.
«When a body works from early mornin’
through a long day, they are glad to rest when
the sun sets, an’ I can rest better in the dark.
I ain’t no scholar, my son, as ye well knows,”
she added sadly. Mother Margery’s speech,
innocent of grammar, had a pathos in it to
the ears of poor Jack, which made him careful
of assuming anything better to her, lest he
should sound fine. At sea, too, his men best
understood the vernacular to which they were
accustomed, and so Jack kept up the two
forms of speech, as if they were two languages ;
like work-a-day and holiday clothes, to be put
on, or laid by as occasion might require.

JACK O’DOON, 203

When he wrote, his diction was good ; so
that seeing Jack in his mother’s hut, speaking
the dialect of the fisher-folk, acknowledging
his birthright among them, we see him at his
worst; but that worst was none the less
noble because it was a voluntary sacrifice to
the pride of others.

Jack, like all other men, was perforce of
two natures; although the refined inner one
Seldom saw the light.

: He despised the thought of setting up to be
finer than the old sailor his father, Only
Mercy knew both natures well, and it was the
Secret self which was suffocated to-night for
want of her. But all the same, he sat down
beside the light and looked at the pictures in

his book, although at times his eyes were
blank of sight. He had.so much to tell Mercy,

te was so disappointed not to have seen
ler,

_ He missed his father’s occasional groan
from the chimney-corner. His mother had
senerally been silent—now she was hoarse
with Weeping, and the moan from time to
Ome, with which she changed her position,
wrung his heart. It seemed as if he could not
Possibly endure anything more. He closed
the book and looked into the blaze, and list-
ened to the wind shrieking outside, and

Watched the sporadic flames pop up between
the logs.

It was not yet eight o’clock. The gloom

was utterly lifeless. He was terribly weary,

po SS Se aR ERE GIG TE OR STN

Serge

sachs

 
e for nothin’.”

«No, boy, I ain’t got no tast
1 Jack thought

Another gloomy silence, unti

he should go mad.
At last, casting her eyes upon him for a

moment, she saw that he was weary, and

urged him to go to rest.
With some reluctance
fireside for his bed, and fell int

he exchanged the
o a death-like

sleep. Thus ended thet dreadful day.

JACK O’DOON,

CHAPTER XV,

by ‘ Nature’s soft nurse,”
Jack had ‘been happy, and sunshine
ce streamed through a chink in the roof
ee awoke and made ready to take up the
urden of another day.
a wreaths of pink clouds half en-
ae : ascending sun, and the gray sil-
eee : ae was passing across the disk.
Ree = gladdens the soul, and Jack, whose
Eel iss ready for beneficent influences, felt
ee 2) in the brightness of the morning,
Le an ba gathering here and there the
pei aa ashore by the storm. The water-
mee ragments had a different meaning to
ae aa he wondered if any of the
ce e held had fallen from his own hand
A n cast from the « Marianetta.”
- ee himself to relieve his mother
Sie ork ; for even Granny Gooch could
eee that he was a good son.
a ee ihe oe was seductively penitent,
fone ne night, and mother and son
cee. ) breakfast with the cabin door
» and the bright light streaming in,—a

 
 

 

JACK O’DOON.

noble picture against the background of sail-
cloth. Their faces contrasted strangely. Jack’s
was eloquent with strength of purpose, brilliant
in coloring, and vivid with the ardor of youth.
His eyes, of a deep brown, were set beneath
jet-black brows, which met together ; and his
hair and close-cut beard were tinged with
chestnut in the lights, and umber in the
shadows.

Mother Margery was stately and silent, and
her face, colorless and careworn, was sombre
with grief.

The copper kettle hissed audaciously in
their faces, its bloated form red and shining.
Jack made tea for his mother, their breakfast
consisting of fish and brown bread, served on
pewter platters. The world did not seem
such a bad place as it had appeared the night
before.

Most unexpectedly, Mercy appeared at the
door. Jack welcomed her eagerly, and poured

out a cup of tea for her, while Mother Mar-
gery laid a plate upon the table.

«} can only stop for the tea, thank you,”
said she; “I have stolen away from home,
and father must not miss me. But I did so
want to see you, Jack.”

She spoke frankly, and with such earnest
affection that it augured poorly for Jack’s

hopes of love.
« Splugen told me you were at the house

yesterday evening, and I think it was so mean

of you not to come upstairs and see me,” she

JACK O’DOON.

said, while Jack, leaning with his elbows on
the table, watched her sipping her tea.

«JT thought you had better company,” he

replied, bashfully.
Mercy looked at him with troubled inquiry
in her eyes, and then blushed crimson, but re-
covered herself sufficiently to stammer: «A
fair exchange is no robbery.”

Mother Margery looked with curious inter-
est from one to the other.

a I came to hear about the shipwreck, Jack,”
said Mercy, after a long pause. ‘If Mother
Margery has heard it, let’s go and sit upon the
old keel, and you tell me everything ; I’m not
at all hungry.”

Jack complied, and she sat watching the
shimmering sea while he told her the story
he had told his mother.

As he finished, Mercy wiped her eyes, and
then both were silent while they watched the
distant sails as they passed and vanished like
phantoms along the misty line which lies be-
tween the ocean and the sky.

After a while Jack said : « But all the time
Mercy, I was thinking of you, and it seemed
to me that if I could hold on to life long enough
to See your dear face again, I could go better
Satisfied into the other world and wait until I
Should find you there. If I had never known
you, I could not have endured the suffering it
Cost to get home; and perhaps none of us
would have been alive this morning ; for there
Were so few—only nine all told—that if one had

 
 

 

 

failed, the others could not have held out.
Hour by hour, life did not seem worth the liv-
ing ; and now that Iam with you again, dear
Mercy, I feel as if I never wanted to take my
eyes off your faces,

« Jack,” said Mercy, earnestly, “you blind

yourself to all but the best in me.”

«No, that’s not so,” said Jack with assur-
ance, ‘I never talked like this to you before,
because until I felt that all the world was
being taken away, I did not realize the value
I put upon the things in the world. But that
awful night was a ‘Last Judgment ’ to each
of us, and I knew then that whatever you
might feel for me, I loved you more than any-
thing. I know just what big notions your
father and your Aunt Polly have got for you,
but my strength is yours, Mercy ; the strength
of my heart and of my soul, and you have only
to ask for it. You are my bright star, far
away out of reach, but I never mean to look
lower.”

Mercy’s eyes rested on Jack’s face with a
pathetic smile, although tears were very near
her lashes. He was so close and dear; but
she was too like him to love him.

But Jack held his world in his gaze as his
glowing eyes rested on her face. Mercy,
looking up, encountered their intense passion.

«Do not go home that way,” said Jack,
moving after her as she turned from him.
«T’m so afraid of the quicksands ; if a drift is
cast on them one day, the next it is gone. It

JACK 0’DOON. 209

seems to me that the vein is getting wider and
rottener than it used to be.”

«“T have a terror of it too,” said she. “It
would be such a frightful thing to be buried
alive that way.”

“T can’t bear the thought,” said he, «it
makes my flesh creep! Don’t ever go by the
North Beach. It terrifies me to think of any
danger befalling you, or any other sort of
trouble, Mercy. But, if anything should hap-
ey you would come to me, wouldn't you ?

ou know, I know what intensest suffering is
and oh, believe me when I sayI would do ne
thing, even die for you!”

He grasped her arms and held her for a
seas looking at her, and his eyes seemed
ES ated secret of her heart. Mercy

not withstand the fascination of them

as he slowly added:

= lees begun to think I could even give up

ee : save the life of another man, if I be-

cae that you loved him, and that such an
aange could make you happy.”

Sees words might have seemed idle vaunt-

§ in another, but in Jack’s life he had never
aut eys aught which he had not fulfilled.
ae aited to see if she understood him, and

released her, and they walked along the

eee 2 her father’s house. Suddenly he

seh eb again, and, standing in front of her,
the way.

‘“Will you promise me that you will come

t y aa
: pees help if 1 can give it? You always

 
 

 

210 f JACK O’DOON.

have laughed at my superstitions, but lately
a pink curlew was shot and fell at my feet.
That’s a rare bird for this time o’ year, and
my favorite bird, too, and I can’t help asso-
ciating it with you, and thinking you'll need

me.
Mercy laughed at the idea. «It was my
fainting yesterday, depend upon it. You have
already picked up your poor bird out of the
dust and carried her home, so be satisfied,
Jack, that you have done the very best for
Mes:

Jack shook his head. «I’m going to your
father this morning to ask him for a berth,
and if he has none ready I shall try a foreign

Can I do anything for you before |
go?”

Now in time past, had Jack told Mercy that
he was going away indefinitely she would
have clung to his hands, and with tears in her
eyes have implored him to stay, appealing to
him in behalf of his mother. But to-day she
was absent and perplexed. Her conscience
was struggling. She was saying to herself,
was it right to wish to keep him here, when
she knew she could never be his wife, and it
behooved her to send him into the world that
he might meet other women and forget her.

What was the adage she had heard, «A
sailor finds a love in every port”? Mercy
knew little of life, but she fancied it might be
true; and doubtless it was because Jack
knew but this one port that he loved her.

JACK O’DOON. 211

She looked at him—at his sturdy figure, his
hard hands—one was marked with a blue
anchor—at his muscular throat; but then she
let her glance fall. She dared not look into
his burning eyes, and meet that conquer-
Ing gaze, the look which made men obey
him, young or old. But, had she done so,
She would have seen instead such tender-
ness as she had never known existed in the
world.

_ Mercy was cold, but it was the coldness of
Mnocence. Truly, what did she know of love ?

Women need to be educated in love. She
had never before been talked to of it. There
‘Sa contagion in the magnetism of a man’s
Passion which she had never felt.
se did not again speak of himself, and

y walked on in silence till they reached the
Sarden gate. Here he took her hand, as they
Stood behind the screen of the wall, and kissed
it reverently.

Truly, Mercy was gaining experience, and
her education might fairly be said to be begun.
Jack blushed at his own hardihood, and Mercy
being equally embarrassed, they parted with-
out a word.

Jack having thus placed himself in a new
attitude toward her, she felt that she had lost
a friend; she did not know the value of a
lover ; so she did just what every foolish young
woman is apt to do, when there is no one to
Prevent it. She ran up to her own room, shut
the door stealthily, and then threw herself

Sree

St
RS Pree

were

————
ihe neater ama

oe

ce CR

Sy POS

 
 

JACK O’DOON.

down on her bed, and sobbed fit to break her
heart, and why ?

Crying for Jack. The old Jack that had
passed away. The friend she could not ex-
change for the lover. And yet there was an
inner consciousness in her heart, that Jack had
a power strong enough to make himself her
master. But no, she did not love Jack, not
that love !

Her cheeks were blistered till they burned,
and her eyelids so swollen that when she
came down to breakfast she looked a fright,
and astonished every one by her unaccountable
appearance.

JACK O?DOON.

CHAPTER XVI.

bT|ORD A’MIGHTY! Why, Mercy,

@ what ye been doin’ to yerse'f?”

cried the Captain, putting down

: his spectacles from the top of

his head, and leaning across the corner of
the table to look closely into her face.

“I’ve been to see Jack,” she replied.

‘“‘ Been tosee Jack!" he repeated. «Why, I’ve
been a crawlin’ aroun’ on tiptoe this here
two hour! I thought. you was abed. Didn't
holler, nor nothin’! I ain’t got no ‘pinion o’
that Jack o’ your’n. He ain't never so much
€z come a-nigh me sence he come home. A
Prowlin’ roun’ here las’ night too, I hear’n.”

“He probably thought you were taking a
nap,” said Mercy, “and no doubt you were ;
but he wants to go to sea again, and is coming
2 find out if there isa berth for him. Ifthere
isn’t, he intends to ship on a foreign line.”

“ Them foreign boats be hanged to ’em!”
cried the Captain angrily, laying down a spoon-
ful of soft-boiled egg, to vent his intolerance.

‘“‘T wish you’d make him captain of the next
new boat you get,” said Mercy.

Faure sername taictiee ae

=a poem angreere

Saar ale ra 4+

renee

agate
sete: ee

 
 

214 JACK 0’DOON.

«Captain !” roared the skipper in astonish-
ment. ‘ Why, he ain’t nothin’ but a boy fees

« He’s twenty-four years old,” said Mercy,
“and every man and boy you've got says. he’s
the bravest and best of them all. Good sound
sense and courage and honesty are all you
want, and who has more, or knows more about
a ship than Jack ?”

«« Look-a-here, did he tell you to make that
fine speech to me, young woman?” said the
Captain suspiciously, scrutinizing her face.

« Jack tell me! Why no, of course not! I
don't suppose he ever thought of such a thing ;
but all the same, I wish you'd do it.”

A long silence ensued. The Captain wres-
tled with an idea.

Algie, sitting opposite Mercy, had been
listening with eager interest to this dialogue.
He would have been overjoyed if the Captain
had promoted Jack to be admiral of the whole
flotilla, or anything in reason which would
remove him without injury. This thing of
being obliged to witness Mercy fainting at
sight of him, then carried off like the Anados,
and now, when every one supposed her still
sleeping, to see her appear with red eyes and
blistered cheeks, and hear her coolly declare
she’d been to see Jack, and had evidently been
weeping over his adventures, was simply in-
sufferable ! He was indignant, and gave his
entire attention, apparently, to fresh mackerel
and toast.

“Who knows,” thought he, “that fellow

JACK O’DOON. 218

Jack may have caught this very fish I am
eating.”

Aunt Polly looked disdainfully across the
tea-things, and ignored the conversation.

So the meal was finished in silence, and
afterwards the Captain drew a very long breath,
and went forth to take a constitutional up and
down the garden path. He was deep in prob-
lematical thoughts, whiffing his long reed-
Stemmed pipe, and blowing smoke out of a
Corner of his mouth.

Finally he pushed his hat back and wiped
his brow with his red handkerchief, as if his
thoughts were fatiguing him. Algie lighted a
Cigarette, and he and Mercy went to work in
the studio.

After an hour’s chattering and some work,
Algie exclaimed, ‘(I think it is a shame for us
to lose this magnificent light. Suppose we
begin the picture, if you feel able to pose, after
you have rested. Meantime I will lay fresh
Colors, for these are getting stale.”

So he brought out his paint-box and sat
down beside her, placing the box on his knees,
while he scraped off the hardened paint, and
reset the palette.

“Do you always keep the colors so?” asked
Mercy, pointing to the palette, which was par-
tcularly brilliant and harmonious.

“Yes, it is a great beauty to have a hand-
Some palette ; and this appearance can only
be acquired with long use. You see the
centre and the right hand have acquired this

 
 

arG JACK O’DOON.

dim gray, and brilliancy with polishing, while
the blending of the ingrained colors of this
setting is as rich as an India shawl. This one
is my pet. If you really mean to paint, I shall
leave it with you as a precious keepsake ; for 1
will never use it again after painting your pic-
ture, and I shall want you to have something
I really value, to remind you sometimes of

”

me.

Abercrombie looked at Mercy, who dropped
her eyes quickly. He was sincere while he
spoke. Who can blame him, if time and tide
wait for no man, and if, ere he was ready, he
were forced to turn with the tide. But let the
tide turn when it might, he was absolutely in
earnest in every word he uttered to Mercy
during his stay at Blessington House. She
glanced coyly at him ; and sincerity, even the
sincerity of a fickle man, has something so
convincing in it, that she believed him, and
replied with equal truth : «Will you really? I
shall love so to have it. But there isno chance
of my forgetting you, for Iam accused of being
one of those dreadful people who never forget.”

«Oh, but you must remember me for imagi-
nary virtues, and not for actual faults. Let the
absent be ever justified —or—what is the adage
I am trying to quote ?”

«J could not imagine myself remembering
you, except in the most agreeable and charm-
ing way,” replied Mercy, quite coquettishly,
unconsciously returning the slight smile with
which Abercrombie was regarding her.

JACK 0’ Z
DOON. 21 7

; “I do not quite know whether you're laugh-
Ae at meor not. I’m afraid I have a tutored
oe 2) people who never forget. They are

so the people who nev rgi :
eee ever forgive, aren't

eee must depend upon what you mean
outs ring,” said Mercy.
shee the. opposite of spitefulness and
. gness,” replied Algie.
. eis myself, Iam just as much in
eae S ever, said Mercy. ‘I would not
ves = of the head of any one who had
atts i: and I think I could and would be
ae a a one to the day of my death, but
ack aes er the injury all the same. I can-
neta that Granny Gooch abuses me
aac Mae go near her, but that would not
a ora moment from taking her some-
ng to eat again as soon as I could.”
Ae tesa thatis the charity which covers a
e of sins,” said he.
: chal so,” said she indifferently.
a Ree he persisted, “you have not promised
eae give me in advance if ever I offend
co fear any evil from you,” said
Gee a smile. The expression of her
ARAN Eee and confiding that Aber-
a is heart rise in his throat, and he
away from her withasudden movement.
But all the same,” he added after a pause,

Cif
you ever had cause to think ill of
c m
Would you forgive me ?” i

Ss cama Paso?
a

50
Sara ne antec era etn s T

ER Soran,

 
 

 

 

JACK O’DOON.

«T would never harm you, but I could not
forget it unless I could forget you, not if I
lived a million years. You would be a unit to
me, but a unit with the blemish of an offence,
because a man’s actions are essentially a part
of himself.”

« T had hoped,” said Abercrombie, moving
aside to arrange his canvas, “that I might in
time be something more than a cipher to you,
but if, at the end of a million of years, I am to
find myself only a unit, I fear I shall be im-
mortal before I become more.”

Mercy blushed and looked thoughtfully
into the fire. Abercrombie’s facile and fluent
tongue had uttered a thousand such pretty
speeches and poured them into the ears of
fair and willing listeners who had pleased him
momentarily; and he was always sincere at
the time—just as sincere as Jack was, or any-
body else,—too sincere, because he was so
dazed by the glow of his own imagination that
he failed to see the injustice of his impulses,
and under the enthusiasm of the moment went
rashly along pathways that he was sometimes
obliged to retrace with sorrow.

When he had arranged the light to his
satisfaction, he was wishing for an old gray
sail-cloth to use as a back-ground for Mercy,
as that, in the strong light, would have much
the same effect as the sky of his picture.

«I will send to Jack for one,” said Mercy
promptly.

«It seems to me you depend upon Jack for

JACK O’DOON, 219

everything ! ” exclaimed Algie, irritably. «He
1S perfectly ubiquitous—turns up everywhere
—from the grave itself !”

Mercy looked at him in astonishment, and
was perplexed at seeing an impatient frown
upon his face,

She answered rather tartly, «I suppose the
natural reason is that Jack is always to be de-
pended upon. He is found where he is wanted,
always does well what he undertakes to do,
and if he does not make life a success for him-
self, does so for other people. Consequently,
if I send to Jack for the sail-cloth, I’m certain
it will be exactly what you want,” and she
Suited the action to the word.

A silence ensued between them. Mercy
Stood on the rug, looking into the fire. Both
She and Abercrombie felt contrite, but each
hesitated to make an overture. Algie oiled
his Canvas and afterwards diligently rubbed
off the oil.

‘“‘ Why did you do that ?” asked Mercy.

Because if the pores of the canvas are
Moist With oil, the fresh paint I put on to-day
will readily combine with what I put on on
Monday, and there will be no difference of
feeling between them.”

“ Feeling 2?” said Mercy interrogatively.

“ Feeling, in painting,” said Algie, “is a
reflex term. If I rubbed your finger with
Sandpaper, it would be you who would feel
instead of the paper. One layer of paint lying
harshly upon another would irritate your taste

enna

sang PRT

sete epats

[ae 2 ara aa

at JuyR gh gn bat ECS EE

pera ae)

see

 
 

 

in much the same way, and I should say the
paint felt harsh or the feeling was wrong.
Comprenez-vous ? a

« Parfaitement,” replied Mercy ; «but you
would better not draw me out in French,” she
added, laughing, “ for I think you would die
of internal convulsions; though I know you
would be much too kind to laugh outright at
me:

«Try me,” said Algie. “ It will give you a
happy expression for your picture, beside the
charity of relieving me of the hard work of my
own thoughts.”

After a little persuasion Mercy essayed to
speak French with him, and Algie was sur-
prised, not only at the large number of words
which she knew, but at the atrociousness of
her pronunciation. He was bravely polite ;
but they were both at last in convulsions of
laughter, when Jack entered the room with a
great bundle of sail-cloth over his shoulder.

Mercy and Algie looked so strangely and
exasperatingly on free and easy terms to poor
Jack, that he stood abashed at his unannounced
intrusion, and did not speak a word.

« Come in, Jack, it was so good of you,” said
Mercy, eagerly going forward to meet him. “I
did not mean that you should trouble yourself
to bring it to us.”

That “us” was an outrage to Jack. When
had serving her been a trouble to him. ‘1
was nearly here when I met Splugen,” he ex-
plained apologetically, ‘so I walked back to

JACK O’DOON.

the village and uncorded the gaff.” Sure
enough, the stout fellow had borne the spar
upon his shoulder, with the sail suspended
from it. It was well he had done so, for the
gaff answered all the purposes of a curtain
bar, upon which the sail moved easily with its
rings ; and Jack, with handy readiness, adjusted
is diagonally across the corner of the room.
Thus the mildewed sail gave the “ values” of
4 mottled sky behind Mercy’s figure.

Jack’s ready understanding, despite his ig-
ess of the requirements of a studio, and
ee vagueness of the message Splugen had

arried, aroused Algie’s admiration, and Mercy
could not resist exchanging a glance with him
which meant, «I told you so.”
te down with us, Jack,” said Mercy, en-
a ngly. «Come, take my chair by the fire ;
Sore that everything is ready, shan’t I
aa or you, Mr. Abercrombie, and Jack can

“you if Tam looking my best? ”
ae placed herself before the screen, and
— eaning with his elbow upon the mantel-
4 €, observed the gentle, slight, and deferen-
: touches with which Abercrombie arranged
1€r pose.
ah — hard for Jack, although it interested
tee despite the torment of it, and he
ah ued standing, silently watching Algie,

ue he laid on the masses.
wey vil stop now for a little while,” said the
; Hee: length. « You begin to look pale, and

not, therefore, putin the face. But I’m

 
222 JACK O’DOON.

glad I have such a happy effect in the mass of

the drapery.”
«What do you mean by the mass?” said

Mercy.

«| think I shall write a book,” said Algie,
laughing, ‘and call it ‘ Experiences with an
audience of one.’”

At this remark Jack made a little move-
ment, as if he felt de trop.

«Pray do not go,” exclaimed Algie, ‘** the
more the merrier.’” This remark, accompa-
nied by his most cordial smile, appeased Jack’s
sensitiveness, and he sat down near Mercy on
the lounge, which had been drawn up beside
the fire.

«Shall the lecture be in French, Miss Bless-
ington ?”

«Oh, pray forbear!” cried Mercy, adding, as
she turned toward Jack: “Do you know,
when you came in, I was trying to talk French!
Mr. Abercrombie had endured it like a Spar-
tan for a good half-hour, and had just broken
down.”

So that was what they were laughing
about! Not so bad after all, thought Jack.

« Enough is as good as a feast,” continued
Mercy, “so let me enjoy the freedom of my
native tongue.”

« Well, ladies and gentlemen,” began Algie,
pompously, “ you two must imagine I’m before
the footlights, with ¢howsands of people listen-
ing ; those of you who in early youth have in-
dulged the charms of moonlight will readily

JACK O’DOON.

understand mass without detail. No, but
really,” said Algie, gravely, ‘on a moonlight
night we see the mass only, because the light
Is not strong enough to develop the detail.
The tone is too black, because the high lights
are not high enough, and the shadows are
Not mitigated by reflected lights. Therein is
the charm of moonshine; it appeals to the
Imagination, and rests the eyes and brain,
after the multiplicity of details and excessive
realism of broad daylight.”

This explanation was satisfactory to Jack,
and he thought he liked Abercrombie. Who
could know Algie and not like him? His
Manners were so simple, and his voice and
Smile had the ingenuousness of a child’s. It
Was the most charming art, because it was the
Completion of nature, not its affectation. He
imitated nothing, but he had the wisdom of a
Man of the world, and the taste of a gentle-
man, to show himself to the best possible ad-
vantage to every one.

At this moment Aunt Polly, coming down-
Stairs for a walk, looked in at the door. She
nodded distantly to Jack, and retired. Poor
Jack, he could not conceive what he had done
to provoke Aunt Polly to assume this half-dis-
dainful manner toward him.

Algie resumed his palette, and Mercy posed
again.

It seemed to Jack that he had never seen
her look quite so lovely as she did that morning.

It was very mild weather. The fire died

 
wesc ere eblei el peter eee

JACK O’DOON.
JACK O DOON.

224
out, and the sunshine streamed in at the win-
dow, so that Algie was obliged to stretch a
sheet across it, and when Antonio announced
that lunch was ready, he declared that the
morning had been altogether too short.

relapsing at once into grammar which rivalled
the Captain’s own.

at Yes,” drawled the Captain, “I’ve had a
visitor what give me a longer account 0’ it
than that, young man.”

«Come along, Jack,” said Mercy ; “ Mother
Margery can spare you, and you shall sit by

me.” :
Jack looked at his hands, which he had for-

gotten, and which were besmeared with grease

from the socket of the gaff.
«IT see you are a subject for Bill Junk,” she
said. «Run down, while we wait for you.”
So Jack disappeared below, and soon re-
turned, looking very smart and handsome in
his burly, picturesque way ; and, much to
Algie’s surprise, they all sat down to table

together.
« By Gimmeny !” cried the Captain, at the

sight of Jack, “ you're a fellow !”

Mercy smiled, for she knew the import of
her father’s ejaculations. They were oracular,
and «By Gimmeny” was of good omen.
Then she recalled his preoccupied walk in the
garden, and “ By Gimmeny ” meant that it
had begotten something satisfactory, of which
Jack was the subject. Her spirits went up
accordingly.

«JT heerd ye run afoul o’ a storm,” said the
Captain, sitting down and putting his elbows
on the table, and looking at Jack inquiringly

out of his shrewd gray eyes.
« The sea were pretty roughish,” said Jack,

All eyes were turned in astonishment toward
the Captain. « You young uns,” he continued
viciously, “is bin keepin’ up such a cacklin’
and jabberin’ in thar, it’s no sort o’ wonder
ye can’t hear nothin’ but yerselves. Mercy
he sent his love to you.”

Both of the young men looked up, and Aber-
Crombie asked himself, «* Whose turn next?”
He even looked upon his own susceptibilities
as less meretricious since he at least had grace
€nough to have done with one affair before
embroiling himself in another. But here was

a with a third man sending his love to
er,

“Sent his love to me!” exclaimed Mercy,

Be reeds h «Why, who in the world was

ee Do you puppose it were any young idjut?
got enuff o’ them sort, closer home,” cast-
eee a baleful glance around the table, ‘Why,
oe of course! Whoelse were it like
2 - reportin to me, arter gettin’ wrecked
Fe a o’ my boats. Which is sayin’ more for
my anners than some other folks I knows

‘“‘I was on my way to speak to you when I
met Splugen, but Mercy. yi

“ are you stop right thar,” interrupted the

 
226 JACK O'DOON.

Captain. “I’m gittin’ tired 0’ havin’ Mercy
flung at my head all day long, an’ all night
too for that matter ; fur it’s a-gittin’ that awful,
I jes’ dream about it nights !”
The Captain had a good appetite, notwith-
standing this atrocious filial nightmare.
«] declar’ before the Lord,” he ejaculated
with a sigh, when he had finished his soup,
«an’ you young uns will find out soon enough
from experience, that a man ain’t o’ no use in
God’s world, but to be trampled on by the
women folks in his family! I pities men,
they’s so down-trod ! See me! One might
have expected to find a clattering skeleton.
Here I’ve lived in this world fifty-seven years,
to be nuthin’ at last but a figur’-head, a
darned ugly one at that, but all the same, to
be a figur’-head, to run my ole nose into every
sea what comes, that this here young woman
might ride on my back and steer me ’roun’
to suit her own notions!” The Captain
dammed his farther utterance by cramming
his mouth full of bread, but he went on mum-
bling while he chewed it, until after a while
the words could be distinguished—* I sup-
pose you ain't got no more use for the sea, is
ye, Jack?”

« Yes, Captain, I was comin’ up this mornin’
to ax ye if ye had a berth open for me ; seein’
ez how the ole hull ain’t like to be set to rights
afore next season.”

« Well, I ain’t concluded nuthin’ yet, young
man,” drawled the Captain, looking at Jack

>
JACK O’DOON. 227

out of the corner of his eye, “but ole Free-
mantle do say it warn’t right to let ye slide;
an’ nobody shall say o’ Solomon Blessin’ton,”
he continued, in his most spread-eagle manner,
leaning back in his chair, and thrusting his
thumbs into his arm-holes, ‘nobody shall
Say that Solomon Blessin’ton ain’t gotno ap-
preciation o’ the genuine thing; and what's
more, nobody shall say ez what Josiah Free-
mantle do say ain’t the Lora’s truth!”

He uttered these last words very emphatic-
ally, and, leaning forward, looked at Jack as if
he were going to eat him. Mercy and Aber-
crombie looked on in breathless expectation.

«And what do you ‘uns all think Free-
mantle do say?” The Captain glanced in-
quiringly around, scowling at each one in
‘orn; then his countenance relaxed and he
Continued : « Why, Lord-a-massy, to begin
with, he were that upset he drunk a pint 0’
grog, hot at that, afore he found his tongue
an’ he did say that ‘efit hadn’t a bin fur that
boy "he was a meanin’ you, Jack—‘ef it hadn’t
a bin fur that boy, we wouldn’t none o’ us a
got home.’”’

“There ain’t no tellin’ what a man won't
say when he’s dun drunk a pint o’ grog,” said
Jack, completely overcome with confusion, and
blushing painfully.

“Lord, ef he ain’t ez red ez a gal!” cried
the Captain, enjoying the whole thing im-
mensely. Mercy put her hand under the table-
cloth, and patted Jack’s hand affectionately.

 
228 JACK O’DOON.

« Well, Freemantle says, says he, ‘that
boy ’—meanin’ o’ you, Jack— is got more sense
nor ten men, and he’s got,’ says he, ‘hands
afore an’ hands behind o’ him, an’ legs the
same, and wits to match ’em all.’”

The Captain paused long enough for Aber-
crombie and Mercy fully to conceive this
monster, and then proceeded. “‘That’s a
queer sort 0’ a boy,’ says Ito him. Did ye
ever hear o’ sech a kind o’ a thing down in
your parts, Mr. Applecorn ?”

Algie denied promptly.

Jack was ready to melt with fervent heat,
and Mercy again caressed his hand under the
table-cloth.

« An’ bein’ ez Freemantle says he ain’t got
no wife, an’ no childern, an’ he’s got about his
stomachful o’ salt water arter this here dose,
he’s a mine ter give up the ship, an’ what does
ye think o’ that fur a ole fool ?” demanded the
Captain, suddenly pausing, and scowling at
Jack, but Mercy discovered a twinkle in her
father’s eye.

« And so,” she interrupted, eagerly clapping
her hands, “ you are going to buy a new brig
and give it to Jack! Oh, Jack, you lucky old
boy!” she exclaimed, jumping up from the
table and rushing toward him. She looked as
if she were going to embrace him, but recov-
ered her senses, and hugged her father in-
stead.

«] ain’t never said the word,” cried the
Captain, pretending to suffocate, but beaming

JACK O’DOON. 229

with delight. «Look here, gal. I'd like to
know somethin’ about this here business.
Whose a-gettin’ this here ship, what’s a gwine
to break me right now to buy? Youer Jack?
Fur it do’pear to me like ye was a-tryin’ to
boss the whole business !”

The Captain, in the presence of the new
idea, turned upon Jack his inquiring eyes ; but
Jack was leaning with his chin upon his palm,
and was watching Mercy and the Captain with
Speechless emotion, and a young hero’s tears
of passionate gratitude at this recognition of
his courage were glittering in his eyes.

“ Dear Jack,” cried Mercy, looking at hima
Moment inquiringly, and then, overcome by
her sympathy and joy for him, she lifted his
face with her hands, and wiped the tears from
his eyes with her handkerchief, kissing him
tenderly, while Jack, with unutterable devotion,
clasped his arms for a moment around her
waist.

“You will never regret it; father,” said she
with certainty, resting her hands, while she
Spoke, upon Jack’s shoulders, and displaying
the pride and assurance of one who guaran-
tees her own as equal to any possible demand ;
and tears trembled and fell from her lashes
and splashed upon Jack’s hair.

Algie, whose ready sympathies were with
the young man, turned his eyes away to relieve
his embarrassment, feeling that the scene was
too sacred for his scrutiny. In doing so he
encountered the stony look of indignation with

is

Sn ER i pt a nen new

 
 

 

230 JACK O’DOON.

which Aunt Polly was regarding Mercy. It
was sufficient to inspire Algie with the most
sudden and ‘implacable aversion for her. It
had never occurred to him to misconstrue
Mercy’s impulsive demonstration toward Jack ;
on the contrary, it had shown to him that she
must feel for Jack only as toward a brother ;
and it inspired him with a tender reverence for
her guileless simplicity. He argued very
justly to his own mind, that it was because the
kindness Jack had found so overwhelming had
been of Mercy’s own seeking that she wished
to share his blushes and embarrassment.

The Captain was greatly moved by Jack’s
modesty, and blew his nose violently, and
winked persistently at Sailor, who endeavored
to elucidate the complication by climbing
upon his master’s knee.

«T declar’ I never see the like!” cried the
Captain impatiently. “Such a fellow, two
such of em!” he added, dimly forgetful of
Mercy’s sex. ‘Ido declar’ before judgment,
that ef Freemantle wasn’t a man what never
praised nobody, I’d give up, ef I thought
such a red-faced, blushin’ boy were fit to have
no ship at all! But Freemantle do say, and
he ain’t no liar, that that very boy,” shaking
his finger at Jack, «were the very backbone o’
the whole crew. An’ look at him! ”’—they all
looked at him out of the corners of their eyes.
«Fetch her out, Tony, an’ boost him up!”

But Tony was not anywhere to be seen. He
had slipped out silently, and his dry old bones

JACK O’DOON. 231

had long ago rattled down the stairs to carry
the news to the “ watch below.”

After luncheon was finished there was
nothing for Mercy to do but go home with
Jack to tell Mother Margery the news, laughing,
and dangling upon Jack’s arm as they hurried
along, and Algie was left to sulk,

a

eames ee aoe

 
 

 

 

JACK O’DOON.

CHAPTER XVII.

picture was finished, and Aber-
crombie had no longer excuse to
linger.

He had not yet uttered to Mercy the words
“T love you,” but every smile and glance
had told her so. When his conscience took
him to task, in the dark hours of the night, he
had protested it was honor which held his
tongue. He must pay his debts and get
ahead. Hecould not marry her forher father’s
money ; and so he went about breaking her
heart instead.

One thing unsettled his resolution.

He, too, had begun to rely upon Mercy to
direct his conscience, but upon this momentous
subject he could not consult her. He could
not put the query, “Is it right for a poor
fellow like myself to offer you his heart and
hand, when the hand is full of unpaid bills,
and the heart, by force of habit, is disreputably
uncertain ?”

The true difficulty was that though he loved
Mercy much, he loved Algernon Abercrombie
more. If he were rich, he was kindly certain,

 

JACK O’DOON. 233

he would marry her on the spot; but he could
not brook the thought of humiliating himself
to ask for Mercy’s money along with herself.

He shrank with secret dread from leaving
her ; and she, scarcely knowing her own mind,
exerted herself to keep him. Hitherto every
wish of her heart had been gratified—even Jack,
who had been as dead, had returned living ;
but this wish, so vital and so dear, only Aber-
Crombie could gratify, and he put his vanity
as a fetish before him, and bowed down and
Worshipped it, calling it his integrity, and
Sacrificing Mercy to the false god.

During the last days Abercrombie had
Spent every waking hour at her side; and he
was so brilliant and so clever that she depended
Upon him as upon an inspiration, and did not
miss Jack, who was forever running off to
Richmond to see after the new ship which was
being fitted out under his supervision.

Mercy had an advantage in knowing nothing
of Abercrombie’s previous flirtations, since
the knowledge would have made her less con-
fiding. It was her trust in him, beyond all
else, which endeared her to him. The thought
that she would suffer if he neglected her, made
him miserable.

He told her he would return to Cassandra
Bay before the summer was gone, and they
planned excursions together on the map.

It was the last evening, and they sat near
the easel upon which stood the little picture
he had first painted.

ta

a Sy etna ee nine mmape tn Frc

 
 

 

234 JACK O’DOON.

« You can never know how I shall treasure
this,” said he, resting his hand lovingly upon
the sketch, and looking at her as if he wished
that he could drink the heart out of her eyes
ere he left her. Her eyes lingered timidly,
bewilderedly, answering his, and then she
dropped them in shame.

An unknown power had conquered her.
Abercrombie could not resist taking her hand
—only for a moment—but the moment length-
ened, and neither of them spoke. At length,
tears swam in Mercy’s eyes; she drew her hand
hastily away, and, before he could realize her
intention, had fled from the room.

After that she avoided him. He had never
a chance for one word with her; but he had
seen enough of Mercy to know that her heart
must have been stirred to the very bottom
ere her tears would have witnessed against
her.

When she had left him, he stood irresolute ;
then he covered his face with his hands like
a man who prays, and wrung them together,
struggling with his passion, walking to and
fro in the room.

He felt that the ground whereon he stood
was holy ground, and that the woman was
sacred to him.

He knew he was a nobler man since the
light of her life, with its purity and singleness
of purpose, had shone upon his; and the
question pressed him sorely, would he not be
happier and better if he were to put aside the

JACK O’DOON.

conventional obstacles which stood in his way,
abandon the commonplace life of a man-about-
town with an enemy in the social position
which he could not afford to sustain, and
marry Mercy, if she would be his wife ?

Algernon fought a great battle. His foes
were Pride and Prejudice; and he believed
himself a conquering hero, when at best he
was but a vaunting coward, in deciding: at
last to go away in silence.

But he was a hero who felt like a thief.
When remorse was added to his grief, he
cajoled his kinder nature into calling his
Selfishness prudence.

It was the first time in his life that he had
ever attempted to practice that questionable
virtue. He was alarmed at his own earnest-
ness, and, as time went by, he found himself
almost mad with desire to possess the girl.

The morning he left the old house, he en-
deavored to speak with her alone; but she,
Imagining that he had detected her feelings
and pitied them, and ashamed of the grief
which she could not hide, avoided him, so that
he was obliged to say good-bye before the
assembled family, where all—even the green
parrot—joined in a noisy farewell.

He looked back as he was driven from the
door, beseeching one loving glance, but she
quickly turned away—a dreadful misery in her
heart which she dared not utter to herself.

The old house was like a morgue. The
very fish-nets were full of associations. The

fore...

Aneto tom pin AAT ai ca

 
 

 

 

JACK O’DOON.

sunshine streamed into the room. She took
Algie’s palette upon her thumb, and, putting
her arms around the easel, leaned upon it.
She was so intense in all her feelings, that to
be deprived of any one of the few things she
loved deadened her with wretchedness, and
it became labor to lifta hand or make a step.
What did such suffering mean? She felt that
she could not endure it for long. The pain in
her heart came back, and the muscles of her
throat choked her. She pressed her hands
upon her side. She was feeling now for her-
self, the pain she had so often before suffered
for others—only more—far more of it. It
seemed as if it could only stop when the heart
should stand still.

She threw herself on the lounge and pressed
the pillow under her side, but the anguish
continued.

Abercrombie, judging her by the reserve of
her farewell, could not have believed that she
could suffer so for him. How could he—how
could any man—understand the distrust a
woman feels of her ability to withstand temp-
tation which makes her, in her effort to protect
herself, do the very opposite of the thing she
desires to do?

The woman in whom this instinct is lacking
is incapable of virtue.

Abercrombie understood women as well as
did most men of his age and experience, but it
is impossible that any man should know
women thoroughly, since in the two opposing

JACK O’DOON.

natures the superlative virtues are courage to
attack and integrity to defend.

The Captain, blissfully ignorant of Mercy’s
heartache at home, which he would. have
given all he owned in the world to heal, was
excessively talkative and facetious as they
jogged along to the station, Algie morosely
silent and ill at ease. If their thoughts could
have been known, a very ill-assorted pair they
would have seemed.

The Captain was bubbling over with satis-
faction, and, as soon as they reached Richmond,
dragged Algie off to a framer’s to choose a
frame.

Algie wished it to be subservient to the pic-
ture ; but the Captain greeted his choice with
a derisive jeer. ‘I ain’t got but one child, and
I choose fur her to have everything o’ the
best!” he said.

The shopkeeper agreed with the customer,
and when the picture reached Blessington
House, it shone like the dome of the Krem-
lin.

At the foot of Abercrombie’s stairs they
parted. The Captain held the young man’s
hand for a long time in his large, cordial
grasp, urging him again and again to come
back to Cassandra to see them all, adding
that he knew Mercy would be “more’n glad
to see him.” And then he took out his red-
Silk handkerchief and blew his nose and went
away, leaving Algie standing in the doorway,
watching him till he.was lost in the crowd.

ha

1}
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i
{
‘
;

i
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Pree eX bl eel ele pb ples eee a!

238 JACK O’DOON.

Algie dreaded to think that that might be the
last of Cassandra.

He thoughtfully ascended the stairs, expect-
ing to be able to take up his old life again
just where he had left it. But things did not
seem the same to him. He missed the warmth
of heart which had pervaded Blessington
House. His rooms looked lonely and cold
after the fluffy comfort of that humbler home.

It was a mild evening in May, but he felt
chilly and ordered a fire.

His servant handed him a bundle of letters.
Most of them were bills, some of them duns,
so he put them away. His mind was too
bruised from the recent conflict to confront a
new perplexity.

He hurried the man about his work, and
when he had finally dismissed him, though
early in the evening, he locked the door, and
sat down to rest his brain and assure himself
that he had acted for the best. But the more
he thought over his position, the less tenable
it seemed. He longed to go back to Mercy,
as to a tribunal of that grace whose name
she bore, to tell her of his perplexities. He
glanced at the unopened bills. Would she
frown upon him and rebuke the enormity of
his persistent carelessness ? Not that he was
more criminal than most young men of fashion
whose incomes are out of proportion to their
position ; but most women, even the wives of
such men, would think such neglect of effort
to adjust expenditure to income, criminal.

 

JACK O’DOON. 239

He was honest enough not to commit the
fallacy of cursing his luck ; he knew there was
no luck about it. Stretched out in his chair
and staring blindly at the clock, he felt like
Prometheus bound, and longed to break away
from the debts which threatened to devour his
Substance, and be free of the trammels of fam-
ily pride and society, and live to suit himself.

flimself, as he looked that personage over,
Was a weak slave to the admiration of other
Men—a one-sided creature, leaning continually
upon others. If he must lean upon another,
why might not that other be Mercy, who was
So strong to support those who needed moral
Co-operation ?

He wondered at his own infatuation for the
girl. Her impalpable image seemed almost
to touch his soul, and he dreaded to meet his
Own mother, for fear that her pleasantry might
touch upon his love.

He took the little picture out of his port-
Manteau, and stood it up before the clock on
the mantelpiece, and kissed it with an excess
of tenderness, murmuring over it. Aber-
Crombie was a particularly gentle man, and
all these little acts were gently done, as if he
were touching Mercy herself.

His reverie was full of poignant contrition.
The intensest longing to implore her love and
forgiveness rent his breast. The memory of
the tears he had seen her shed scalded his
heart as if they had been hot blood dropping
upon it,

 
 

JACK O’DOON.

Algie was not vicious. Doubtless he was
nobler than he knew,—liberal certainly, and
extravagant to folly; but his extravagance
consisted mainly in giving beyond what he
could afford of his bread and meat, or rather
of his champagne and terrapin.

He was tired of spending his money on
those who cared nothing for him. He had
come to an age when a man wants to be
master of his own house, with his wife by his
side and his child at her breast. He had
done spending his energies and affections upon
heartless idlers; he wanted to concentrate his
devotion upon some one who loved him as
well. Who was capable of loving him with
such self-abnegation as Mercy? He would
be a god to her if she loved him. He knew
it. But—did she love him ?

If she truly loved him, why was she so
ashamed to let him look into her heart and see
all? Her heart was so chaste, she need not
have been ashamed of it.

Poor Mercy! Alas, wandering about the
familiar marshes, her lagging steps led her no-
‘where; and so surely does any powerful emo-
tion make us react upon our accustomed
selves that she, whose self-abnegation had
been almost ideal, felt as if doing good was a
dead-and-gone possibility. She even talked to
herself—laughing—practising little devices to
amuse her father on his return, that he might
not discover her secret.

All this time the Captain was at a second-
rate hotel down near the docks, with his hat

 

 

JACK O’DOON.

cocked on the back of his head, his spectacles
shoved up against the rim, his big, smooth red
face wreathed in smiles, bragging about the
new brig; while a crowd of familiar acquaint-
ances, to whom he was standing treat, sat
round a table with glasses of hot grog per-
petually refilled.

Jack was there too, echoing the praises of
the ship, until the old skipper slapped him on
the back and swore that he was the happiest
boy in Richmond town.

The next morning Abercrombie passed for
the pink of prosperity as he walked about the
Streets and was congratulated upon his return
to the city. When he reached his mother’s
door he let himself in and sought her un-
announced. Some hours afterwards he came
out again, but there was something different
in his mien and the decision with which he
Stepped upon the pavement.

He had endeavored to make a confidante of
his mother, and, although his confessions had
been received with good nature, the half-ban-
tering ridicule with which she had spoken of
Mercy, of the old Captain, who, she had
heard, «swallowed knives like an ostrich,”
and of the preposterousness of the whole idea,
forced Algie to take his ground precipitately,
perhaps, but resolutely, and for life. There
had. been no hard words on either side, but
his mother realized with dismay that he really
loved the girl, and that he meant to merit

Mercy’s confidence.
16

+p omtrntemb ese Sb SELLERS ELLE ERTS een ae eterer tee a mes

 
 

 

 

7ACK O’DOON.

CHAPTER XVIII.

= HE premature summer put new life

YAW] | intoall nature atCassandra. Floods

of sunshine poured upon the sea

until it glowed like one of Turner's

pictures, but the broad stripes of ruby and

sapphire did not rouse Mercy from the leth-

argy into which she had fallen. Even as a

child she had been absent, as if self-mesmer-

ized, with her eyes fixed vacantly and her

mind far away; but now her brain was

focussed upon one thought, and that thought

was Abercrombie. He was lonely amid the

distractions of a city ; how much more lonely

was she, bound by the monotony of her life to

the perpetual repetition of trivial acts, each

one of which was inseparable from her recol-
lections of him.

That memory was more persistent than her
own shadow: waking, she thought of him,
sleeping, she dreamed of him. The pain in
her side was incessant, and food became ab-
horrent to her.

Aunt Polly, preoccupied with her religion,
did not observe that Mercy’s color was fading
and her cheeks sinking. Antonio watched

 

JACK O’DOON.

his young mistress in silence, and his heart
ached for her.

The fishermen shook their heads with mis-
giving. «Somethin’s a-ailin’ our Mercy,”
they would say to one another, as they saw
her follow her rounds languidly. They felt
that the light upon their paths was dim.
No one dared speak of it to the Captain.
“‘She’s a-follerin’ her mother,” some said,
pointing to the graveyard and sighing.

But the Captain, blind in his fullness of
generosity, rejoiced with the joy of a bene-
factor. He was abounding in satisfaction at
the pleasure he was giving Mercy through
Jack, and had no eyes for the blue veins in
her temples nor the thinness of her lower eye-
lids ; neither did he observe how often she
pressed her hand upon her heart.

Antonio saw it and -was as silent as the
grave. To none other than Mercy would he
Speak. Should he speak to her? What
could he do to help her if he did speak?
But at night, when Splugen and Bill Junk
were sleeping their profound and_ healthy
sleep, the little wizened old man would steal
from his bed and get down on his knees in
the corner, dimly lighted by the floating taper
which burned of late before the image of
‘Our Lady,” and pray to God and invoke the
Saints and bribe the Blessed Virgin with the
promise of innumerable worldly goods. These
he offered to Her honor for the consolation of
the distressed and the glory of Her dear Son,

 
 

 

 

 

JACK O’DOON,

if in the pity of Her heart she would intercede
for him that his prayers might be answered
—that Mercy, the joy of the house and the
angel of the poor, might be made happy
again, as she used to be. Then he would
cover the battered crucifix with kisses, his
withered lips trembling the while ; and again,
when despair seized him and earthly comfort
seemed of no avail, he would cry out: «O my
Jesu! give her Thy heart as a pledge of Thy
love, as a place of refuge, wherein she may
find a secure repose during life, and a sweet
comfort in the hour of death! Amen.” The
despair of this thought would overpower him,
and he would weep in anguish, bowing him-
self upon the board floor. Then he would

creep noiselessly back to his bed, hoping for
the best.

One day Splugen brought a little flat pack-
age from the express-office. Antonio fetched
it to Mercy. She recognized Algie’s hand-
writing, and trembled with such strange ex-
citement that Antonio took it from her and
cut the cord. It contained a parcel of his
sketches, a water-color box, and some direc-
tions for sketching simple objects. It filled
her with a delight of which Algie could not
have dreamed. There was neither message
nor address. She could not thank him, butit
seemed to comfort her to know that he had
thought of her. When he had arranged the
package he had pictured her wandering about
the marshes, trying with characteristic per-

JACK O’DOON,

Severance to lay in bits of sky and water.
She seized upon the suggestion. Abandoning
her books as companions on the sands, she
wandered no more like a young philosopher,
with an essay closed over her fingers, and her
mind full of the thoughts it had suggested.
Hope awoke in her breast, and she exerted
herself once more to be absorbingly interested
in the most trivial incidents about her. She
Went more frequently to see Granny Gooch,
and forced herself to listen to her whinings.
Even such maunderings were better than the
gloom of her own thoughts. When the May
calms came she read every afternoon to the
children, and, the wind being lulled and the
sea still, only the lapping of the ground-swell
accompanied her voice. But even the children
felt that there was a meekness about her
which was different from the independence of
her old manner.

Granny Gooch became ashamed of com-
plaining when Mercy made no reply.

Things went their way till, one bright day
in June, Jack came home. The brig was
ready. He had brought her down the river
on a trial trip, and all were to go and inspect
her as she lay in a little bay not far from Cas-
sandra.

They arose early to avoid the heat. The
old gray horse was hitched to a small wagon,
und the Captain spread himself upon the front
seat, while Aunt Polly and Mercy occupied
the second. Mother Margery had been in-

 
 

 

 

 

 

246 JACK 0’DOON.

vited, but at the last moment declined going,
for she shrank painfully from Jack’s farther
seafaring. She constantly looked to the tree-
_tops, far inland, and sighed to abandon her
cabin and the wreck-strewn shore.

Antonio kept the house. Bill Junk and
Splugen followed the wagon on foot, while
Jack walked beside it, with his hand on the

rail, and his eyes from time to time wandering '

’ to Mercy’s face. There was a strange. look
there which puzzled him, and he wondered
more and more what it meant.

The girl, nevertheless, was making merry
about the new ship, and talking to him as if
life were a fairy-tale. But she was much too
merry for Jack. He knew it was all a pre-
tence: he had been merry lately himself.
The Mercy of old would have been quiet
under the importance of the event, and have
dreaded his going to sea again. That morn-
ing, on the contrary, she was bantering and
facetious, and it annoyed him—he could
scarcely tell why. He wished she were silent
and thoughtful, for he did not feel merry ; and
her gaiety had something pathetic about it.
When Mercy laughed, involuntarily he felt
like weeping. He had learned that it was a
serious thing to go to sea and be responsible
for the lives and sufferings of other men.

«So you reconciled yourself to the name
I chose, after all, did you, Jack?” said she,
smiling at him: he had been looking so sol-
emnly at her,

JACK O’DOON,

“Yes,” said Jack.

“Why didn’t you like it at first? The
‘Pansy’ sounds quite original,” said she.

“I fear it savors a little of the Johnny
Jump-up !”

Mercy looked astonished at hearing Jack
make a pun. “I had thought of it rather as
a heart’s-ease to you, Jack,” she said, with
such a tender inflection in her voice that he
Started.

There was a helpless look of appeal in
Mercy’s eyes when they met his. It reminded
him of the pink curlew which had fallen at
his feet, and he felt an unintelligible but
gloomy presentiment arise in his mind. What
was hurting her? Surely there was a wound
somewhere which he could not see. Why
Should she be so anxious to give him the
ship ?—for he knew very well that she had per-
suaded her father to do it—and why had she
So insisted upon naming it for the flower with
this complexity of names? A “Pansy” that
should be a ‘Heart's-ease” to him, and
‘Johnny Jump-up” to signalize his promotion.
It was at once pathetic and comical.

Did she think she was going to die of that
pain in her heart? Jack shuddered at the
thought. Then it occurred to him that she
wished his ambition to supplant his love.

He continued to walk in silence, with his
eyes fixed upon the ground. What was the
meaning of that tone of tenderness which
could only have been generated by suffering ?

 
 

 

 

 

 

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See o> bl eal et ws yd bw eee

248 JACK O’DOON.

Was she pitying him? Alas! it seemed the
sympathy of one in despair.

Was Mercy’s heart yearning as sadly for
another as his yearned for her? Who was
that other? He could think of none but
Abercrombie, and the more he thought of it
the more natural it seemed to him that Mercy
should love so accomplished and attractive a
man. Thinking of Algie, Jack despised him-
self. He felt as if he were the great rough-
hewn block of a statue, and Algie was the
finished work. Thus thinking, he looked
again at Mercy.

She had forgotten him, forgotten Aunt
Polly, grim and severe beside her ; forgotten
her father, big and prosperous and imposing
before her ; forgotten the fair blue sky above,
and the white sands beneath her feet ; for-
gotten the Carolina turtle-doves cooing in the
bushes, and the masts of the brig in the dis-
tance ; forgotten the whole world, and allowed
the pain to creep out and paint itself in gray
lines upon her face ; and Jack, who loved her
so, who might have been so happy that day if
he had not loved her, was compelled to keep
silence, trying to think out, with so few pre-
mises, what it could all be about. Because he
was so certain, by the intuition of a fellow-
feeling, that Algie loved her, it did not seem
possible it could have come from a want of
that love.

She suddenly remembered herself, looked
at Jack uneasily, and met his eyes (those big

JACK 0’DOON. 249

brown eyes with a hot fire glowing in them),
and spiritually crouched before him like a
guilty thing.

She struggled to seem indifferent, but the
Struggle was too visible. She had made the
effort valiantly, and the pathetic failure was
more pitiful to Jack than any amount of
Weeping or complaining.

He saw it was a sorrow he could never
hope to heal by himself, but he might find a
Means to do so through the instrumentality
of another. Could he devise a means to reach
that other ?

He recalled the morning, two months ago,
when he had told Mercy the story of the
wreck ; how he had said to her that he believed
he could die for her, or die even to save the
life of a man she loved, if he thought it would
be the means of making herhappy. Could he
not now throw himself into the breach and
mend the rent between them ?

Could she be happy if he, Jack, were dead
Or gone? That possibility was more bitter
than the thought of death, for Jack stood in no
great fear of death.

He looked at her again; and again she had
forgotten him ; forgotten him this day, the last
for many weeks which they should spend to-
gether. The longing from which she could
not escape possessed her, and Jack realized
that he was outside of her life, of that secret

inner life which is as lonely as the soul at
death.

 
 

 

 

 

250 JACK O’DOON.

They were entering the long town skirtiag
the water. A confusion of masts and tangled
cordage edged the shore, and hundreds of
little boats were gently rocking in the hollows
of the waves. The waters of the bay were
like a sheet of pale green glass, transparently
beautiful. A rosy mist hung over the sea.
But neither Jack nor Mercy seemed to be
alive to the beauty ofthe day. Jack had hoped
to be glad, and, instead, his heart was heavier
than before ; Mercy’s heart ached because she
hoped for nothing at all. It did not seem
possible to her that Algie could care for her,
when he must be constantly meeting dozens
of women much more finished and charming.
Could he possibly cherish one thought of her
among her rough people? They seemed
rough to her now. She missed him and felt
the contrast.

The Captain was ina gale of high spirits,
and had a joke for every old tar on the wharf.

Mercy and Jack exerted themselves to make
the day go off merrily.

The « Pansy’s ” boat came off with feather-
ing oars and took them all out to the brig.
Splugen crowded in the full hampers for the
day’s repast, and when the boat touched, the
Captain climbed the rope-ladder over the
brig’s sides. Aunt Polly followed, assisted by
Splugen. Jack and Mercy went after them.

The shadow of the flag fell upon the deck.
«Long may she wave!” said Jack.

The « Pansy ” was not less beautiful than her

JACK O’DOON. 251

name. The sun gleamed on her yellow decks,
and glinted amid the shadows of the shrouds
on her masts, and flashed as if meteors were
imprisoned in the galley rails, and the brass
knobs of the companion-way ; the compass-
box defied the sun itself for splendor, and
radiant in blueness, like a hollow sapphire,
glowed the sky, and dazzling as an emerald
was the sea.

Jack and Mercy, leaning over the bulwarks,
watched the sailors haul up the boat and
Swing it over the revolving davits.

Mercy became so enlivened with the bustle
that she forgot her wretchedness, and after
a while, sitting down upon a coil of rope,
watched the bowsprit rock this way and that,
amid the entanglement of spars and cordage,
until she became dizzy herself.

The scene and the thought of Jack’s pros-
perity had undoubtedly wrought a temporary
change in her feelings, and Jack himself, who
reflected Mercy’s. moods, felt the contrast.
A delirious wish formed in his mind. What
a glad life it would be to have Mercy at his
Side, and roam with her the far and lonely
Seas, in delicious isolation; her true heart
forever near his breast, that thus, all and all
to each other, they might live and die.

Alas, he was mad with a folly all his own!
But he was happy for one day with his desire
fulfilled ; and Mercy looked at him with pleas-
ure in her eyes, satisfied to think that he was
pleased with the ship.

 
 

 

252 JACK O'DOON.

The day was all too short. Jack would
have riveted the sun in the top of the sky if
he could, that it might never go down; but
slowly it sank lower and lower. A breeze
had sprung up; there could be no excuse to
keep them over night on board ; and the
time came for the Captain to gather up his
people and depart, after wishing Jack « God-
speed.”

Aunt Polly and Splugen were already
climbing over the bulwarks, with a mixture
of grotesque gallantry and antique feminine
coquettishness. One must admit it takes
very pretty feet, to say the least of it, to climb
a rope-ladder down the side of a ship, and
drop off into a boat on the swell of the sea.

The Captain was already in the boat, hav-
ing set himself for ballast, but Jack and Mercy
were still below in the cabin of the brig. Per-
haps Jack had timed it so.

Mercy was taking her last look around.
The narrow doors to the bunks on either side
were closed. The ugly little black stove
crouched in the corner beamed with leaden
lustre, the table at one side was covered with
a red cloth, the pale green walls ornamented
with a golden rod, the hanging-lamp ready
to be lighted, and the book-case, in another
corner, filled with books. Ah! Mercy would
never forget that scene, nor Jack standing
before her,—his face glowing with color, his
profusion of chestnut hair, his gently arched
black eyebrows, his eloquent eyes timid with

 

JACK O’DOON.

an unuttered wish, all were impressed upon
her memory forever.

“Mercy, I hate so for you to leave me,”
said he, taking her hand with the familiarity
which had existed between them since their
childhood. «Won't you tell me what troubles
you before you go ?—before I go? Surely
there is something hurting you deeply, and
you are keeping it back from me. It is be-
Cause you can’t understand me, Mercy. You
don’t know how utterly I love you—how all
that the world holds of joy or happiness or
life are locked up in you. Sometimes I wish
I had never come back, I should have been
spared so much. I should have lost this
happy day, but also this unutterable pain of
Separation, for it is like tearing my soul out
of my body ; and the hardest part of all is to
leave you suffering. To feel that a sorrow
which is your own has come between us. If
it were joy it would not be so hard. Tell me,
Oh, tell me, my darling, what it is?”

But Mercy listened without moving or
Speaking. Jack still held her hand. It was
pulseless and cold. He waited in pleading
Silence, but her lips were rigid. She looked
at him. There was infinite trust in her eyes,
but it was impossible for her to speak.

“ You will not tell me; you used to tell me
everything,” he said, regretfully.

“Oh, Jack, I cannot tell. I do not know.”

He paused a moment hesitating. At last he
Said, « But I know, Mercy, and I am certain

 
 

reaped pp

ns

ee

 

254 JACK O’DOON.

that he loves you ; and I swear to you it shall
all come right. You know my superstition
that I was saved from the wreck to save you
from something ; God only knows what, but
if you will trust me, I will do it; and I will
find a way to make you happy. I hear them
calling ; let me kiss you good-bye as I always
have done, once more, only once more, dear
Mercy. I promise you I will make you happy
at any cost, if I must die to do it.”

Without waiting her denial, he put his lov-
ing arm around her and kissed her tenderly,
as if she had been a sacred thing, and then
sprang through the companion-way, and was
gone.

But her heart.stood still, and her cheeks
burned red because he kissed her. Never
till that moment had she realized her self-
consecration to another, and she trembled
with such agitation that she clung to the rail
to support herself.

Jack returned to the skylight and called
her, but she shrank from his gaze when they
met. He was holding her hand to steady her
over the bulwark : « Dear Mercy, forgive me,
I Jove you so,” he whispered ; and as she
looked at him she saw the same look in his
eyes that had been in Algie’s own, that last
day in May when she had fled from him.
Jack’s words had told the meaning of it. «Z
love you so,” he said.

At the wharf Jack left them, after a linger-
ing “Good-bye,” and many times repeated

|

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JACK O’DOON. 255

‘God bless you,” and «Luck to ye,” was
shouted after him across the water.

They watched the sailors hoist the boat, and
Swing it up, and lash it over the poop, heard
the grating of the chains as they weighed
anchor, heard Jack’s voice in command, and
Mercy forgot, for the moment, the tones of the
lover, as she heard him ordering his men to
and fro. They saw the mainsail unfurled and
the gaff hoisted high, and the white canvas
Spread on the breeze: There wasa light wind,
sa all the square sails and jibs too were put
out.

The « Pansy ” toyed with the water, rocking
to and fro, as if coquetting with her image in
a glass, and then she moved just a little, very
Slowly, her sails rounding more and more,
until they shifted the tack, and she glided
Suddenly away like a beautiful, home-loving
bird, with her white wings spread. The
Crowd on the shore cheered and waved. All
the villagers were there, and they waved and
cheered, and waved again! The Captain
pulled out his great red handkerchief and
flung it at arm’s length. Jack, although so
brave, dropped his arm in terror. Who
knows what he thought, but it was a blood-
red flag over Mercy’s head. He had all a
Sailor’s superstitions. He knew no fear of
realities which he could fight, but of the
unseen, unknown, unconquerable, he had a
Nameless dread.

The Captain saw the sudden dropping of

 
 

 

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256 JACK O'DOON.

Jack’s arm, and after a moment he wiped his
brow in perplexity and shook his head grave-
ly, saying :. « Well, I'll be damned !”

I fear the recording angel, who wept over
Uncle Toby’s oath, would make a blistered
page of the Captain’s long account. Ican but
think that the milk of human kindness, which
came ever welling from his good old heart,
must have washed out all the venom ere the
many bad words he uttered escaped his un-
guarded lips.

«“He’s afeard o’ your red handkercher Be
said an old tar, touching the Captain’s arm.

«Good Lord, man,” cried the Captain,
amazed, ‘what's there to be afeard o’ in
that!”

But Splugen supplied him with a table-
cloth, and they all joined hands on it, and
waved and shouted till the vessel was too far
away to answer their signals, and they were
forced to desist,

A little later they were plodding along
over the sands by the way they had come.
Jack was gone. Thenew brig was no fiction ;
the day was done ; and Mercy went home,
more silent than before,

 

 

JACK O'DOON.

CHAPTER XIX.

REN Algie returned to his studio,

Oh after the interview with his mother,

the gentleman of fashion and ele-

gant leisure was left outside, and

only the natural man entered, prepared to

grapple with his difficulties and vanquish
them.

His mind, habituated to commenting coldly
upon his emotions, wondered at the power
which had arisen in hisbreast, and demanded
Co-operation from itself.

Was Algie a hero. after all? Did he
truly wish to put aside the temptations of the
world, its adulation, which more than all
things he had loved, its luxury and thought-
less ease ?

To what purpose ?

He sat thinking for a few moments; then
he opened his bills, looked over the items,
added them up, separately and zz ¢ofo , and
finally revolved in his mind the various pos-
sible means of paying them.

pe shall go into exile,” said he with a sigh,
which seemed rather of relief, as of a resolute
man who has his enemy at last, and considers

how to dispose of him.
17

 
 

 

258 JACK O’DOON.

The sum of money was large relatively.
He could not go to his mother for help. She
would have the right to laugh at him—though
she had often before paid dearly for that
privilege.

He took out his pocket-book containing the
check which the Captain had given him.
There was something in the big, ignorant
signature which smote his heart. How could
he use it as a thing of trade, or take pay in
any form, for the dear pleasure of painting
Mercy’s portrait! It seemed like money ob-
tained upon a false pretext. He looked at
the bills again.

They had not shrunk.

«Five bouquets at five dollars each !” he
ejaculated. « Dance witha girl that you care
nothing about, pay five dollars for her flowers,
and feel all the time that she is measuring
you by their merits, and not for your own.”
Had he really ever loved any woman before
to the intrinsic value of a dozen cut roses or
one orchid ?

He had never offered Mercy a flower ; but he
loved her ; he felt certain of it. He measured
his love, not by etiquette, but by the sacrifices
he was willing to make for it.

« One dozen China silk handkerchiefs, name
embroidered in white,” he continued. «Of
course they might have been marked in ink,
put that is so vulgar and conspicuous.”

« Three baskets of champagne—one hun-
dred and five dollars. To be sure!” That

 

JACK O’DOON.

was for his New-Year supper. They had hada
gorgeous time unquestionably, and one fellow,
happier than the rest, had stood on his head
upon the table ; and all had finished by hold-
ing each other’s coat-tails, and singing glorious
songs, marching around the festive board.
He had had enough of that sort of thing.

There had been no bills since he went to
Cassandra. It was the 31st of March, he
remembered. On that day the tide of his life
had turned. Bya singular coincidence, Jack's
life had been in deadly peril upon the same
day.

Algie got up and walked the floor.

A great desire seized him to go to the old
Captain, and fling himself into his bountiful
heart, as if it had been a gulf, full, like the sea,
of goodness and generosity, and say to the
listening compassion which should encompass
him: «Forgive me. I love your child, your
darling. Consider my past delinquencies, but
also my temptations. Help me, care for-me,
even feed me, until I can pay my debts out of
my income, and I will do all I can for you in
return !”

Alas! He stood on his pride and rejected
the thought.

If he had done so, the Captain would have
taken down his spectacles and looked at him,
have grumbled a little, which was his only
privilege, and then he would have flourished
the red handkerchief and considered ; and,
finally, would have taken Algie into the

 
260 JACK O’DOON. JACK O’DOON.

explanation or kindness. He had, it is true,
written a few words to Aunt Polly, as the
mistress of Blessington House, thanking her

securest nook of the great heart, and have
anchored him there alongside of Mercy.
And then he would have treated him like a

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han

 

superior being, and have bragged about him,
as he did about everything he loved and
doted on. And Mercy, save for her sympathy
in Jack’s disappointment, would have been
happy.

But Algie was too much of a man to do any
such childish thing; so, full of his conceit,
he got a large atlas and looked at a little dot
marked «Cassandra Bay.”

He meant to lock up these unhome-like
rooms, and go somewhere to sketch and
economize. He would buckle himself down
to hard work; and, by the compensation of
labor, lose his natural desire for amusement.
He would begin afar off—but Blessington
House should be the ultimate goal of his
pilgrimage.

He concluded to borrow money upon col-
lateral to pay his debts, and then go and grind
for weeks and months, if need be, until the
amount should be refunded. He would not
attempt to possess himself of the luxury ofa
wife until his debts were paid.

He ignored the fact that the luxury he was
denying himself was a human being, capable
of intensest suffering and disappointment, and
also of paying the debts.

The day before he left to enter into his
penitential exile, he had sent Mercy the pack-
age of sketches and notes, but not a word of

 

 

for her kindness during his stay there, but to
Mercy he had not sent a line.

As the days followed one another, Algie,
full of the sincerity of his intentions, became
happier, and his health was improved by his
life in the open air.

All day long he dreamed of the home he
meant to make, with Mercy for his bride.

«« Surely she loves me,” he said to himself,
remembering the quiver of her lip and the
tears in her eyes; and moreover had she not
told him that she was “one of those dreadful
people who never forget.” She must love him
still, for he had done nought to wound her.
He would not wound a hair ofher head. Was
there nothing to hurt her in the silence which
he would not vouchsafe to explain ?

* * * * *

A good many months had passed in this
fashion, and October frost had nipped the
grass, browned the leaves of the scrub oaks,
and blackened the cedars, ere Algie reached
a little village not far from Cassandra Bay.

He walked with the jaunty air and buoyant
step ofa free man, as he followed the path

which meandered through the rushes, among

which the tide ponds gleamed.
He could hear the distant boom of the

Ocean, and that, as well as the smell of the

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

BES JACK O’DOON.

marsh, brought back to him the sunny April
days.

His heart beat with passionate expectation,
and tears almost of rapture moistened his
eyes as the old red walls of Blessington House
came in view. Never had he been so glad to
get anywhere, or see anything, as he felt at
sight of the grim pile which stood out against
the sky like a coastguard station.

His heart beat with a moment’s uncertainty
as he put up his hand to open the gate. He
found the three sailors asleep in the garden,
with their chairs tilted against the wall of the
house.

Sailor growled, but, upon recognizing him,
wagged his tail and whined with satisfaction.

The parrot screamed until she wakened
Antonio.

«At last,” said the old man, upon perceiv-
ing Algie, «Our Lady has answered me !”

Algie shook hands with the men all around.
They told him that he looked « oncommon
well.” Any picturesque dress was becoming
to him; and the blue-flannel shirt, and velve-
teen breeches belted with a fair leather strap,
showed his well-made figure to advantage.
His coat was hanging over his arm.

« Are the family upstairs ?” asked Algie.

“No, sir, nobody but Miss Polly,” answered
Bill Junk, who was always the loquacious one
of the three. “Miss Mercy ain’t bin peert
fur a good while, and she -an’ the skipper is
gone out a-walkin’ down to Jack’s. Ef ye’ll

JACK O'DOON. 263

jest step up an’ set a while, one o’ us'll go
fetch ’em,” indicating Splugen, who did the
errands for the house.

Oh, no, thank you! Not by any means,”
cried Algie, and fearing he had been over-

heard, he hurried out of the gate, closing it
firmly behind him.

 
 

 

 

 

CHAPTER X~.

UA LGIE enjoyed the stiff breeze, and
Pee) found it bracing and pleasant after
\ his walk.

« Miss Mercy ain’t been peert late-
ly,” he repeated to himself, «but, she’s off at

Jack’s! Just what I might have expected !
Curse the luck of it! I wishl had come back
before.”

He pulled his moustache as he sauntered
along, scanning the distance, and listening for
voices. “It’s chilly for her to be out if she’s
ill. I wonder the old man takes so little care
of her,” he mused.

When he arrived at the divergent path
which led to Mother Margery’s cabin, he hesi-
tated. Anxious as he was to see Mercy, he
had some compunction about seeking her
under Jack’s very roof.

He stood vacillating, kicking the sand, un-
certain whether to follow that path or another
which led off to the north. The latter was
obscure and unpromising ; but, being unwill-
ing that Jack should witness his meeting with

Mercy, he took it.
As he walked along, idly looking about him,

a
AN

JACK O’DOON.

he was enraptured with the beauty of the
selene glowing in the sunset with many
ae shades of green, while the water
€ grasses gleamed with red and pur-
ple, reflected from the sky.
pb finally came out upon the bluff
oe He the beach, he wondered that
ee never brought him there, for it was
re : most beautiful spot along the coast.
oe sep S were spaciously wide and flat, and
unusually high.
eran ade was coming in so fast, it would
pauee ong ere the water would cover the
ae Stretch to the foot of the cliff.
ae one place in the sands which
ae - erent from. all the rest, gleaming
oe aS oy lustre, while the other sands were
ee reer s: and white, and winding out
ee iff like a sullen serpent creeping to
ee 2 excited Algie’s curiosity that he
eh the bluff until he reached a place
deer g enough to admit of his climbing
oe done so, he walked along the beach,
oak ope the shells under his feet. Thesea-
Soe flying low, screaming their shrill
ies ae ts. As he wandered on, picking up
foie ees of interest here and there, he
ee 1€ singular sand which he had come
Gee and advanced to meet the surf,
eel g sticks into the sea and watching
weeping in again amidst the foam on

 
 

 

JACK O’DOON.

the wave's edge, which spread sideways like
the feathers ona lady’s opening fan. Pausing,
he watched the foam turn red as it churned
up the powdered shells ; until, attempting to
move forward, he was surprised to find that
his feet were so heavy that it was almost im-
possible to lift them.

He bent all his strength to lift his right foot ;
but, although he succeeded, his dismay was
unutterable to find that his other foot had
sunk much deeper, and that the sand was
oozing in at his shoetops.

«What can be the matter?” thought Algie,
feeling rather amused than alarmed, but
nevertheless stretching his loose foot as far
pack as possible from the foam of the advanc-
ing wave. But all of a sudden there came to
him the memory of a chance allusion to the
quicksand on the North Beach.

An indescribable horror blanched his face,
and made him throw up his hands with a
gesture of despair.

Had he been less panic-stricken, and re-
membered the silvery stream of talc-like lus-
tre which he had come down from the cliff to
investigate, he would have recollected how
narrow it was, as it crawled out from the cliff ;
but his presence of mind forsook him, and he
guided his struggling steps backward, instead
of sideways, bewildered by the terror he felt
of the rapidly incoming tide, which was upon
him.

Each struggling step backward took him

TACK O’DOON.

deeper into the sands, for they were becom-
ing slimier with the access of the sea.

Physically, Algie was not strong at best,
and his entire body, already wet with perspi-
ration from the effort he was making, now
began to relax, and spasmodically the mus-
cles refused to move. He had a courageous
heart, and, having realized his extremity, en-
deavored to meet it as nobly ashecould. His
mind was alert, but it became moment by
moment more difficult to sustain the physical
effort which he was obliged to make. He
dared not pause, even an instant, to look
around, for each time that he succeeded in re-
leasing one foot, the other sank deeper, and it
was more difficult to withdraw it. Moreover,
he began to realize that an appalling paraly-
SIS was overpowering him.

At last his strength was entirely gone.
The tide was rolling in, and the spray made
him shiver. He had sunk to his knees.

In the agony of despair he abandoned his
efforts and looked about him. Not a crea-
ture was in sight. He felt that he was being
sucked in slowly, and the tide was rising in-
evitably ; but his mind was more heroic than
he had believed of himself. He would fight
for life, if only enough of life to fulfil what he
had left undone; he would tell Mercy that he
had not meant to neglect her nor wished to

forget her, Then his conscience would be at
rest.

In this last agony there seemed no hope for

 
 

JACK O’DOON.

himself. He yelled for help, but the wind was
blowing so hard it drowned his cries. He
struggled again and dragged his legs some
way along, for the sand was a little looser
than at first. Then he felt himself going
down, down, suddenly faster. Everything
was giving way under his feet.

% * * % %

Not long after Algie’s departure from
Blessington House, Mercy returned, accom-
panied by her father and Jack. Antonio,
eager to make her happy, was ready at the
gate with the news; and Jack, looking into
Mercy’s face, saw it overspread with a glow
of ineffable joy. It was a death-blow to
Jack’s own hopes, but the sorrow was without
reproach in the kind look of his eyes, as they
searched with inquiry into Mercy’s own.

«J will go and fetch him,” said he, anxious
to make her happy, even at such cost to him-
self.

Had Algie been as single-hearted as poor
Jack, he would not now be struggling in the
slough of such despair.

Mercy blushed painfully at finding her heart
thus open to Jack’s inquiry, and turned away
abashed, unable to answer him. He was
about to go, when he suddenly placed himself
before her, and with a loving look, which she
never afterwards forgot, took her hand in his
and said in a whisper: ‘Can’t you believe,
dear Mercy, that I love you more than I love
myself?”

 

 

JACK 0’ DOON. 269

Then he hurried out of the gate and across
the marshes to a spot where three paths met.
When he scrutinized the freshly-trodden foot-
prints, there was a place where some one
had halted, kicking the sands carelessly, and
finally seemed to have turned to the north-
ward by the dangerous way which skirted the
bluff and edged the quicksand.

Anxiety made Jack hasten, but when he
reached the bluff and looked around, at first
he saw nothing amiss. The sun had ‘set, but
it was brightly light, for the full moon, new-
risen in the east, flooded the beach with efful-
gent splendor.

He was looking admiringly up and down,
his gaze lingering upon the sweeps of sand
which glowed under the combined lights of
sunset and moonrise, when something at-
tracted his attention moving in the edge of
the foam.

At first he thought it was a great bird—a
southern pelican flapping its wings against its
sides. The quicksand, with its snake-like
winding, gleamed behind it. He fixed his
gaze, for the object was indistinct and his
eyes were dazed with watching the moonrise.
But all at once he understood.

It was the head and arms of a human
being! The sands had swallowed his body
and were still sucking in the little visible por-
tion of the miserable creature. The tide,

also, was closing upon him with deadly cer-
tainty,

 
 

 

 

 

JACK O’DOON.

« My God!” cried Jack, « the man must be
the painter, who has gone to his death—and
Mercy’s heart will break !”

He sprang down the sand-bluff and ran
across the beach.

Alas! what help wasthere? Nota beam,
nor rope’s end, nor splinter of the debris the
waves were ever bringing.

« Try and keep moving,” cried Jack, coming
nearer to Algie, and searching madly for some-
thing wherewith to reach him.

Algie was almost blind from exhaustion.
He had sunk so low that the sands were
pressing upon his breast, crushing the breath
out of him, and they were driven by each suc-
cessive breaker with the force of a renewed
shock. The muscles of his chest could no

longer resist the compression. He was as
one in a mould which was setting.

When Jack called to him, he had so nearly
lost consciousness that his interest in life was
gone along with it. Jack dared not leave him
to seek for help. In ten minutes the tide
would be over his head and all be ended for-

ever.
Jack tore off his clothes and tied them

together with a sailor’s deftness, and flung
the end of the line to Algie. But Algie could
not reach it; he had no strength left to push
forward, even with such powerful help so near
at hand.

« Are you still sinking?” cried Jack to

him.

 

 

 

 

JACK O’DOON. 271

« No, I think not,” replied Algie with diffi-
culty.

“Can’t youmove a littletoward me? Oh,
try! Ina moment you may be drowned, and
Mercy "Alas! poor Jack, he was fren-
zied with despair for her as well as compassion
for Algie. To see almost within grasp a
human life which in a moment might be
annihilated !—a life which, Jack declared to
himself, held all of Mercy’s happiness. De-
Spair crazed him or drove him to that mad-
ness of courage which puts a man outside of
every instinct of self-preservation.

Desperate for an expedient, he sought all
ite for some small piece of wood even. At
Sic oh me wuictaana ve see ae

ear his
weight, he pressed it firmly into the ground
and tied the line of clothes to it.

Again he flung the end of the line to Algie
but again it was notlong enough. Jack stood
erect one moment to think.

Algie, revived by Jack’s encouragement, or
with a ruling passion strong in death, looked
with admiring eyes upon Jack’s body as he
stood in the light of the moon, distinct against
the evening sky. The figure of a god, it
seemed so perfect, his flesh luminous, and
his eyes glowing with the warmth of a devo-
tio. which Algie thought divine.

Jack paused for an instant and cried out to
Algie: «I trust your honor. There’s a
chance of one life between us; whichever

 
 

JACK O’'DOON.

wins, his life belongs to Mercy. I divide
with you that chance !”

Algie, revived at this possibility, saw Jack
take the line in his hands, and, lying down,
stretch his body stiff, and roll with difficulty
across the quicksand toward himself. Jack
strained to reach Algie, but though his hands
touched him, he had not grasp enough to
clutch him, without letting go the line.

«For God’s sake, struggle towards me!”

cried Jack. Algie did his uttermost, but was

so tight in the sands that he could not move.

Jack shuddered with terror. What if they
both should die thus !

He lifted his eyes for another look at the
dear land he was exchanging for a loathsome
grave ; and then, without hope for himself,
but braving the frightful death, he let go his
hold of the line, and kneeling upon the sand,
into which he speedily sank, he thrust his
powerful arms under Algie’s shoulders,
clasped them around him, and with the help
of Algie’s feeble efforts, lifted him bodily out
of the sands, while he, poor Jack, sank down
in his place.

«Lean on me! Only lean on me,” cried
Jack, with heroic self-immolation, ‘and
stretch yourself out as straight and stiff as
you can, Surely God will let us live till the
tide comes in;” and he watched the foam
gather round him, whilst he sank faster and
faster under the burden of Algie, borne upon

his shoulders.

 

 

 

JACK O’DOON.

“Fling yourself sideways on the breaker
and remember, it is for Mercy’s sake that I
give you my life.”

Algie, confused by the tumult in his mind
and dazed by the terrors he had gone through,
only vaguely understood, at the time the
oe Soe ahs had uttered ; although the
nstinct of self- i i i
ee ee made him cling to

_God only knows what heroes feel when the
die: there are so few! But they seem i
cast aside the poverty of the flesh, as if it
were verily but rags hiding the immortal
spirit. Who wonders that the heathen adored
and apotheosized them, feeling it impossible

that such godliness sh
ould
hehe foc cease at death or
ss last a great breaker burst over them,
and wrenching Algie from Jack’s upholding
oes shoved him along the surface of the
quicksand, and left him u th i
Sead pon the skirt of the
Then Jack was free to fight for his life. He
gasped for breath, for the water had been
es him, and struggled to regain the line.
eae touched it. In a moment more he
at ies grasped it firmly, but another
reaker came and i
Fa tice and swept it far beyond
pate arms were palsied. He could not
itt the line, nor fling it to Jack, who was

drowni i i i i
te, ng, with the surf breaking over his

18

 
 

 

 

JACK O’DOON.

Again and again Algie tried, but he could
not move. His body was rigid with cramps,
and was only a prison to his agonized spirit.

Jack strangled. Algie could hear the
gurgling as he listened with bated breath.
In his despair at not being able to save him,
Algie would have died with him, and endeav-
pred to throw himself into the quicksand, but
a breaker promptly rolled him back.

And so Jack died, fulfilling the prophecy
of his superstition, and making good the as-
surance which, out of the generosity of his
heart, he had given Mercy, that he loved her
so well that he believed he could die to save
the life of a man she loved.

* x * * *

And while this frightful tragedy was being
enacted a child had been running toward
Blessington House. Speechless from fright,
gasping for breath, and with her little hand
upon her heart, she rushed against the Cap-
tain—-who was promenading the garden-
walk, impatiently awaiting Algie—his thumbs
thrust into the armholes ot his waistcoat, and
his hat on the back of his head.

It was the same child that Jack had carried
in his arms and warned against the sands on
the day of his father’s funeral.

« The sands, the sands !” gasped she.

«Good Lord,” cried the Captain, ‘“ what

sands do ye mean ?”
« A man’s in the sands! The quicksands,”

cried the child.

 

JACK O’DOON.
275

Mercy, listening at the open window, and
oe coe heart expecting Algie, certain
at Jack would bring him back
fea g ck, overheard
- She listened for a moment incredulous, and
ed ans wail of terror fled out of the
use and past the Captai i i
with the little girl. Beet ae
ee the household, but half understanding
Me y they went, pursued her along the path
y which Jack had followed Algie, and came
out upon the cliff where Algie and Jack suc
cessively had stood.
. Something like a log lay in the foam which
si breakers were shoving ashore. Mercy
c imbed down the cliff and ran toward it, dis-
covering that it was the body of a man
: Ae she had turned the face to the moon-
ght she saw Algie, but ] i
pees g could not tell if he
Tearing the shirt from his breast, she
pressed her ear against his flesh. The heart
ie faintly beating. Overcome by her
rief, sh i i
wee she pressed him, wet and cold, in her
. The others, hurrying after, took him away
oe her, and removed him beyond the reach
e tide. Finding that he was alive, they
Scanned the beach for Jack.
: ASot'S strange we don’t see nothin’ on him,”
ome one said, whilst they were endeavoring
to restore Algie.

One of the men presently espied a long

 
 

 

 

 

 

276 JACK O’DOON.

black line shoved about amid the foam, and
examined it.

A sailor’s clothes, knotted together, and
tied to a peg on the edge of the quicksand.
Where could the man be? Who was he?
Could he have sunk in the sands? Surely
not Jack, who knew their danger well.

But when Algie came to, the wretched truth
was disclosed, and all standing there felt
dumb under the dreadful blow. Without a
word, they stood watching the flood tide
spread a silvery sheet over where Jack lay.

«My God, man, you'll have to do a lot o’
good in this here worl’ to cost sich a price!”
cried the Captain, merciless in the bitterness
of his grief.

Mercy pressed Algie closer, in the pity of
her heart, but she knew that what her father
had said was true.

The men stood staring at the sea, incredu-
lous.

“Tt could not be!” they thought. “ Jack
dead !”

Jack, the pride of master and men ; a few
minutes before erect in the splendor of man-
hood, now laid low, and put out of sight for-
ever, by the combined infernal devilment of
land and sea !”

Mercy knew it was true. She alone knew
that Jack had superstitiously looked forward
to the necessity of dying for her. He had
told her so again and again; many memories
swept through her brain with a great rush,

 

JACK O’DOON. 277

She recalled the argument with Algie about
the immortality of Jack’s courage; and the
bitter question came to her: ‘‘ Has Algie one
quality as noble as Jack’s love for me, or his
devotion to his fellow-men ?”

Her judgment answered « /Vo,” but because
of something great and generous in herself,
she pressed Algie more closely in her arms,

feeling that she had strength to do for him
all that Jack had done for her.

THE END.

 
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DIARY OF A PILGRIMAGE
(And Six Essays). With upward of 100 Illustra-
tions by G. G. FRASER. 12mo, cloth, $1.25 3

paper, 40c.
THREE MEN IN A BOAT a
(To Say Nothing of the Dog). Illustrations by

A. FREDERICKS. 12mo, cloth, $1.25; 16mo,
paper, 4oc.

ON THE STAGE—AND OFF:
The Brief Career of a Would-Be Actor. x2mo,
cloth, $1.00; paper, 25¢.

TOLD AFTER SUPPER.

With 06 or 097 Illustrations by KennerH M.
SKEAPING. 12m0, cloth, $1.00; 16mo, paper, 30c.

-_IDLE THOUGHTS OF AN IDLE FELLOW.
zzmo, cloth, $1.00; 16mo, paper, 35¢.

STAGE-LAND. :
Curious Habits and Customs of its Inhabitants.
Illustrated by J. BERNARD PARTRIDGE. 12mo,

cloth, $1.00 ; 16mo, paper, 30c.

HENRY HOLT & COQ., Publishers, N. Y.

SARAH BARNWELL ELLIOTT’S NOVELS.

Uniform Edition, 12mo, cloth, $1.25.

JERRY.

“Opens on a plane of deep emotional force,
and never for a chapter does it sink below that
level.”’—Zife.

** All the scenes in Durden’s mine are excellent.
The mystery and the terror of the old workings
are indicated with decided power, and the de-
scription is’ graphic and impressive. . . * Jerry’
ls a really fresh, vigorous, and highly interesting
story.”—WV, VY. 77zbune.

JOHN PAGET.

“* A story very far above the ordinary.”—Bus~
Salo Commercial. el 23

‘Is vivacious and humorous, and its scenes are
evidently drawn from life.’— The Churchman.

** Just a simple, natural, wholesome and thor-

oughly satisfactory novel.”"—Minneapolis Trib-
une.

THE FELMERES.

Displays the same intense earnestness that
characterizes “* Jerry.’

ANDERSON’S ON HORSEBACK.

In the School and on the Road. By

Epwarp L, ANDERSON. 12mo, $1.50.

“ The rules cover points in the education of the
horse . . . which every owner of a saddle-horse
cught to know. . . The instructions are so plain
and so sensible that pleasure riders . . . will at

once perceive their usefulness.”——-V. V. Tribune.

HENRY HOLT & CO.,
29 West 23d Street, New York.

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A very good novel.—7xe Nation.

Mr. Ford’s able political novel.
—New York Times,

HON. PETER STIRLING,
And What People thought of Him.

By PAUL LEICESTER FORD.
12mo. $1.50.

The Nation further says he throws “ floods of
light on the razson détre, origin, and methods of
the dark figure that directs the destinies of our
cities. . . So strongly imagined and _ logically
drawn that it satisfies the demand for the ap-
pearance of truthin art. . . Telling scenes and
incidents and descriptions of political organiza
tion, all of which are literal transcripts of life and
fact—not dry irrelevancies thrown in by way of
imparting information, but lively detail; needful
fora clear understanding of Stirling’s progress
from the humble chairmanship of a primary to
the dictator’s throne. . . In the use of dramatic
possibilities, Mr. Ford is discreet and natural, and,
without giving Stirling a heroic pose, manages to
win for him very hearty sympathy and _ belief.
Stirling’s private and domestic story is well knit
with that of his public adventures.”

The Literary World says: ‘* Of the misman-
agement and villainy practiced in the wards, of
bossism, obstructions to reform, wranglings and
riots, we have had more or less in fiction, but noth-
ing like this. .. Pages which read like actual his-
tory. . . A fine, tender love story. . . A very
unusual, but, let us believe, a possible, character
. . . Peter Stirling is a man’s hero. .. Very
readable and enjoyable.”’

The Boston Advertiser says: ‘‘ The book is
sure to excite attention and win popularity.”

HENRY HOLT & CO., New York,

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