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Winston Churchill >> The Celebrity, Volume 3
THE CELEBRITY
By Winston Churchill
VOLUME 3.
CHAPTER IX
That evening I lighted a cigar and went down to sit on the outermost
pile of the Asquith dock to commune with myself. To say that I was
disappointed in Miss Thorn would be to set a mild value on my feelings.
I was angry, even aggressive, over her defence of the Celebrity. I had
gone over to Mohair that day with a hope that some good reason was at the
bottom of her tolerance for him, and had come back without any hope. She
not only tolerated him, but, wonderful to be said, plainly liked him.
Had she not praised him, and defended him, and become indignant when I
spoke my mind about him? And I would have taken my oath, two weeks
before, that nothing short of hypnotic influence could have changed her.
By her own confession she had come to Asquith with her eyes opened, and,
what was more, seen another girl wrecked on the same reef.
Farrar followed me out presently, and I had an impulse to submit the
problem as it stood to him. But it was a long story, and I did not
believe that if he were in my boots he would have consulted me. Again,
I sometimes thought Farrar yearned for confidences, though it was
impossible for him to confide. And he wore an inviting air to-night.
Then, as everybody knows, there is that about twilight and an
after-dinner cigar which leads to communication. They are excellent
solvents. My friend seated himself on the pile next to mine, and said,
"It strikes me you have been behaving rather queer lately, Crocker."
This was clearly an invitation from Farrar, and I melted.
"I admit," said I, "that I am a good deal perplexed over the
contradictions of the human mind."
"Oh, is that all?" he replied dryly. "I supposed it was worse.
Narrower, I mean. Didn't know you ever bothered yourself with abstract
philosophy."
"See here, Farrar," said I, "what is your opinion of Miss Thorn?"
He stopped kicking his feet against the pile and looked up.
"Miss Thorn?"
"Yes, Miss Thorn," I repeated with emphasis. I knew he had in mind that
abominable twaddle about the canoe excursions.
"Why, to tell the truth," said he, "I never had any opinion of Miss
Thorn."
"You mean you never formed any, I suppose," I returned with some
tartness.
"Yes, that is it. How darned precise you are getting, Crocker! One
would think you were going to write a rhetoric. What put Miss Thorn into
your head?"
"I have been coaching beside her this afternoon."
"Oh!" said Farrar.
"Do you remember the night she came," I asked, "and we sat with her on
the Florentine porch, and Charles Wrexell recognized her and came up?"
"Yes," he replied with awakened interest, "and I meant to ask you about
that."
"Miss Thorn had met him in the East. And I gathered from what she told
me that he has followed her out here."
"Shouldn't wonder," said Farrar. "Don't much blame him, do you? Is that
what troubles you?" he asked, in surprise.
"Not precisely," I answered vaguely; "but from what she has said then and
since, she made it pretty clear that she hadn't any use for him; saw
through him, you know."
"Pity her if she didn't. But what did she say?"
I repeated the conversations I had had with Miss Thorn, without revealing
Mr. Allen's identity with the celebrated author.
"That is rather severe," he assented.
"He decamped for Mohair, as you know, and since that time she has gone
back on every word of it. She is with him morning and evening, and, to
crown all, stood up for him through thick and thin to-day, and praised
him. What do you think of that?"
"What I should have expected in a woman," said he, nonchalantly.
"They aren't all alike," I retorted.
He shook out his pipe, and getting down from his high seat laid his hand
on my knee.
"I thought so once, old fellow," he whispered, and went off down the
dock.
This was the nearest Farrar ever came to a confidence.
I have now to chronicle a curious friendship which had its beginning at
this time. The friendships of the other sex are quickly made, and
sometimes as quickly dissolved. This one interested me more than I care
to own. The next morning Judge Short, looking somewhat dejected after
the overnight conference he had had with his wife, was innocently and
somewhat ostentatiously engaged in tossing quoits with me in front of the
inn, when Miss Thorn drove up in a basket cart. She gave me a bow which
proved that she bore no ill-will for that which I had said about her
hero. Then Miss Trevor appeared, and away they went together. This was
the commencement. Soon the acquaintance became an intimacy, and their
lives a series of visits to each other. Although this new state of
affairs did not seem to decrease the number of Miss Thorn's
'tete-a-tetes' with the Celebrity, it put a stop to the canoe expeditions
I had been in the habit of taking with Miss Trevor, which I thought just
as well under the circumstances. More than once Miss Thorn partook of
the inn fare at our table, and when this happened I would make my escape
before the coffee. For such was the nature of my feelings regarding the
Celebrity that I could not bring myself into cordial relations with one
who professed to admire him. I realize how ridiculous such a sentiment
must appear, but it existed nevertheless, and most strongly.
I tried hard to throw Miss Thorn out of my thoughts, and very nearly
succeeded. I took to spending more and more of my time at the
county-seat, where I remained for days at a stretch, inventing business
when there was none. And in the meanwhile I lost all respect for myself
as a sensible man, and cursed the day the Celebrity came into the state.
It seemed strange that this acquaintance of my early days should have
come back into my life, transformed, to make it more or less miserable.
The county-seat being several miles inland, and lying in the midst of
hills, could get intolerably hot in September. At last I was driven out
in spite of myself, and I arrived at Asquith cross and dusty. As Simpson
was brushing me off, Miss Trevor came up the path looking cool and pretty
in a summer gown, and her face expressed sympathy. I have never denied
that sympathy was a good thing.
"Oh, Mr. Crocker," she cried, "I am so glad you are back again! We have
missed you dreadfully. And you look tired, poor man, quite worn out. It
is a shame you have to go over to that hot place to work."
I agreed with her.
"And I never have any one to take me canoeing any more."
"Let's go now," I suggested, "before dinner."
So we went. It was a keen pleasure to be on the lake again after the
sultry court-rooms and offices, and the wind and exercise quickly brought
back my appetite and spirits. I paddled hither and thither, stopping now
and then to lie under the pines at the mouth of some stream, while Miss
Trevor talked. She was almost a child in her eagerness to amuse me with
the happenings since my departure. This was always her manner with me,
in curious contrast to her habit of fencing and playing with words when
in company. Presently she burst out:
"Mr. Crocker, why is it that you avoid Miss Thorn? I was talking of you
to her only to-day, and she says you go miles out of your way to get out
of speaking to her; that you seemed to like her quite well at first. She
couldn't understand the change."
"Did she say that?" I exclaimed.
"Indeed, she did; and I have noticed it, too. I saw you leave before
coffee more than once when she was here. I don't believe you know what a
fine girl she is."
"Why, then, does she accept and return the attentions of the Celebrity?"
I inquired, with a touch of acidity. "She knows what he is as well, if
not better, than you or I. I own I can't understand it," I said, the
subject getting ahead of me. "I believe she is in love with him."
Miss Trevor began to laugh; quietly at first, and, as her merriment
increased, heartily.
"Shouldn't we be getting back?" I asked, looking at my watch. "It lacks
but half an hour of dinner."
"Please don't be angry, Mr. Crocker," she pleaded. "I really couldn't
help laughing."
"I was unaware I had said anything funny, Miss Trevor," I replied.
"Of course you didn't," she said more soberly; "that is, you didn't
intend to. But the very notion of Miss Thorn in love with the Celebrity
is funny."
"Evidence is stronger than argument," said I. "And now she has even
convicted herself."
I started to paddle homeward, rather furiously, and my companion said
nothing until we came in sight of the inn. As the canoe glided into the
smooth surface behind the breakwater, she broke the silence.
"I heard you went fishing the other day," said she.
"Yes."
"And the judge told me about a big bass you hooked, and how you played
him longer than was necessary for the mere fun of the thing."
"Yes."
"Perhaps you will find in the feeling that prompted you to do that a clue
to the character of our sex."
CHAPTER X
Mr. Cooke had had a sloop yacht built at Far Harbor, the completion of
which had been delayed, and which was but just delivered. She was,
painted white, with brass fittings, and under her stern, in big, black
letters, was the word Maria, intended as a surprise and delicate conjugal
compliment to Mrs. Cooke. The Maria had a cabin, which was finished in
hard wood and yellow plush, and accommodations for keeping things cold.
This last Mr. Cooke had insisted upon.
The skipper Mr. Cooke had hired at Far Harbor was a God-fearing man with
a luke warm interest in his new billet and employer, and had only been
prevailed upon to take charge of the yacht for the month after the offer
of an emolument equal to half a year's sea pay of an ensign in the navy.
His son and helper was to receive a sum proportionally exorbitant. This
worthy man sighted Mohair on a Sunday morning, and at nine o'clock
dropped his anchor with a salute which caused Mr. Cooke to say unpleasant
things in his sleep. After making things ship-shape and hoisting the
jack, both father and son rowed ashore to the little church at Asquith.
Now the butler at Mohair was a servant who had learned, from long
experience, to anticipate every wish and whim of his master, and from
the moment he descried the white sails of the yacht out of the windows
of the butler's pantry his duty was clear as daylight. Such was the
comprehension and despatch with which he gave his commands that the
captain returned from divine worship to find the Maria in profane hands,
her immaculate deck littered with straw and sawdust, and covered to the
coamings with bottles and cases. This decided the captain, he packed his
kit in high dudgeon, and took the first train back to Far Harbor, leaving
the yacht to her fate.
This sudden and inconsiderate departure was a severe blow to Mr. Cooke'
who was so constituted that he cared but little about anything until
there was danger of not getting it. My client had planned a trip to Bear
Island for the following Tuesday, which was to last a week, the party to
bring tents with them and rough it, with the Maria as headquarters. It
was out of the question to send to Far Harbor for another skipper, if,
indeed, one could be found at that late period. And as luck would have
it, six of Mr. Cooke's ten guests had left but a day or so since, and
among them had been the only yacht-owner. None of the four that remained
could do more than haul aft and belay a sheet. But the Celebrity, who
chanced along as Mr. Cooke was ruefully gazing at the graceful lines of
the Maria from the wharf and cursing the fate that kept him ashore with
a stiff wind blowing, proposed a way out of the difficulty. He, the
Celebrity, would gladly sail the Maria over to Bear Island provided
another man could be found to relieve him occasionally at the wheel, and
the like. He had noticed that Farrar was a capable hand in a boat, and
suggested that he be sent for.
This suggestion Mr. Cooke thought so well of that he hurried over to
Asquith to consult Farrar at once, and incidentally to consult me. We
can hardly be blamed for receiving his overtures with a moderate
enthusiasm. In fact, we were of one mind not to go when the subject
was first broached. But my client had a persuasive way about him that
was irresistible, and the mere mention of the favors he had conferred
upon both of us at different periods of our lives was sufficient. We
consented.
Thus it came to pass that Tuesday morning found the party assembled on
the wharf at Mohair, the Four and the Celebrity, as well as Mr. Cooke,
having produced yachting suits from their inexhaustible wardrobes. Mr.
Trevor and his daughter, Mrs. Cooke and Miss Thorn, and Farrar and myself
completed the party. We were to adhere strictly to primeval principles:
the ladies were not permitted a maid, while the Celebrity was forced to
leave his manservant, and Mr. Cooke his chef. I had, however, thrust
into my pocket the Minneapolis papers, which had been handed me by the
clerk on their arrival at the inn, which happened just as I was leaving.
'Quod bene notandum!'
Thereby hangs a tale!
For the northern lakes the day was rather dead: a little wind lay in the
southeast, scarcely enough to break the water, with the sky an intense
blue. But the Maria was hardly cast and under way before it became
painfully apparent that the Celebrity was much better fitted to lead a
cotillon than to sail a boat. He gave his orders, nevertheless, in a
firm, seamanlike fashion, though with no great pertinence, and thus
managed to establish the confidence of Mr. Cooke. Farrar, after setting
things to rights, joined Mrs. Cooke and me over the cabin.
"How about hoisting the spinnaker, mate?" the Celebrity shouted after
him.
Farrar did not deign to answer: his eye was on the wind. And the boom,
which had been acting uneasily, finally decided to gybe, and swept
majestically over, carrying two of the Four in front of it, and all but
dropped them into the water.
"A common occurrence in a light breeze," we heard the Celebrity reassure
Mr. Cooke and Miss Thorn.
"The Maria has vindicated her sex," remarked Farrar.
We laughed.
"Why don't you sail, Mr. Farrar?" asked Mrs. Cooke.
"He can't do any harm in this breeze," Farrar replied; "it isn't strong
enough to get anywhere with."
He was right. The boom gybed twenty times that morning, and the
Celebrity offered an equal number of apologies. Mr. Cooke and the Four
vanished, and from the uproarious laughter which arose from the cabin
transoms I judged they were telling stories. While Miss Thorn spent the
time profitably in learning how to conn a yacht. At one, when we had
luncheon, Mohair was still in the distance. At two it began to cloud
over, the wind fell flat, and an ominous black bank came up from the
south. Without more ado, Farrar, calling on me to give him a hand, eased
down the halliards and began to close reef the mainsail.
"Hold on," said the Celebrity, "who told you to do that?"
"I am very sure you didn't," Farrar returned, as he hauled out a reef
earing.
Here a few drops of rain on the deck warned the ladies to retire to the
cabin.
"Take the helm until I get my mackintosh, will you, Farrar?" said the
Celebrity, "and be careful what you do."
Farrar took the helm and hauled in the sheet, while the Celebrity, Mr.
Cooke, and the guests donned their rain-clothes. The water ahead was
now like blue velvet, and the rain pelting. The Maria was heeling to the
squall by the time the Celebrity appeared at the cabin door, enveloped in
an ample waterproof, a rubber cover on his yachting cap. A fool despises
a danger he has never experienced, and our author, with a remark about a
spanking breeze, made a motion to take the wheel. But Farrar, the
flannel of his shirt clinging to the muscular outline of his shoulders,
gave him a push which sent him sprawling against the lee refrigerator.
Well Miss Thorn was not there to see.
"You will have to answer for this," he cried, as he scrambled to his feet
and clutched the weather wash-board with one hand, while he shook the
other in Farrar's face.
"Crocker," said Farrar to me, coolly, "keep that idiot out of the way for
a while, or we'll all be drowned. Tie him up, if necessary."
I was relieved from this somewhat unpleasant task. Mr. Cooke, with his
back to the rain, sat an amused witness to the mutiny, as blissfully
ignorant as the Celebrity of the character of a lake squall.
"I appeal to you, as the owner of this yacht, Mr. Cooke," the Celebrity
shouted, "whether, as the person delegated by you to take charge of it,
I am to suffer indignity and insult. I have sailed larger yachts than
this time and again on the coast, at--" here he swallowed a portion of a
wave and was mercifully prevented from being specific.
But Mr. Cooke was looking a trifle bewildered. It was hardly possible
for him to cling to the refrigerator, much less quell a mutiny. One who
has sailed the lakes well knows how rapidly they can be lashed to fury by
a storm, and the wind was now spinning the tops of the waves into a
blinding spray. Although the Maria proved a stiff boat and a seaworthy,
she was not altogether without motion; and the set expression on Farrar's
face would have told me, had I not known it, that our situation at that
moment was no joke. Repeatedly, as she was held up to it, a precocious
roller would sweep from bow to stern, until we without coats were wet and
shivering.
The close and crowded cabin of a small yacht is not an attractive place
in rough weather; and one by one the Four emerged and distributed
themselves about the deck, wherever they could obtain a hold. Some of
them began to act peculiarly. Upon Mr. Cooke's unwillingness or
inability to interfere in his behalf, the Celebrity had assumed an
aggrieved demeanor, but soon the motion of the Maria became more and
more pronounced, and the difficulty of maintaining his decorum likewise
increased. The ruddy color left his face, which grew pale with effort.
I will do him the justice to say that the effort was heroic: he whistled
popular airs, and snatches of the grand opera; he relieved Mr. Cooke of
his glasses (of which Mr. Cooke had neglected to relieve himself), and
scanned the sea line busily. But the inevitable deferred is frequently
more violent than the inevitable taken gracefully, and the confusion
which at length overtook the Celebrity was utter as his humiliation was
complete. We laid him beside Mr. Cooke in the cockpit.
The rain presently ceased, and the wind hauled, as is often the case,
to the northwest, which began to clear, while Bear Island rose from the
northern horizon. Both Farrar and I were surprised to see Miss Trevor
come out; she hooked back the cabin doors and surveyed the prostrate
forms with amusement.
We asked her about those inside.
"Mrs. Cooke has really been very ill," she said, "and Miss Thorn is doing
all she can for her. My father and I were more fortunate. But you will
both catch your deaths," she exclaimed, noticing our condition. "Tell me
where I can find your coats."
I suppose it is natural for a man to enjoy being looked after in this
way; it was certainly a new sensation to Farrar and myself. We assured
her we were drying out and did not need the coats, but nevertheless she
went back into the cabin and found them.
"Miss Thorn says you should both be whipped," she remarked.
When we had put on our coats Miss Trevor sat down and began to talk.
"I once heard of a man," she began complacently, "a man that was buried
alive, and who contrived to dig himself up and then read his own epitaph.
It did not please him, but he was wise and amended his life. I have
often thought how much it might help some people if they could read their
own epitaphs."
Farrar was very quick at this sort of thing; and now that the steering
had become easier was only too glad to join her in worrying the
Celebrity. But he, if he were conscious, gave no sign of it.
"They ought to be buried so that they could not dig themselves up," he
said. "The epitaphs would only strengthen their belief that they had
lived in an unappreciative age."
"One I happen to have in mind, however, lives in an appreciative age.
Most appreciative."
"And women are often epitaph-makers."
"You are hard on the sex, Mr. Farrar," she answered, "but perhaps justly
so. And yet there are some women I know of who would not write an
epitaph to his taste."
Farrar looked at her curiously.
"I beg your pardon," he said.
"Do not imagine I am touchy on the subject," she replied quickly; "some
of us are fortunate enough to have had our eyes opened."
I thought the Celebrity stirred uneasily.
"Have you read The Sybarites?" she asked.
Farrar was puzzled.
"No," said he sententiously, "and I don't want to."
"I know the average man thinks it a disgrace to have read it. And you
may not believe me when I say that it is a strong story of its kind, with
a strong moral. There are men who might read that book and be a great
deal better for it. And, if they took the moral to heart, it would prove
every bit as effectual as their own epitaphs."
He was not quite sure of her drift, but he perceived that she was still
making fun of Mr. Allen.
"And the moral?" he inquired.
"Well," she said, "the best I can do is to give you a synopsis of the
story, and then you can judge of its fitness. The hero is called Victor
Desmond. He is a young man of a sterling though undeveloped character,
who has been hampered by an indulgent parent with a large fortune.
Desmond is a butterfly, and sips life after the approved manner of his
kind,--now from Bohemian glass, now from vessels of gold and silver. He
chats with stage lights in their dressing-rooms, and attends a ball in
the Bowery or a supper at Sherry's with a ready versatility. The book,
apart from its intention, really gives the middle classes an excellent
idea of what is called 'high-life.'
"It is some time before Desmond discovers that he possesses the gift of
Paris,--a deliberation proving his lack of conceit,--that wherever he
goes he unwittingly breaks a heart, and sometimes two or three. This
discovery is naturally so painful that he comes home to his chambers and
throws himself on a lounge before his fire in a fit of self-deprecation,
and reflects on a misspent and foolish life. This, mind you, is where
his character starts to develop. And he makes a heroic resolve, not to
cut off his nose or to grow a beard, nor get married, but henceforth to
live a life of usefulness and seclusion, which was certainly considerate.
And furthermore, if by any accident he ever again involved the affections
of another girl he would marry her, be she as ugly as sin or as poor as
poverty. Then the heroine comes in. Her name is Rosamond, which sounds
well and may be euphoniously coupled with Desmond; and, with the single
exception of a boarding-school girl, she is the only young woman he ever
thought of twice. In order to save her and himself he goes away, but the
temptation to write to her overpowers him, and of course she answers his
letter. This brings on a correspondence. His letters take the form of
confessions, and are the fruits of much philosophical reflection.
'Inconstancy in woman,' he says, because of the present social
conditions, is often pardonable. In a man, nothing is more despicable.'
This is his cardinal principle, and he sticks to it nobly. For, though
he tires of Rosamond, who is quite attractive, however, he marries her
and lives a life of self-denial. There are men who might take that story
to heart."
I was amused that she should give the passage quoted by the Celebrity
himself. Her double meaning was, naturally, lost on Farrar, but he
enjoyed the thing hugely, nevertheless, as more or less applicable to Mr.
Allen. I made sure that gentleman was sensible of what was being said,
though he scarcely moved a muscle. And Miss Trevor, with a mirthful
glance at me that was not without a tinge of triumph, jumped lightly to
the deck and went in to see the invalids.
We were now working up into the lee of the island, whose tall pines stood
clean and black against the red glow of the evening sky. Mr. Cooke began
to give evidences of life, and finally got up and overhauled one of the
ice-chests for a restorative. Farrar put into the little cove, where we
dropped anchor, and soon had the chief sufferers ashore; and a delicate
supper, in the preparation of which Miss Thorn showed her ability as a
cook, soon restored them. For my part, I much preferred Miss Thorn's
dishes to those of the Mohair chef, and so did Farrar. And the Four,
surprising as it may seem, made themselves generally useful about the
camp in pitching the tents under Farrar's supervision. But the Celebrity
remained apart and silent.
CHAPTER XI
Our first, night in the Bear Island camp passed without incident, and we
all slept profoundly, tired out by the labors of the day before. After
breakfast, the Four set out to explore, with trout-rods and shot-guns.
Bear Island is, with the exception of the cove into which we had put, as
nearly round as an island can be, and perhaps three miles in diameter.
It has two clear brooks which, owing to the comparative inaccessibility
of the place, still contain trout and grayling, though there are few
spots where a fly can be cast on account of the dense underbrush. The
woods contain partridge, or ruffed grouse, and other game in smaller
quantities. I believe my client entertained some notion of establishing
a preserve here.