The Mermaid | Page 2

these forces into the more useful channels. Then as to

capacity, he had the fine sensibilities of a poet, the facile introspection
of the philosophical cast of mind, without the mental power to write
good verse or to be a philosopher. He had, at least in youth, the
conscience of a saint without the courage and endurance which appear
necessary to heroism. In mockery the quality of ambition was bestowed
upon him but not the requisites for success. Nature has been working
for millions of years to produce just such characters as Caius Simpson,
and, character being rather too costly a production to throw away, no
doubt she has a precise use for every one of them.
It is not the province of art to solve problems, but to depict them. It is
enough for the purpose of telling his story that a man has been
endowed with capacity to suffer and rejoice.
CHAPTER II.
THE SAD-EYED CHILD.
One evening in early summer Caius went a-fishing. He started to walk
several miles to an inlet where at high tide the sea-trout came within
reach of the line. The country road was of red clay, and, turning from
the more thickly-settled district, Caius followed it through a wide wood
of budding trees and out where it skirted the top of low red cliffs,
against which the sea was lapping. Then his way led him across a farm.
So far he had been walking indolently, happy enough, but here the
shadow of the pain of the world fell upon him.
This farm was a lonesome place close to the sea; there was no
appearance of prosperity about it. Caius knew that the farmer, Day by
name, was a churl, and was said to keep his family on short rations of
happiness. As Caius turned off the public road he was not thinking
specially of the bleak appearance of the particular piece of farmland he
was crossing, or of the reputation of the family who lived upon the
increase of its acres; but his attention was soon drawn to three children
swinging on a gate which hung loosely in the log fence not far from the
house. The eldest was an awkward-looking girl about twelve years of
age; the second was a little boy; the youngest was a round-limbed,

blond baby of two or three summers. The three stood upon the lowest
bar of the gate, clinging to the upper spars. The eldest leaned her
elbows on the top and looked over; the baby embraced the middle bar
and looked through. They had set the rickety gate swinging petulantly,
and it latched and unlatched itself with the sort of sound that the
swaying of some dreary wind would give it. The children seemed to
swing there, not because they were happy, but because they were
miserable.
As Caius came with light step up the lane, fishing gear over his
shoulder, the children looked at him disconsolately, and when he
approached the gate the eldest stepped down and pulled it open for him.
"Anything the matter?" he asked, stopping his quick tread, and turning
when he had passed through.
The big girl did not answer, but she let go the gate, and when it jerked
forward the baby fell.
She did not fall far, nor was she hurt; but as Caius picked her up and
patted her cotton clothes to shake the dust out of them, it seemed to him
that he had never seen so sad a look in a baby's eyes. Large, dark, dewy
eyes they were, circled around with curly lashes, and they looked up at
him out of a wistful little face that was framed by a wreath of yellow
hair. Caius lifted the child, kissed her, put her down, and went on his
way. He only gave his action half a thought at the time, but all his life
afterwards he was sorry that he had let the baby go out of his arms
again, and thankful that he had given her that one kiss.
His path now lay close by the house and on to the sea-cliff behind. The
house stood in front of him--four bare wooden walls, brown painted,
and without veranda or ornament; its barns, large and ugly, were close
beside it. Beyond, some stunted firs grew in a dip of the cliff, but on the
level ground the farmer had felled every tree. The homestead itself was
ugly; but the land was green, and the sea lay broad and blue, its breast
swelling to the evening sun. The air blew sweet over field and cliff, add
the music of the incoming tide was heard below the pine-fringed bank.
Caius, however, was not in the receptive mind which appreciates

outward things. His attention was not thoroughly aroused from himself