ARVEL'S BEACH is that long, crescent-shaped stretch of fine, white sand between Barnaby's Head and the Long Stone, facing a little east of south, and open to the Atlantic; with a noble surf in a southerly gale, a surf which beats the sand into a surface hard and smooth and infinitely pleasant.
They call it Marvel's Beach, but it is not my beach, of course. They call it that from a laudable desire to ridicule, I suppose. Five years ago I should have had that laudable desire if I were accustomed to see a man, not turned thirty, shunning the companionship of his fellow-men and trying to turn hermit; and all this effort at hermiting on account of Betty Bethune, who may not have been worth it, anybody would have said, no doubt. I am inclined to think, though, that it would not have been best for anybody to hint in my hearing that she was not worth it.
But let us put Betty Bethune out of our minds if we can. I cannot for very long; that has been the trouble with me for the five years just past, and it was because of that inability that I took ship suddenly at Hull upon the completion of that voyage with the Honorable Mr. Bethune and his daughter. I shipped before the mast—I could not do better—on a bark bound for Valparaiso. She was neither very good nor very bad, although I thought her very bad. I did not know how bad a ship can be, but I found out before I got through. At Valparaiso I shipped for Singapore; and in the course of three years I went around the world twice. Little good it did me. I saw many things that I should not have seen, and I failed to see the things that I should have seen; no doubt I did many things which I should not have done, and left undone the things which I should have done. I cannot say with truth that there was no health in me, for my morals were not noticeably impaired, and I was but one great lump of sinew when I got home again—cured, as I flattered myself. I had not reckoned on the fact that Mr. Bethune was no longer our representative at a foreign court, but my near neighbor here, if neighbors can be said to be near whose houses are two miles apart. My house overlooks the harbor, which does very well if one cannot do better, and his the ocean, which does very well indeed—always; and he does not appreciate it. I do not believe he can, although Miss Bethune may. Marvel's Beach is his—the Honorable Mr. Bethune's—and he lets them call it Marvel's without so much as raising a finger or his voice to protest, no doubt snickering to himself with every repetition. I believe that Betty, now—but let us put Betty Bethune out of our minds, as I said at the beginning, and talk of something else.
By the middle of September the beach is all mine; all mine through the autumn storms, with their winds so wild that I can scarcely stand up against them, and which often, in my pacing to and fro, have brought me to a halt or even forced me back a step; winds which whip the spray and the rain about me and tear at my coat and lash my face with wet sand. The great surges thunder down upon the beach with a continuous roar, stirring up the sand and leaving their foam in mounds which stay but an instant, quivering, then are seized by the wind and are scattered and go racing off before it, so that the whole beach is white, It is glorious. I ride home with an exaltation of spirit. I could do great deeds.
Not that I do any. I don't. As I draw near home I get to thinking again of Betty Bethune, and the exaltation of spirit slips from me like an old cloak. Probably it is no more than that. And I take my horse to the barn and see him properly rubbed down and turned into his box. He gives a great sigh of content and stretches his lean neck over the door and looks at me; and I rub his nose gently, and I heave another sigh—not of content—and I go to the house, in which there are four maids, so called, and a man, to look after the comfort of one other man. And the four maids and the man take care of the house well enough and look after my bodily comfort; my happiness is no concern of theirs.