He now walked down the old road with his usual circumspectgait; he was with Lucian's wife, whom he always treated with the respect due to an elderly lady.
Lucian was first, with Garda; he had gathered for her some sprays of wild blossoms, and these she was combining in various ways as she walked. She scarcely spoke. But her silence seemed only part of a supreme indolent content.
Mrs. Spenser was behind with Torres—close behind. Margaret, too, did not linger; Mr. Moore, who was with her, would have preferred, perhaps, a less direct advance, a few light expeditions into the neighboring thickets, for instance; he carried his butterfly pole, and looked about him scrutinizingly. They were going in search of an old tomb, which Lucian was to sketch. It was a mysterious old tomb, no one had any idea who lay there; the ruined mansion they had passed had its own little burial-ground, standing in a circle of trees like the one at East Angels; but this old tomb was alone in the woods, isolated and unaccounted for; there was no trace of a house or any former cultivation near. Its four stone sides were standing, but the top slab was gone, and from within—there was no mound—grew a cedar known to be so ancient that it threw back the lifetime of the person who lay beneath to unrecorded days; for he must have been placed at rest there before the old tree, as a baby sapling, had raised its miniature head above the ground.
They had advanced about a mile, when Mrs. Spenser stopped, she found herself unable to go farther; she made her confession with curt speech and extreme reluctance. They all looked at her and saw her fatigue; that made her more curt still. But it could not be helped; she was flushed in an even dark red hue all over her face from the edge of her hair to her throat; she was breathing quickly; her hands shook. The heat had affected her; she was always affected by the heat, and it was a warm day; she had never been in the habit of walking far.
"You must not go another step, Rosalie," said Lucian, who had come back to her; "the others can go on, and I will wait here with you. When you are quite rested we will go slowly back to the shore; there will still be time, I presume, for me to get in my sketch."
But Rosalie never could bear to give her husband trouble."I will wait here," she said, "but you need not. Please go with the others, as you first intended; you will find me here on your way back."
"I shall stay with you," repeated Lucian.
She looked so tired that they all busied themselves in preparing a seat for her; they made it of the light mantles which the ladies had been carrying over their arms, spreading them on the ground under a large tree where there was a circle of shade. Here she sat down, leaning against the tree's trunk. "If you don't go on with the others, Lucian, I shall be perfectly wretched," she said. "There's nothing in the world the matter with me; you have seen me in this way before, and you know it is nothing—I have only lost my breath."
"Yes, I know it's nothing," Lucian answered, kindly. "But I cannot leave you here alone, Rosalie; don't ask it."
Mr. Moore, who had been standing with his hands patiently folded over his butterfly pole, now had an inspiration; it was that he himself should remain with "Cousin Rosalie." "I have no talent for sketching," he said, looking round upon them; "really none whatever, I assure you; thus it will be no deprivation. And Ihaveobserved some interesting butterflies in this neighborhood, which I should like to obtain, if possible."
"Why shouldn't we all desert Mr. Spenser?" said Margaret. "I have no doubt his sketch will be much more picturesque than the reality. It's very warm; I don't think any of us (those not inspired by artistic intentions) care to go farther."
Mrs. Spenser watched her husband's face, she was afraid he would not be pleased. But under no circumstances was Lucian ever ill-natured. He now made all manner of sport of their laziness, singling out Torres especially as the target for his wit. Torres grinned—Lucian was the only person who could bring out that grin; then he repressed his unseemly mirth by passing his hand over his face, the thumb on one side, all the fingers on the other, and letting them move downward and come together at the chin, thus closing in the grin on the way. Restored to his usual demeanor, he bowed and was ready for whatever should be the ladies'pleasure. Their pleasure, after Lucian's departure, was simply to recline under the large tree; Mr. Moore had already begun his search in the neighboring thickets, and was winding in and out, now in sight, now gone again, with alert step and hopeful eye.
The three ladies sat idly perforating the ground with the tips of their closed parasols. "What are we going to do to amuse ourselves?" said Garda.
"You think a good deal of your amusement, don't you, Miss Thorne?" said Rosalie. She spoke in rather an acid tone; Lucian, too, thought a good deal of his amusement.
But Garcia never noticed Rosalie's intonations; acid or not, they never seemed to reach her. "Yes; I hate to be just dull, you know," she answered, frankly. "I'd much rather be asleep."
Torres was standing at the edge of their circle of shade in his usual taut attitude.
"Oh, Mr. Torres, do either sit down or lie down," urged Garda; "it tires me to look at you! If you won't do either, then go and lean against a tree."
Torres looked about him with serious eyes. There was a tree at a little distance which had no low branches; he went over and placed himself close to it, his back on a line with the trunk, but without touching it.
"You're not leaning," said Garda. "Lean back! Lean!"
Thus adjured, Torres stiffly put his head back far enough to graze the bark. But the rest of his person stood clear.
"Oh, howfunnyyou always are!" said Garda, breaking into a peal of laughter.
Torres did not stir. He was very happy to furnish amusement for the señorita, inscrutable as the nature of it might be; it never occurred to Torres that his attitudes were peculiar.
But Garda was now seized with another idea, which was that they should lunch where they were, instead of at the shore; it was much prettier here, as the shore was sandy; the squatter's boys would be delighted to bring the baskets. Torres, no longer required to make a Daphne of himself, was detached from the bark and sent upon this errand, he was to convoy back baskets and boys; obedient as ever, he departed. And then Garda relapsed into silence; after a whileshe put her head down on Margaret's lap, as if she were going to try the condition that was better than being "just dull, you know." It was true that they were a little dull. Mr. Moore had entirely disappeared; Rosalie was never very scintillant; Garda was apparently asleep; Margaret, whatever her gifts might have been, could not very well be brilliant all alone. After a while Garda suddenly opened her eyes, took up her hat, and rose.
"I think I will go down, after all, and join Mr. Spenser," she said. "I like to watch him sketch so much; I'll bring him back in an hour or so."
Rosalie's eyes flashed. But she controlled herself. "Aren't you afraid of the heat?" she asked.
"Don't go, Garda," said Margaret. "It's very warm."
"You forget, you two, that I was born here, and like the heat," said Garda, looking for her gloves.
"Surely it cannot be safe for you to go alone," pursued Rosalie. "We are very far from—from everything here."
"It's safe all about Gracias," answered Garda. "And we're not very far from Lucian at least; I shall find him at the end of the path, it goes only there."
It was a simple slip of the tongue; she had talked so constantly of him, and always as "Lucian," to Margaret and Winthrop the winter before, that it was natural for her to use the name. She would never have dreamed of using it merely to vex Mrs. Spenser; to begin with, she would not have taken the trouble for Mrs. Spenser, not even the trouble to vex her.
"I fear Lucian, as you call him, will hardly appreciate your kindness," responded Rosalie, stiffly. "He is fond of sketching by himself; and especially, when he has once begun, he cannot bear to be interrupted."
"I shall not interrupt him," said Garda. "I hardly think he callsmean interruption."
She spoke carelessly; her carelessness about it increased Mrs. Spenser's inward indignation.
"Do you sanction this wild-goose chase, Mrs. Harold?" she said, turning to Margaret, with a stiff little laugh.
"No, no; Garda is not really going, I think," Margaret answered.
"Yes, Margaret, this time I am," said Garda's undisturbed voice.
Mrs. Spenser waited a moment. Then she rose. "We will all go," she said, with a good deal of dignity; "I could not feel easy, and I don't think Mrs. Harold could, to have you go alone, Miss Thorne."
"I don't know what there is to be afraid of—unless you mean poor Lucian," said Garda, laughing.
Mrs. Spenser rested her hands upon her arms with a firm pressure, the right hand on the top of the left arm, the left hand under the right arm as a support. In this pose (which gave her a majestic appearance) she left the shade, and walked towards the path.
"I'm afraid you will suffer from the heat," said Garda, guilelessly. It really was guileless—a guileless indifference; but to a large, dark, easily flushed woman it sounded much like malice.
They had gone but a short distance when Garda's prophecy came true; the deep red hue re-appeared, it was even darker than before. Margaret was alarmed. "Do go back to the shade," she urged.
Mrs. Spenser, who had stopped for a moment, glanced at her strangely. "I am perfectly well," she answered, in a husky whisper.
Margaret looked at Garda, who was standing at a little distance, waiting. The girl, who was much amused by this scene, mutely laughed and shook her head; evidently she would not yield.
"I will go on with Garda," Margaret said; "but I beg you not to attempt it, Mrs. Spenser."
"Oh, ifyouare going," murmured Rosalie, her eyes still shining strangely from her copper-colored face.
"Yes, I am going," answered Margaret, with decision.
Rosalie said something about its being "much better," as the road was "so lonely;" and then, turning, she made her way back to the tree.
"It's not like you, Garda, to be so wilful," said Margaret, when was out of hearing.
"Why, yes, it is.Yourwill is nice and beautiful, so I don't come into conflict with it; hers isn't, so I do.Idon'tweigh one hundred and eighty pounds, andIdon't mind the heat; why, then, should I sit under a tree forever because she has to?"
"I wish you would sit under it to oblige me."
"It isn't to oblige you, it's to oblige Mrs. Rosalie; I can't possibly take the trouble to oblige Mrs. Rosalie. You don't really mind the sun any more than I do, you slim fair thing! it's all pretence. Let red people sit under trees; you and I will go on." She put her arm round Margaret and drew her forward. "Don't be vexed with me; you know I love you better than anything else on earth."
"Yet never wish to please me."
"Yes, I do. But I please you as I am. Is that impertinent?"
"Yes," said Margaret, gravely.
"It's your fault, then; you've spoiled me. When have you done one thing or said one thing through all this long summer which was not extraordinarily kind? Nobody in the world, Margaret, has ever dreamed of being as devoted to me as you have been. And if that's impertinent too—the saying so—I can't help it; it's true."
Margaret made no reply to this statement, which had been made without the least vanity; it had been made, indeed, with a detached impartiality which was remarkable, as though the girl had been speaking of some one else.
Rosalie watched their two figures go down the path out of sight. A few minutes later Mr. Moore made a brief appearance, flying with extended pole across the glade like a man possessed. But he had seen that she was alone, and he therefore returned, after he had not succeeded in catching his prey; he sat down beside her, and asked her if she had read the Westover Manuscript.
Margaret and Garda reached the path's end—it ended in a wood—and found Lucian sketching.
"Ah-h-h! curiosity!" he said, as they came up.
"Yes," answered Garda, seating herself on the ground beside him, and, as usual, taking off her hat; "I never was so curious in my life. Show me your sketch, please."
He held it towards her.
She looked at him as he bent from his camp-stool, she didnot appear to be so curious as her previous statement had seemed to indicate. She smiled and fell into her old silence again as he returned to his work, that silence of tranquil enjoyment, leaving Margaret to carry on the conversation, in case she should wish for conversation.
Apparently Margaret wished for it. She, too, was resting in the shade; she spoke of various things—of the white bird they had seen sitting on its nest, which had been constructed across the whole top of a small tree, so that the white-bosomed mother sat enthroned amid the green; of the song of the mocking-birds, which had made a greater impression upon her than anything in Florida; and so on.
"Excuse my straying answers," said Lucian, after a while. "However, painting is not so bad as solitaire; did you ever have the felicity of conversing with a friend (generally a lady) while a third person is engaged at the same table with that interesting game? Your lady listens to you with apparent attention, you are led on, perhaps, to talk your best, when suddenly, as you least expect it, her hand gives a swoop down on her friend's spread-out cards, she moves one of them quickly, with a 'There!' or else an inarticulate little murmur of triumph over his heedlessness, and then transfers her gaze back to you again, with an innocent candor which seems to say that it has never been abstracted. I don't know anything pleasanter than conversation under such circumstances."
Margaret laughed. "Come, Garda, let us go and have a nearer look." For Lucian had placed himself at some distance from the tomb; he was giving a view of it at the end of a forest vista.
But Garda did not care for a nearer look. She had seen the old tomb many times.
"Let us make a wreath for it, then, while Mr. Spenser is sketching. So that it can feel that for once—"
"It's too old to feel," said Garda.
Margaret gathered a quantity of a glossy-leaved vine which was growing over some bushes near. "I shall make a wreath, even if you don't," she said. And she sat down and began her task.
"I think this will do," said Lucian, after another ten minutes, surveying his work. "I can finish it up at home."
Margaret threw down her vines, and began to help him collect his scattered possessions.
"Don't go yet; it's so lovely here," said Garda. "Make a second sketch for me."
"I will copy you one from this," he answered.
"No, I want one made especially for me, even if it's only a beginning; and I want it made here."
"But we really ought to be going back, Garda," said Margaret.
"Ineverwant to go back," Garda declared. She laughed as she said it. But she looked at Lucian with the same serene content; it was very infectious, he sank down on his camp-stool, and began again.
Margaret stood a moment as if uncertain. Then she sat down beside Garda, and went on with her wreath.
"How perfectly still it is here!" said Lucian. "Florida's a very still land, there are no hot sounds any more than cold ones; what's your idea of the hottest sound you know, Mrs. Harold?"
Margaret considered. "The sound—coming in through your closed green blinds on a warm summer afternoon when you want to sleep—of a stone-mason chipping away on a large block of stone somewhere, out in the hot sun."
"Good! Do you know the peculiar odor made by summer rain on those same green blinds you speak of? Dusty ones?"
"They needn't be dusty. Yes, I know it well."
"I'm afraid you're an observer; I hope you don't turn the talent towards nature?"
"Why not?"
"Because people who observe nature don't observe their fellow-man; the more devoted you are to rocks and trees, and zoophytes and moths, the less you care for human beings; bless you! didn't you know that? You get to thinking of them in general, lumping them as 'humanity.' But you always think of the zoophytes in minutest particulars."
"Never mind sketching the tomb; sketch me," said Garda.
Margaret and Lucian looked up; she appeared to have heard nothing that they had been saying, she was sitting with her hands clasped round one knee, her head thrown back.
"Sketch you?" Lucian repeated.
"Yes," she answered. "Please begin at once."
"In that attitude?"
"You may choose your attitude."
"Oh, if I may choose!" he said, springing up. He stood for a moment looking at her as she sat there. Unrepressed admiration of her beauty shone in his eyes.
"I didn't know you could paint portraits, Mr. Spenser," remarked Margaret.
"I can now; at least I shall try," he answered, with enthusiasm. "Will you give me all the sittings I want, Miss Thorne?"
"Yes. This is the first."
"To-morrow—" began Margaret.
"Do you want me to keep this position?" said Garda.
"Yes—no. It shall be an American Poussin—'I too have been in' Florida! Come over to the tomb, please." In his eagerness he put out his hands, took hers, and assisted her to rise; they went to the tomb. Here he placed her in two or three different positions; but was satisfied with none of them.
Margaret had made no further objections. She followed them slowly. Then her manner changed, she gave her assistance and advice. "She should be carrying flowers, I think," she suggested.
"Yes; branches of blossoms—I see them," said Lucian.
"But as for the attitude—perhaps we had better leave it to her. Suppose yourself, Garda, to be particularly happy—"
"I'm happy now," said the girl. She had seated herself on the old tomb's edge, and folded her hands.
"Well, more joyous, then."
"I'm joyous."
"I shall never finish my legend if you interrupt me so," said Margaret, putting her hand on Garda's shoulder. "Listen; you are on your way home from an Arcadian revel, with some shepherds who are playing on their pipes, when you come suddenly upon an old tomb in the forest. No one knows who lies there; you stop a moment to make out the inscription, which is barely legible, and it tells you, 'I too lived in—'"
"Florida!" said Lucian.
"I am to do that?" asked Garda, looking at him.
He nodded. She went back, took Margaret's nearly finished wreath and all the rest of the gathered vines, and returning to the tomb, one arm loaded with them, the long sprays falling over her dress, she laid her other hand on Lucian's shoulder, and drawing him near the old stones, clung to him a little as if half afraid, bending her head at the same time as though reading the inscription which was supposed to be written there. The attitude was extremely graceful, a half-shrinking, half-fascinated curiosity. "This it?" she asked.
"Not the least in the world! What has Mr. Spenser to do with it?" said Margaret.
"He's the Arcadian shepherds."
"Let me place you." And Margaret drew her away.
Garda yielded passively. Nothing could have been sweeter than the expression of her face when Margaret had at length satisfied herself as regarded position. The girl stood behind the tomb, which rose a little higher than her knees; she rested one hand on its gray edge, holding the wreath on her other arm, which was pressed against her breast.
"You ought to be looking down," said Margaret.
But Garda did not look down.
"She is supposed to have read the inscription, and to be musing over it," suggested Lucian.
He fell to work immediately.
"We have been here an hour and a half, and we promised to be back in an hour—remember that, Mr. Spenser," said Margaret, who had seated herself near him.
"The bare outlines," murmured Lucian.
He did not appear to wish to speak. As for Garda, she looked as though she should never speak again; she looked like a picture more than a real presence—a picture, but not of nineteenth-century painting. She did not stir, her eyes were full of a wonderful light. After a while it seemed to oppress Margaret—this glowing vision beside the gray tomb in the still wood. She rose and went to Lucian, watching him work, she began to talk. "It's fortunate that you have already sketched the tomb," she said; "you can use that sketch for the details."
He did not reply, Garda's softly fixed eyes seemed to hold him bound.
Margaret looked at her watch; then she went to Garda, took the wreath from her, and, putting her arm in hers, led her back towards the path. "I am obliged to use force," she said. "The sitting is declared over."
"Till the next, then," said Garda to Lucian.
As he began to pack up his sketching materials, Margaret went back and hung her wreath upon the old stones. "In some future world, that shade will come and thank me," she said.
Then they left the wood, and started down the path on their way back to the shore.
They found Mrs. Spenser with both complexion and temper improved; her greatest wish always was to hide her jealousies from Lucian, and this time she succeeded. Mr. Moore had made a fire at a distance, and boiled their coffee; he was now engaged in grilling their cold meat by spearing each slice with the freshly peeled end of one of the long stiff leaf-stalks of the saw-palmetto. These impromptu toasting-forks of his, four feet in height, he had stuck in the ground in an even circle all round the fire, their heads bending slightly towards the flame; when one side of the range of slices was browned, he deftly turned each slice with a fork, so as to give the other side its share.
Torres had made no attempts as regarded grilling and boiling, he and Rosalie had spent the time in conversation. Rosalie had, in fact, detained him, when, after bringing the boys and baskets safely to her glade, he had looked meditatively down the road which led to the old tomb. "What do you think of the Alhambra?" she asked, quickly.
The Alhambra and the Inquisition were her two Spanish topics.
"I have not thought of it," Torres mildly replied.
"Well, the Inquisition, then; what do you think of the Inquisition? I am sure you must have studied the subject, and I wish you would give me yourrealopinion." (She was determined to keep him from following Garda.)
Torres reflected a moment. "It would take some time," he observed, with another glance down the road.
"The more the better," said Rosalie. This sounded effusive; and as she was so loyal to Lucian that everything she did was scrupulously conformed to that feeling, from the way she wore her bonnet to the colors she selected for her gloves, she added, immediately and rather coldly, "It is a subject in which I have been interested for years."
Torres looked at her with gloom. He wished that she had not been interested in it so long, or else that she could be interested longer, carrying it over into the future. The present he yearned for; he wanted to follow that road.
But Rosalie sat there inflexible as Fate; and he was chivalrous to all women, the old as well as the young. He noticed that she was very strongly buttoned into her dress. And then he gave her the opinion she asked for; he was still giving it when the sketching party returned.
Lucian was in gayest spirits. He seized the coffee-pot. "No one should be trusted to pour out coffee," he said, "but a genuine lover of the beverage. See the people pour out who are not real coffee-drinkers themselves; they pour stingily, reluctantly; they give you cold coffee, or coffee half milk, or cups half full; they cannot understand how you can wish for more. Coffee doesn't agree with them very well; they find it, therefore, difficult to believe—in fact they never do believe—that it should really agree with you. It may have been all talked over in the family circle, and a fair generosity on the part of the non-loving pourer guaranteed; but I tell you that in spite of guarantees, shewillscrimp."
Mr. Moore, a delicate pink flush on his cheeks, now came up with his grilled slices, which proved to be excellent.
"My cousin, you are a wonderful person," said Lucian.
Mr. Moore made a little disclaiming murmur in his throat; "Er-um, er-um," he said, waving his hand in a deprecatory way.
"—But you ought to have been a Frenchman," pursued Lucian.
Mr. Moore opened his eyes.
"Because then your goodness would have been so resplendent, my cousin. As it is, it shines on an American background, and eight-tenths of native-born Americans are good men."
"Yes, we have, I think, a high standard of morality," said Mr. Moore, with approbation.
"And also a high standard of splendor," continued Lucian; "we are, I am sure, the most splendid nation in the world. Some years ago, my cousin, a clergyman at the West was addressing his congregation on a bright Sunday morning; he was in the habit of speaking without notes, and of preaching what are called practical sermons. Wishing to give an example of appropriate Christian simplicity, he began a sentence as follows: 'For instance, my friends, none of you would think of coming to the house of the Lord in'—here he saw a glitter from diamond ear-rings in several directions—'of coming to the house of the Lord, I say, in'—here he caught the gleam from a number of breastpins—'in'—here two or three hands, from which the gloves had been removed, stirring by chance, sent back to him rays from wrists as well as fingers—'intiarasof diamonds, my friends,' he concluded at last, desperately. His congregation had on there, before his eyes, every other known arrangement of the stone."
Mr. Moore smiled slightly—just enough not to be disagreeable; then he turned the conversation. Mr. Moore was strong at that; he thought it a great moral engine, and had often wondered (to Penelope) that it was not employed oftener. For instance, in difficult cases: if violent language were being used in one's presence—turn the conversation; in family quarrels and disagreements—the same; in political discussions of a heated nature—surely there could be no method so simple or so efficacious.
It proved efficacious now in the face of Lucian's frivolity. "Our next course will consist of oysters," he remarked.
"Where are they?" demanded Lucian, hungrily.
"For the present concealed; I conjectured that the sight of two fires might prove oppressive. The arrangements, however, have been well made; they are in progress behind that far thicket, and the sons of the squatter are in charge."
The sons of the squatter being summoned by what Mr. Moore called "yodeling," a pastoral cry which he sounded forth unexpectedly and wildly between his two hands, brought the hot rocks to the company by the simple process of tumbling them into a piece of sackcloth and dragging them overthe ground. They were really rocks, fragments broken off, studded with small oysters; many parts of the lagoon were lined with these miniature peaks. Mr. Moore produced oyster-knives; and, with the best conscience in the world, they added another to the shell-heaps of Florida for the labors of future antiquarians.
And then, presently, they embarked. The sun was sinking; they floated away from the squatter's camp, down the winding creek between the leaning palmettoes, across the salt-marsh, over which the crows were now flying in a long line, and out upon the sunset-tinted lagoon. TheEmperadorawas waiting for them; it was moonlight when they reached home.
The next afternoon Margaret was strolling in the old garden of East Angels. The place now belonged to Evert Winthrop; but it had not pleased him to make many changes, and the garden remained almost as much of a blooming wilderness as before. When at home (and it was seldom that she was absent for any length of time, as she had been the previous day) Margaret was occupied at this hour; it was the hour when Mrs. Rutherford liked to have "some one" read to her. This "some one" was always Margaret.
Poor Aunt Katrina had been a close prisoner all summer; an affection of the hip had prostrated her so that she had not been able to leave East Angels, or her bed. Everything that care or money could do for her had been done, Winthrop having sent north for "fairlyship-loadsof every known luxury," Betty Carew declared, "so that it makes arealmy ship comes from India, you know, loaded with everything wonderful, from brass beds down to verilyice-cream!" It was true that a schooner had brought ice; and many articles had been sent down from New York by sea. The interior of the old house now showed its three eras of occupation, as an old Roman tower shows its antique travertine at the base, its mediæval sides, and modern top. In the lower rooms and in the corridors there remained the original Spanish bareness,the cool open spaces empty of furniture. Then came the attempted prettinesses of Mrs. Thorne, chiefly manifested in toilet-tables made out of wooden boxes, covered with paper-cambric, and ruffled and flounced in white muslin, in a very large variety of table mats, in pin-cushions, in pasteboard brackets adorned with woollen embroidery. Last of all, incongruously placed here and there, came the handsome modern furniture which had been ordered from the North by Winthrop when Dr. Kirby finally said that Mrs. Rutherford would not be able to leave East Angels for many a month to come.
The thick walls of the old house, the sea-breeze, the spaciousness of her shaded room, together with her own reduced condition, had prevented the invalid from feeling the heat. Margaret and Winthrop, who had not left her, had learned to lead the life which the residents led; they went out in the early morning, and again at nightfall, but through the sunny hours they kept within-doors; during the middle of the day indeed no one stirred; even the negroes slept.
The trouble with the hip had declared itself on the very day Winthrop had announced his engagement to the group of waiting friends at the lower door. The news, therefore, had not been repeated in the sick-room; Mrs. Rutherford did not know it even now. Her convalescence was but just beginning; throughout the summer, and more than ever at present, Dr. Kirby told them, the hope of permanent recovery for her lay in the degree of tranquillity, mental as well as physical, in which they should be able to maintain her, day by day. Winthrop and Margaret knew that tranquillity would be at an end if she should learn what had happened; they therefore took care that she should not learn. There was, indeed, no occasion for hurry, there was to be no talk of marriage until Garda should be at least eighteen. In the mean time Aunt Katrina lived, in one way, in the most complete luxury; she had now but little pain, and endless was the skill, endless the patience, with which the six persons who were devoted to her—Margaret, Winthrop, Dr. Kirby, Betty Carew, Celestine, and Looth—labored to maintain her serenity unbroken, to vary her few pleasures. Betty, it is true, had to stop outside the door each time, and press backalmost literally, with her hand over her mouth, the danger of betraying the happiness of "dear Evert" and "darling Garda" through her own inadvertence; but her genuine affection for Katrina accomplished the miracle of making her for the time being almost advertent, though there was sure to be a vast verbal expansion afterwards, when she had left the room, which was not unlike the physical one that ensued when she released herself, after paying a visit, from her own tightly fitting best gown.
To-day Aunt Katrina had felt suddenly tired, and the reading had been postponed; Margaret had come out to the garden. She strolled down a path which had recently been reopened to the garden's northern end; here there was a high hedge, before which she paused for a moment to look at a sensitive-plant which was growing against the green. Suddenly she became conscious that she heard the sound of low voices outside; then followed a laugh which she was sure she knew well. She stepped across the boundary ditch, full of bloom, and looked through the foliage. Beyond was an old field; then another high hedge. In the field, a little to the right, there was a thicket, and here, protected by its crescent-shaped bend, which enclosed them both in its half-circle, were Garda and Lucian; Lucian was sketching his companion.
Only the sound of their voices reached Margaret, not their words. She looked at them for a moment; then she stepped back over the ditch, passed through the garden, and returned to the house, where she seated herself on a stone bench which stood near the lower door. Here she waited, she waited nearly an hour; then Garda appeared, alone.
Margaret rose, went to meet her, and putting her arm in hers, turned her towards the orange walk. "Come and stroll a while," she said.
"You are tired, Margaret; I wish you didn't have so much care," said Garda, affectionately, as she looked at her. "Mrs. Rutherford isn't worse, I hope?"
"No; she is sleeping," Margaret answered. After a pause: "You heard from Evert this morning, I believe?"
"Yes; didn't I show you the letter? I meant to. I think it's in my pocket now," and searching, she produced a crumpled missive.
Margaret took it. Mechanically her fingers smoothed out its creases, but she did not open it. "You have been out for a walk?" she said at last, with something of an effort.
But Garda did not notice the effort; she was enjoying her own life very fully that afternoon. "No," she answered. Then she laughed. "You could not possibly guess where I have been."
"I am afraid I couldn't make the effort to-day."
"And you shall not—I'll tell you; I've been in the green studio. Fortunately you haven't the least idea where that is."
"Have you taken to painting, then?"
"No; painting has taken to me. Lucian has been here."
"When did he come?"
"About two hours ago, I should say. You didn't see him because he did not come to the house; I met him in—in the green studio, of course; I gave him another sitting."
"Then you expected him?" said Margaret, looking at her.
"Yes; we made the arrangement in the only instant you gave us yesterday—when you went to hang your wreath on that old tomb."
"Why was it necessary to be so secret about it? Am I such an ogre?"
"No; you're a fairy godmother. But you would have objected to it, and spoiled it all beforehand; you know you would," said Garda, with gay accusation.
Margaret's eyes were following the little inequalities of the ground before them as they advanced.
"Perhaps you could have brought me round," she answered. "At any rate, you must admit me to the next sitting."
"No, that I cannot do, Margaret; so don't ask me. I love to be with you, and I love to be with Lucian. But I don't love to be with you two together—you watch him so."
"I—watch Mr. Spenser? Oh no!"
"Well, then—and it's the same thing—you watch me."
"Is that the word to use, Garda? You are under my charge—I have hoped that it was not disagreeable to you; I have tried—"
Garda stopped and kissed her. "It isn't disagreeable; it's beautiful," she said, with impulsive warmth. "But there'sno use in your trying to keep me from seeing Lucian," she added, as they walked on; "I can't imagine how you should even think of it, when you know so well how much I have always liked him. Oh, what a comfort it is just toseehim here again!"
"You must remember that he has other things to think of now."
"Only his wife; he needn't take long to think of her."
"He took long enough to leave Gracias last winter and go north and marry her."
"Yes; and wasn't it good of him? I couldn't bear to have him go at the time; but I've forgotten all about that, now that he's back again."
"But not alone this time."
"Lucian's always alone for me," responded Garda. "But why do you keep talking about Mrs. Rosalie, Margaret? Isn't it enough that we have to talktoher? She isn't an object of pity in the least; she's got everything she wants, and six times more than she deserves; I detest people who, when they're cross, are all upper lip."
A vision of Rosalie's face rose in Margaret's mind. But she did not at present discuss its outlines with Garda, she simply said, "I must come to the next sitting. And don't choose for it the exact hour when I'm reading to Aunt Katrina."
"I chose that hour on purpose, so that you shouldn't know."
"Yes, because you thought I should object. But if I don't object—"
"You do," said Garda, laughing; "you're only pretending you don't. Very well, then. Only—you mustn't keep stopping me."
"Stopping you? What do you mean?"
"Oh, stopping, stopping—I mean just that; there's no other word. I want to look at Lucian and talk to him exactly as I please."
"I'm not aware that I've blinded or gagged you," said Margaret, smiling.
"No, but you have a way of saying something that makes a change; you make him either get up, or turn his headaway, or else you stop what he's saying. You see,hefollows your lead."
"Though you do not."
"He does it from politeness—politeness to you," Garda went on.
"Yes, he has very good manners," said Margaret, dryly.
"Haven't I good manners too?" demanded the girl, in a caressing tone, crossing her hands upon her friend's arm.
"Very bad ones, sometimes. Now, Garda, don't you really think—"
"I never really think, I never even think without the really. What is the use of getting all white with thinking?—you can't set anything straight by it.Youare sometimes so white that you frighten me."
"Never mind my whiteness; I never have any color," said Margaret, a nervous impatience showing itself suddenly. Then she controlled herself. "Are you thinking of having another sitting to-morrow?"
"Perhaps; it isn't quite certain yet. I don't know whether you know that Lucian is trying to persuade Madam Giron to take him in for a while?"
"To takehimin?"
"Them-m-m," said Garda, "since you insist upon it."
"I can't imagine Madame Giron consenting," said Margaret. She was much surprised by this intelligence.
"She wouldn't unless it were to please Adolfo; if he should urge her to do it. And I think he will urge her, because—because he and Mrs. Spenser are such great friends."
"They're nothing of the sort. You know as well as I do that she only talks to him because her husband likes him."
"Well, then, Adolfo will urge because I told him to."
"You told him?"
"Yes," said Garda, serenely; "I told him we could make so many more excursions if they were staying down here. And so we can, I hope—Lucian and I, at any rate;we'relight on our feet."
"If Madam Giron should consent, when would the Spensers come down?" said Margaret, pursuing her investigations.
"To-morrow at twelve," Garda answered, promptly.
"Mrs. Spenser knew nothing of it yesterday."
"Oh yes, she did; a little."
"She didn't speak of it."
"She didn't speak of it because she's not pleased with the idea. At least not much."
"Then it's Mr. Spenser who is pleased?"
"Yes; still, I am the most pleased of all; I suggested it to him, he would never have thought of it himself. You see, he was losing so much time in coming and going. If he were at Madam Giron's, too, I could hope to see him sometimes in the evening; for instance, to-morrow evening."
"Do you mean that he is coming to see us then?"
"He is coming to see me; that is, if they are down there. I shall not let him see any of the rest of you. It isn't a sitting, you know, we don't have sittings by moonlight; I shall send him word where to come, and then I shall slip out and find him."
Margaret stopped. "Garda," she said, in a changed tone, "you told me yesterday that I had been very kind to you—"
"So you have been."
"Then I hope you won't think me unkind—I hope you will yield to my judgment—when I tell you that you must not send any such message to Mr. Spenser."
"Didn't I tell you you would try to stop it?" said Garda, gleefully.
"Of course I shall try. And I think you will do as I wish."
Garda did not answer, she only looked at her friend with a vague little smile. She seemed not to be giving her full attention to what she was saying; and at the same moment, singularly enough, she seemed to be admiring her, taking that time for it—admiring the delicate moulding of her features, her oval cheeks, which had now a bright flush of color. The expression of her own face, meanwhile, remained as soft as ever, there was not a trace of either opposition or annoyance.
"Isn't there some one else, too, who would not like to have you do such—such foolish thing?" Margaret went on. "Shouldn't you think a little of Evert?"
"Evert's too far off to think of. He's a thousand miles away."
"What difference does that make?"
"You're right, it doesn't make any," said Garda. "I shoulddo just the same, I presume, if he were here." She spoke in a matter-of-fact tone.
Margaret looked at her, and seemed hardly to know what to say next.
In the position in which they were standing, Garda was facing the entrance of the orange walk. Her eyes now began to gleam. "Isn't this funny?" she said. "Here he is himself!"
Margaret turned, expecting to see Lucian. But it was Evert Winthrop who was coming towards them.
"You didn't expect me?" he said as he took their hands, Garda's in his right hand, Margaret's in his left, and held them for a moment. "But I told you in the postscript of my last letter, Garda, that I might perhaps follow it immediately."
"I haven't had time to get to the postscript yet," Garda answered. "The letter only came this morning; and Margaret has it now."
"You know I haven't opened it, Garda," said Margaret, hastily returning it.
"No; but I meant you to," said the girl. Something in this little scene seemed to strike her as comical, for she covered her face with both hands and began to laugh. "What a bad account you will give of me!" she said.
"You will have to give it yourself," replied Margaret. "I must go; Aunt Katrina must be awake by this time."
"Isn't she well?" said Winthrop, looking after her as she left them.
"She had color enough before you came," said Garda, smiling, then laughing at recollections he could not share. "Have you come back as blind as you went away?"
"How blind is that?"
"Blind to all my faults," she responded, swinging her hat by its ribbons.
"Don't spoil your hat. No, I'm not blind to them, but we're going to cure them, you know."
"I'm so glad!"
He had taken a case from his pocket, and was now opening it; it held a delicate gold bracelet, exquisitely fashioned, which he clasped round her arm.
"How pretty!" said Garda. Her pleasure was genuine, she turned her hand so that she could see the ornament in every position.
"You prefer diamonds, I know," said Winthrop, smiling. "But you're not old enough to wear diamonds yet."
She continued to look at her bracelet until she had satisfied herself fully. Then she let her hand drop. "Will you give me some very beautiful diamonds by-and-by?" she asked, turning her eyes towards him.
"To be quite frank, I don't like them much."
"But ifIlike them?" She seemed to be curious as to what he would reply.
"You may not like them yourself, then."
She regarded him a moment longer. Then her eyes left him; she looked off down the long aisle. "I shall not change; no, not as you seem to think," she said, musingly. And she stood there for a moment very still. Then her face changed, her light-heartedness came back; she took his arm, and, as they strolled slowly towards the house, talked her gayest nonsense. He listened indulgently.
"Why don't you ask me what I have been doing all these weeks while you have been away?" she said at last, suddenly.
"I suppose I know, don't I? You have written."
"You haven't the least idea. I have beenamused—really amused all the time."
"Is that such a novelty? I've always thought you had a capital talent for amusing yourself."
"That's just what I mean; this time I'vebeenamused, I didn't have to do it myself. Oh, promise me you won't stop anything now you've come. We've had some lovely excursions, and I want ever so many more."
"When did I ever stop an excursion in Florida?" said Winthrop.
"Yes, you've been very good, very good always," answered Garda, with conviction. "But this time you must be even better, you must let me do exactly as I please."
"Oh, I don't pretend to keep you in order, you know; I leave that to Margaret."
"Poor Margaret!" said Garda, laughing.
The next day Lucian and his wife came down to the Giron plantation; Madam Giron had consented to take them in.
Three nights afterwards, Margaret, awake between midnight and one o'clock, thought she heard Garda's door open; then, light steps in the hall. She left her bed, and opening the door between their two rooms, went through into Garda's chamber. It was empty, the moonlight shone across the floor. She returned to her own room, hastily threw on a white dressing-gown, twisted up her long soft hair, and put on a pair of low shoes; then she stole out quietly, went down the stone staircase and through the lower hall, and found, as she expected, the outer door unfastened; she opened it, closed it softly after her, and stood alone in the night. She had to make a choice, and she had only the faintest indication to guide her—a possible clew in a remembered conversation; she followed this clew and turned towards the live-oak avenue. Her step was hurried, she almost ran; as she drew the floating lace-trimmed robe more closely about her, the moonlight shone, beneath its upheld folds, on her little white feet. She had never before been out alone under the open sky at that hour, she glanced over her shoulder, and shivered slightly, though the night was as warm as July. Her own shadow, keeping up with her, was like a living thing. The moonlight on the ground was so white that by contrast all the trees looked black.
The live-oak avenue, when she entered it, seemed a shelter; at least it was a roof over her head, shutting out the sky. The moonlight only came at intervals through the thick foliage, making silver checker-work on the path.
There were two or three bends, then a long straight stretch. As she came into this straight stretch she saw at the far end, going towards the lagoon, a figure—Garda; behind Garda, doubly grotesque in the changing shade and light, stepped the crane.
Margaret's foot-falls made no sound on the soft sand of the path; she hurried onward, and passing the crane, laid her hand on the girl's shoulder. "Garda," she said.
Garda stopped, surprised. But though surprised, she was not startled, she was as calm as though she had been foundwalking there at noonday. She was fully dressed, and carried a light shawl.
"Margaret, is it you? How in the world did you know I was here?"
Margaret let her head rest for a moment on Garda's shoulder; her heart was beating with suffocating rapidity. She recovered herself, stood erect, and looked at her companion. "Where are you going?" she asked.
"I am going to try and find Lucian; but it may be only trying. He was to start from the Giron landing at one, when the tide would serve, he said; but you heard him, so you know as much as I do."
"No. For I don't know whatyou'regoing to do."
"Why, I've told you; I'm going to try to go with him, if I can. I'm going to stand out at the edge of the platform, and then, when he comes by, perhaps he will see me—it's so light—and take me in. I want to sail through that thick soft fog he told us about (when it comes up later), with the moonlight making it all queer and white, and the gulls fast asleep and floating—don't you remember?"
"Then he doesn't expect you?"
"Oh no," said Garda; "it's my own idea. I knew he would be alone, because Mrs. Rosalie can't go out in fogs, she's afraid of rheumatism."
"And you see nothing out of the way in all this?"
"No."
"—Stealing out secretly—"
"Only because you would have stopped it if you had known."
"—At night, and by yourself?"
"The night's as good as the day when there's moonlight like this. And I shall not be by myself, I shall be with Lucian; I'd rather be with him than anybody."
"And Evert?"
"Well," said Garda, "the truth is—the truth is I'mtiredof Evert."
"You'd better tell him that," said Margaret, with a quick and curious change in her voice.
"I will, if you think best."
"No, don't tell him; you're not in earnest," said Margaret, calming himself.
"Yes, I am in earnest. But I shall miss Lucian if I stay here longer."
"Garda, give this up."
"I don't see how you happened to hear me come out," said the girl, laughing and vexed.
"Have you been out in this way before?"
"No; how could I? Lucian has only just come down here. I should a great deal rather tell you everything, Margaret, as fast as I think of it, and I would—only you would be sure to stop it."
"I want to stop this. Give it up—if you care at all for me; I make it a test."
"You know I care; if you put it on that ground, of course I shall have to give it up," said Garda, disconsolately.
"Come back to the house, then," said Margaret, taking her hand.
"No, I'm not going back, I'm going down to the landing," answered the girl. She appeared to think that she had earned this obstinacy by her larger concession.
"But you said you would give up—"
"If we keep back under the trees he cannot see us; I mean what I say—heshallnot. But I want to see him, I want to see him go by."
She drew Margaret onward, and presently they reached the shore. "There he comes!" she said—"I hear the oars." And she held tightly to Margaret's hand, as if to keep herself from running out to the platform's edge.
The broad lagoon, rippling in the moonlight, lay before them; the night was so still that they heard the dip of the oars long before they saw the boat itself; Patricio, opposite, looked like a country in a dream. The giant limbs of the live-oak under which they stood rose high in the air above them, and then drooped down again far forward, the dark shade beneath concealing them perfectly, in spite of Margaret's white robe. Now the boat shot into sight. Its sail was up, white as silver, but as there was no wind, Lucian was rowing. It was a small, light boat, almost too small for the great silver sail; but that was what Lucian liked. Hekept on his course far out in the stream; he was bound for the mouth of the harbor.
Garda gave a long sigh. "I ought to be there!" she murmured. "Oh, I ought to be there!" She stood motionless, watching the boat come nearer, pass, and disappear; then she turned and looked at Margaret in silence.
"We can go out to-morrow evening, if you like," said Margaret, ignoring the expression of her face.
"Yes, at eight o'clock, I suppose, with Evert, and Mrs. Rosalie!"
"Would you prefer to go in the middle of the night?"
"Infinitely. And with Lucian alone."
"I should think that might be a little tiresome."
"Oh, come, don't pretend; you don't know how," said Garda, laughing. "At heart you're as serious as death about all this—you know you are. Tiresome, did you say? Just looking at him, to begin with—do you callthattiresome? And then the way he talks, the way he says things! Oh, Margaret, I give you my word Iadorebeing amused as Lucian amuses me." She turned as she said this and met Margaret's eyes fixed upon her. "You can't understand it," she commented. "You can't understand that I prefer Lucian to Evert."
Margaret turned from her. But the next instant she came back. "There are some things I must ask you, Garda."
"Well, do stay here a little longer then, it's so lovely; we'll sit down on the bench. But perhaps you'll be chilled—you're so lightly dressed. What have you on your feet? Oh Margaret! only those thin shoes—no more than slippers?" She took her shawl, and kneeling down, wrapped it round Margaret's ankles. "What little feet you have!" she said, admiringly. "It reminds me of my wet shoes that night on the barren," she added, rising; and then, standing there with her hands clasped behind her, she appeared to be meditating. "Now that time I was in earnest too!" she said, with a sort of wonder at herself.
"What do you mean?" asked Margaret.
"Oh, nothing of consequence. Are you sure you're not cold?"
"I'm quite warm; it's like summer."
"Yes, it's warm," said Garda, sitting down beside her. "Oh, I wish I were in that boat!" And she put her head down on Margaret's shoulder.
After a moment Margaret began her interrogatory. "You consider yourself engaged to Evert, don't you?"
"Yes, after a fashion. He doesn't care about it."
"Yes, he does. You don't comprehend him."
"Don't you think he ought tomakeme comprehend, then? It seems to me that that's his part. But no, the real trouble is that he doesn't in the least comprehendme. He has got some idea of his own about me, he has had it all this time. But I'm not like his idea at all; I wonder how long it will be before he will find it out?"
"Don't you care for him, Garda?"
"No, not any more. I did once; at least that night on the barren I thought I did. But if I did, I am sure I don't know what has become of the feeling! At any rate it has gone, gone entirely; I only care for Lucian now."
"And would you give up Evert, engaged to him as you are, with your own consent and the consent of all your friends, for a mere fancy like this?"
"Mere fancy? I shall begin to think, Margaret, that you don't know what 'mere fancies,' as you call them, are!"
"And what view do you take of the fact that Lucian is a married man?" Margaret went on, gravely.
"A horribly melancholy one, of course. Still, it's a great pleasure just to see him; I try to see him as often as I can."
"And you're willing to follow him about as you do—let him see how much you like him, when, in reality, he doesn't care in the least for you? If he had cared he would never have left you, as he did last winter, at a moment's notice and without a word."
"No, I know he doesn't care for me as I care for him," said Garda. "But perhaps he will care more in time; I have thought that perhaps he would care more when he found out how I felt towards him; that is what I have been hoping."
Margaret got up, she made a motion with her hands almost as if she were casting the girl off. "Garda," she said, "you frighten me. I have tried to speak with the greatest moderation, because I have not thought you realized at allwhat you were saying; but you are so calm, you speak in such a tone!—I cannot understand it."
"Well, Margaret, I've never tried to understand it myself. Why, then, should you try?" said Garda, in her indolent way.
Then, as she looked at Margaret, she became conscious of the marked change in her face, and it seemed to startle her. She rose and came to her. "One thing I know," she said, quickly, "if you are vexed with me, so vexed that you will have nothing more to do with me, I don't know what will become of me. You are the only woman I care for.Don'tthrow me over, Margaret. There's one thing that may happen," she added, looking at her friend with luminous gaze, "I may stop caring for Lucian of my own accord before long; you know I stopped caring for Evert."
"Oh, Garda! Garda!" murmured Margaret, putting her hand over her eyes.
"You are shocked because I tell you the exact truth. I believe you would like it better if I should dress it up, and pretend to have all sorts of reasons. But I never have reasons, I only know how I feel; and you can't make me believe, either, that it isn't better to be true about your feelings whatever they are, than to tell lies just to make people think well of you."
"Garda, promise me not to see Lucian in this way again; that is, not to plan to see him," said Margaret, with a kind of desperation in her tone.
"Why, how can you suppose I would ever promise that?" asked Garda, astonished.
"Very well. Then I shall speak to him myself." And as she stood there, her tall slender figure outlined in white, her dark blue eyes fixed on the girl, Margaret Harold looked almost menacing.
"No, I don't think you would do that," answered Garda; "because as he doesn't care for me, it would be like throwing me at his head; and that you wouldn't like because you have a pride about it—for Evert's sake, I mean. Why don't you tell Evert instead of Lucian? I've thought of telling Evert myself. The idea of his needing to be told!"
"It's because he has such a perfect belief in you," beganMargaret. "He would never dream that you could—" She stopped, her lips had begun to tremble a little.
But Garda was not paying heed to what Margaret was saying. "No, you'll never speak to Lucian," she repeated, "I know you never will; you couldn't."
"You're right, I couldn't. And the reason would be because I should be ashamed—ashamed for you."
But Garda was not moved by this. "I don't see why we should be ashamed of our real feelings," she said again, with a sort of sweet stolidity.
"We go through life, Garda, more than half of us—women, I mean—obliged always to conceal our real feelings."
"ThenthatI never will do;" said Garda, warmly. "And you shall see whether I come out any the worse for it in the end."
"You intend to do what you please, no matter who suffers?"
"They needn't suffer, it's silly to suffer. They'd better go and do whattheyplease."
"And you think that right? You see nothing wrong in it?"
"Oh, right, wrong—I think it's right to be happy, as right as possibly can be; and wrong to be unhappy, as wrong as possibly can be; I think unhappy people do a great deal of harm in the world, besides being so very tiresome! I was a goose to be as unhappy as I was last winter; I might have known that I should either get over caring for him, or else that I should see him again. In this case both happened."
After this declaration of principles the girl walked down the slope and out to the edge of the platform, where she stood in the moonlight looking northward up the lagoon.
"I can just make out his sail," she said, calling back to Margaret, excitedly, and evidently having entirely forgotten her reasoning mood of the moment before. "The fog is rising. Come quick and look."
But Margaret did not come. When the sail finally disappeared, Garda came back, bright and happy. Then, as she saw her friend's face, her own face changed to sudden sympathy.
"Margaret," she said, taking her hands, "I cannot bear to see you so distressed."
"How can I help it?" murmured Margaret. She looked exhausted.
"You wouldn't care about all this as you do—care so deeply, I mean—if it were not for Evert," Garda went on; "it's that that hurts you so. Don't care so much about Evert; throw him over, as I have done."
"It's true that I care about Evert—about his happiness," answered Margaret, in the same lifeless tone; "I have missed happiness myself, I don't want him to miss it." Here she raised her eyes, she looked at Garda for a long moment in silence.
The girl smiled under this inspection; she leaned forward, and put her soft cheek against Margaret's, and her arm round Margaret's shoulders with a caressing touch.
A revulsion of feeling swept over the elder woman, she took the girl's face in both her hands, and looked at it.
"Promise me to say nothing to Evert, not one word—I mean about this renewal of fancy you have for Lucian," she said, quickly.
"You call it fancy—"
"Never mind what I call it. Promise."
"Why, that's as you choose, I left it to you," Garda answered.
"I choose, then, that you say nothing. You're not really in earnest, you don't know what you're talking about. It's a girl's foolishness; you will come to your senses in time."
"Is that the way you arrange it? Any way you like. Perhaps you really do know more about me than I know about myself," said Garda, with a momentary curiosity as to her own characteristics.
"We must go back," said Margaret, her fatigue again showing in her voice.
Garda put her arm round her as a support, and, thus linked, they walked back through the long avenue over the silver lace-work cast by the moon upon the path. Carlos Mateo, who had been off on unknown excursions, joined them again, issuing in a ghostly manner from the Spanish-bayonet walk, and falling into his usual place behind them. The linked figures crossed the open space, which was again as whiteas snow with black trees at the edges, and went softly in through the unfastened door.
"I'm going to get you a glass of wine," Garda whispered.
Margaret declined the wine, and they separated, each going noiselessly to her own room.
But, half an hour later, Garda stole in and leaned over her friend. "You're crying," she said—"I knew it! Oh, Margaret, Margaret, why do you suffer so?"
"Don't mind," said Margaret, controlling herself. "I have my own troubles, Garda, and must bear them as I can. Go back to your room."
But Garda would not go. As there was no place for her in Margaret's narrow white bed, she got a coverlet and pillows and lay down on a lounge that was near; here, almost immediately, though she said she should not, she fell asleep. The elder woman did not sleep, she lay watching the moonlight steal over the girl, then fade away. Later came the pink flush of dawn; it touched the lounge, but Garda slept on; she slept like a little child; her curling hair fell over her shoulders, her cheek was pillowed on her round arm.
"So much truthfulness—such absolute truthfulness!" the elder woman was thinking; "there must be good in it, theremust."