"Didn't my Lawd delibber Dan-yéll, Dan-yéll?Didn't my Lawd delibberDán-yell?"
For a long distance up the stream this protective invocation echoed after the voyagers, and the two grotesque figures holding the lamps remained brightly visible on the low shore.
"Turn in now, and coast along close to the land," said Margaret; "it's so dark that even with that I am almost afraid I shall miss the mouth."
But she did not miss it. In ten minutes she said, "Here it is;" and she directed him how to enter.
"I should never have found it myself; it's so narrow," Winthrop commented, as he guided the canoe towards an almost imperceptible opening in the near looming forest.
"That was what I couldn't guard you against."
But the mouth was the narrowest part; inside the stream widened out, and was broad and deep. Winthrop sent the boat forward with strong strokes, the pine torch which Margaret had fastened at the bow cast a short ray in advance.
"I think we shall escape the storm," she said.
"It's holding off wonderfully. But don't be too sure."
They did not speak often. Winthrop was attending to the boat's course, Margaret had turned and was sitting so that she could scan the water and direct him a little. Her nervousness had disappeared; either she had been able to repress it, or it had faded in the presence of the responsibility she had assumed in undertaking to act as guide through that strange water-land of the Monnlungs, whose winding channels she had heretofore seen only in the light of day. Even in the light of day they were mysterious; the enormous trees, thickly foliaged at the top, kept the sun from penetrating to the water, the masses of vines shut out still further the light, and shut in the perfumes of the myriad flowers. Channels opened out on all sides. Only one was the right one. Should she be able to follow it? the landmarks she knew—certain banks of shrubs, a tree trunk of peculiar shape, a sharp bend, a small bay full of "knees"—should she know these again by night? There came to her suddenly the memory of a little arena—an arena where the flowering vines hung straight down from the tree-tops to the water all round, like tapestry, and where the perfumes were densely thick.
"Are you cold?" said Winthrop. "You can't be—this warm night." The slightness of the canoe had betrayed what he thought was a shiver.
"No, I'm not cold."
"The best thing we can do is to make the boat as bright as possible," he went on. "But not in front, that would only be blinding; the light must be behind us." He took the torch from the bow, lighted three others, and stack them all into the canoe's lining of thin strips of wood at the stern. Primus had made his torches long; it would be an hour before they could burn down sufficiently to endanger the boat.
Thus, casting a brilliant orange-hued glow round them, lighting up the dark water vistas to the right and left, as they passed, they penetrated into the dim sweet swamp.
They had been in the Monnlungs half an hour. Margaret acted as pilot; half kneeling, half sitting at the bow, one hand on the canoe's edge, her face turned forward, she gave her directions slowly, all her powers concentrated upon recalling correctly and keeping unmixed from present impressions her memory of the channel.
The present impressions were indeed so strange, that a strong exertion of will was necessary to prevent the mind from becoming fascinated by them, from forgetting in this series of magic pictures the different aspect of these same vistas by day. Even by day the vistas were alluring. By night, lighted up by the flare of the approaching torches, at first vaguely, then brilliantly, then vanishing into darkness again behind, they became unearthly, exceeding in contrasts of color—reds, yellows, and green, all of them edged sharply with the profoundest gloom—the most striking effects of the painters who have devoted their lives to reproducing light and shade.
Lanse had explored a part of the Monnlungs. He had not explored it all, no human eye had as yet beheld some of its mazes; but the part he had explored he knew well, he had even made a map of it. Margaret had seen this map; she felt sure, too, that she should know the channels he called the Lanes. Her idea, upon entering, had been to follow the main stream to the first of these lanes, there turn off and explore the lane to its end; then, returning to the main channel, to go on to the second lane; and so on through Lanse's part of the swamp. They had now explored two of the lanes, and were entering a third.
She had taken off her hat, and thrown it down upon the cloak beside her. "It's so oppressively warm in here," she said.
It was not oppressively warm—not warmer than a Junenight at the North. But the air was perfectly still, and so sweet that it was enervating.
The forest grew denser along this third lane as they advanced. The trees stood nearer together, and silver moss now began to hang down in long, filmy veils, thicker and thicker, from all the branches. Mixed with the moss, vines showed themselves in strange convolutions, they went up out of sight; in girth they were as large as small trees; they appeared to have not a leaf, but to be dry, naked, chocolate-brown growths, twisting themselves about hither and thither for their own entertainment.
This was the appearance below. But above, there was another story to tell; for here were interminable flat beds of broad green leaves, spread out over the outside of the roof of foliage—leaves that belonged to these same naked coiling growths below; the vines had found themselves obliged to climb to the very top in order to get a ray of sunshine for their greenery.
For there was no sky for anybody in the Monnlungs; the deep solid roof of interlocked branches stretched miles long, miles wide, like a close tight cover, over the entire place. The general light of day came filtering through, dyed with much green, quenched into blackness at the ends of the vistas; but actual sunbeams never came, never gleamed, year in year out, across the clear darkness of the broad water floor.
The water on this floor was always pellucid; whether it was the deep current of the main channel, or the shallower tide that stood motionless over all the rest of the expanse, no where was there the least appearance of mud; the lake and the streams, red-brown in hue, were as clear as so much fine wine; the tree trunks rose cleanly from this transparent tide, their huge roots could be seen coiling on the bottom much as the great vines coiled in the air above. These gray-white bald cypresses had a monumental aspect, like the columns of a Gothic cathedral, as they rose, erect and branchless, disappearing above in the mist of the moss. The moss presently began to take on an additional witchery by becoming decked with flowers; up to a certain height these flowers had their roots in the earth; but above these were otherblossoms—air-plants, some vividly tinted, flaring, and gaping, others so small and so flat on the moss that they were like the embroidered flowers on lace, only they were done in colors.
"I detest this moss," said Margaret, as it grew thicker and thicker, so that there was nothing to be seen but the silver webs; "I feel strangled in it,—suffocated."
"Oh, but it's beautiful," said Winthrop. "Don't you see the colors it takes on? Gray, then silver, then almost pink as we pass; then gray and ghostly again."
For all answer she called her husband's name. She had called it in this way at intervals ever since they entered the swamp.
"The light we carry penetrates much farther than your voice," Winthrop remarked.
"I want him to know who it is."
"Oh, he'll know—such a devoted wife! Who else could it be?"
After a while the lane made a bend, and led them away from the moss; the canoe, turning to the right, left behind it the veiled forest, white and motionless. Margaret drew a long breath, she shook herself slightly, like a person who has emerged.
"You have on your jewels again," he said, as the movement caused the torch-light to draw a gleam from something in her hair.
She put up her hand as if she had forgotten what was there. "Jewels? Only a gold arrow." She adjusted it mechanically.
"Jewels enough on your hands, then. You didn't honoruswith a sight of them—while you were at East Angels, I mean."
"I don't care for them; I put them on this morning before I started, because Lanse likes them."
"So do I. Unwillingly, you also please me; of course I never dreamed that I should have so much time to admire them—parading by torch-light in this way through a great morass."
She did not answer.
"They bring you out, you know, in spite of yourself—dragyou out, if you like better; they show what you might be, if you would ever—let yourself go."
"Let myself go? You use strange expressions."
"A man isn't responsible for what he says in here."
"You say that a second time! You know there was no other way; the only hope of getting Lanse home before the storm was to start at once."
"The storm—to be sure. I don't believe it ever storms in here."
She turned towards him. "YouknowI had to come."
"I know you thought so; you thought we should find Lanse sitting encamped on two cypress knees, with the wreck of his canoe for a seat. We should dawn upon him like comets. And he would say, 'How long you've been! It's precious damp in here, you know!'"
She turned impatiently towards the channel again.
"Don't demand too much, Margaret," he went on. "Jesting's safe, at any rate. Sympathy I haven't got—sympathy for this expedition of yours into this jungle at this time of night."
She had now recovered her composure. "So long as you paddle the boat, sympathy isn't necessary."
"Oh, I'll paddle! But I shall have to paddle forever, we shall never get out. We've come to an antediluvian forest—don't you see? a survival. Butwesha'n't survive. They'll write our biographies; I was wondering the other day if there was any other kind of literature so completely composed of falsehoods, owing to half being kept back, as biographies; I decided that therewasone other—autobiographies."
On both sides of them now the trees were, in girth, enormous; the red light, gleaming out fitfully, did not seem to belong to them or to their torches, but to be an independent glow, coming from no one knew where.
"If we had the grace to have any imagination left in this bicycle century of ours," remarked Winthrop, "we should certainly be expecting to see some mammoth water creature, fifty feet long, lifting a flabby head here. For my own part, I am afraid my imagination, never very brilliant, is defunct; the most I can do is to think of the thousands of snakes there must be, squirming about under all this water,—notprehistoric at all, nor mammoths, but just nice natural every-day little moccasins, say about seven feet long."
Margaret shuddered.
He stopped his banter, his voice changed. "Do let me take you home," he urged. "You're tired out; give this thing up."
"I am not tired."
"You have been tired to the verge of death for months!"
"You know nothing about that," she said, coldly.
"Yes, I do. I have seen your face, and I know its expressions now; I didn't at first, but now I do. There's no use in your trying to deceive me Margaret, I know what your life is; remember, Lanse told me everything."
"That was long ago."
"What do you mean?" He leaned forward and grasped her arm as though he would make her turn.
For a moment she did not reply. Then, "A great deal may have happened since then," she said.
"I don't believe you!" He dropped her arm. "You say that to stop me, keep me back; you are afraid of me!" He took up his paddle again.
"Yes, I am afraid." Then, putting a little note of contempt into her voice: "And wasn't I right to be afraid?" she added. She drew the arm he had touched close to her waist, and held it there.
"No!" answered Winthrop, loudly and angrily; "you were completely wrong." He sent the canoe forward with rapid strokes.
They went to the end of the lane, then returned to the main channel, still in silence. But here it became necessary again for Margaret to give directions.
"Go as far as that pool of knees," she began; "then turn to the right."
"You are determined to keep on?"
"I must; that is, I must if you will take me."
He sat without moving.
"If anything should happen to Lanse that I might have prevented by keeping on now, how could I ever——"
"Oh, keep on, keep on; bring him safely home and take every care of him—he has done so much to deserve these efforts on your part!"
They went on.
And now the stream was bringing them towards the place Margaret had thought of upon entering—a bower in the heart of the Monnlungs, or rather a long defile like a chink between two high cliffs, the cliffs being a dense mass of flowering shrubs.
Winthrop made no comment as they entered this blossoming pass, Margaret did not speak. The air was loaded with sweetness; she put her hands on the edge of the canoe to steady herself. Then she looked up as if in search of fresher air, or to see how high the flowers ascended. But there was no fresher air, and the flowers went up out of sight.
The defile grew narrower, the atmosphere became so heavy that they could taste the perfume in their mouths. After another five minutes Margaret drew a long breath—she had apparently been trying to breathe as little as possible. "I don't think I can—I am afraid——" She swayed, then sank softly down; she had fainted.
He caught her in his arms, and laid her on the canoe's bottom, her head on the cloak. He looked at the water, but the thought of the dark tide's touching that fair face was repugnant to him. He bent down and spoke to her, and smoothed her hair. But that was advancing nothing, and he began to chafe her hands.
Then suddenly he rose, and, taking the paddle, sent the canoe flying along between the high bushes. The air was visibly thick in the red light of the torches, a miasma of scent. A branch of small blossoms with the perfume of heliotrope softly brushed against his cheek, he struck it aside with unnecessary violence. Exerting all his strength, he at last got the canoe free from the beautiful baleful place.
When Margaret opened her eyes they were outside; she was lying peacefully on the cloak, and he was still paddling vehemently.
"I am ashamed," she said, as she raised herself. "I suppose I fainted? Perfumes have a great effect upon me always. I know that place well, I thought of it before we entered the swamp; I thought it would make me dizzy, but I had no idea that it would make me faint away. It has never done so before, the scents must be stronger at night."
She still seemed weak; she put her hand to her head. Then a thought came to her, she sat up and looked about, scanning the trees anxiously. "I hope you haven't gone wrong? How far are we from the narrow place—the place where I fainted?"
"I don't know how far. But we haven't been out of it more than five or six minutes, and this is certainly the channel."
"Nothing is 'certainly' in the Monnlungs! And five minutes is quite enough time to get lost in. I don't recognize anything here—we ought to be in sight of a tree that has a profile, like a face."
"Perhaps you wouldn't know it at night."
"It's unmistakable. No, I am sure we are wrong. Please go back—go back at once to the narrow place."
"Where is 'back?'" murmured Winthrop to himself, after he had surveyed the water behind him.
And the question was a necessary one. What he had thought was "certainly the channel" seemed to exist only in front; there was no channel behind, there were only broad tree-filled water spaces, vague and dark. They could see nothing of the thicker foliage of the "narrow place."
Margaret clasped her hands. "We're lost!"
"No, we're not lost; at least we were not seven minutes ago. It won't take long to go over all the water that is seven minutes from here." He took out one of the torches and inserted it among the roots of a cypress, so that it could hold itself upright. "That's our guide; we can always come back to that, and start again."
Margaret no longer tried to direct; she sat with her face towards him, leaving the guidance to him.
He started back in what he thought was the course they had just traversed. But they did not come to the defile of flowers; and suddenly they lost sight of their beacon.
"We shall see it again in a moment," he said.
But they did not see it. They floated in and out among the great cypresses, he plunged his paddle down over the side, and struck bottom; they were out of the channel and in the shallows—the great Monnlungs Lake.
"We don't see it yet," she said. Then she gave a cry,and shrank towards him. They had floated close to one of the trees, and there on its trunk, not three feet from her, was a creature of the lizard family, large, gray-white in hue like the bark, flat, and yet fat; it moved its short legs slowly in the light of their torches; no doubt it was experiencing a sensation of astonishment, there had never been in its memory a bright light in the Monnlungs before.
Winthrop laughed, it did him good to see Margaret Harold cowering and shuddering over such a slight cause as that. The boat had floated where it listed for a moment or two while he laughed, and now he caught sight of their beacon again.
"That laugh was lucky," he said, as he paddled rapidly back towards the small light-house. "Now I shall go in exactly the wrong direction—I mean what seems such to me."
"Oh,mustwe go again?"
"I don't suppose you wish to remain permanently floating at the foot of this tree?" He looked at her. "You think we're lost, you're frightened. We're not lost at all, and I know exactly what to do; trust yourself to me, I will bring you safely out."
"You don't know this swamp, it's not so easy. I'm thinking of myself."
"I know you are not. ButIthink of nothing else." He said this impetuously enough.
They started on their second search. And at the end of five minutes they had again lost sight of their beacon. He paddled to the right and back again; then off to the left and back; he went forward a little way, then in the opposite direction; but they did not see the gleam of their guide, nor did they find the defile of flowers.
Suddenly there rose, close to them, a cry. It was not loud, but it was thrilling, it conveyed an impression of agonized fear.
"What was that?" said Margaret. She did not speak the words aloud, but syllabled them with her lips; involuntarily she drew nearer to him.
"I don't know what it was myself, exactly," he answered; "some bird or other small creature, probably, caught by asnake or alligator. It only sounded strange because it is so still here, our nerves are affected, I presume."
"You mean that mine are. I know they are, I will try to be more sensible."
He pursued his tentative course. But the watery vistas seemed only to grow wilder. They never had a desolate appearance; on the contrary there was something indescribably luxuriant, riotously so, in the still lake with its giant trees, its scented air, its masses of flowers. At length something dark, that was not a tree trunk, nor a group of tree trunks, loomed up on their right. Their torches outlined it more plainly; it was square and low.
"It's ahouse" Margaret said, in the same repressed whisper. "Oh, don't go near it!"
"Why—it's deserted, can't you see that? There's no living thing there, unless you count ghosts—there may be the ghost of some fugitive slave. The door, I suppose, is on the other side." And he paddled towards it.
The cabin—it was no more than a cabin—had been built upon the great roots of four cypresses, which had happened to stand in a convenient position for such a purpose; the planks of the floor had been nailed down across these, and the sides formed of rough boards braced by small beams which stretched back to the tree trunks; the roof was a network of the large vines of the swamp, thickly thatched with the gray moss, now black with age and decay. The door was gone; Winthrop brought the boat up towards the dark entrance; the sill was but an inch or two above the water.
They looked within, the light from their torches illuminating the central portion. And as they looked, they saw a slight waving motion on the floor. Were the planks oscillating a little, or was it dark water flowing over the place?
At first they could not distinguish; then in another instant they could. It was not water; it was the waving, squirming bodies of snakes.
Winthrop had given the canoe a quick swerve. But before they could have counted one, the creatures, soundlessly, had all disappeared.
"Men are queer animals," he said; "I should have liked one more good peep. But of course I won't go back."
"Yes—go."
"You are prepared to humor me in everything? Well, it won't take an instant." They were but ten feet away; he gave a stroke with his paddle and brought the canoe up to the entrance again.
Within there was now nothing, their torch-light shone on the bare glistening boards of the floor. But stay—yes, there was; something white in one corner; he took one of the torches, and held it within for a moment. Margaret gave a cry; the light was shining on bones—a white breastbone with the ribs attached, and larger bones near.
He threw the torch into the water, where it went out with a hiss, and sent the canoe rapidly away. This time he did not stop.
Margaret had hidden her face in her hands. "Well," he said, still urging the light boat along, "the last hunter who occupied that cabin was not as tidy in his habits as he might have been; he left the remains of the last bear he had had for dinner behind him."
"Are you sure?" she asked, without looking up, still shuddering.
"Perfectly."
Winthrop held that in some cases a lie was right.
He paddled on for a few minutes more.
"Here's your reward for humoring me. Isn't this the 'narrow place?'"
And it was.
"Now that we've found it, hadn't we better try to go back?" he suggested.
"I will do as you think best."
"You're thoroughly cowed, aren't you? By the skeleton of a bear."
"I think I am tired," she answered.
"Think? You mean you know you are." The mask of jesting had dropped again. "How much more of this horrible place is there—I mean beyond here?"
"We are a good deal more than half-way through; three quarters, I think."
"Can we get out at the other end? Is there an outlet?"
"Yes—a creek. It takes you, I believe—I have never been so far as that—to Eustis Landing, a pier on the St. John's beyond ours."
"If we try to go back we shall have to go through that damnable aisle of miasma again."
"Perhaps I should not faint this time," she said, humbly.
"You don't know whether you would or not; I can't take any risks."
He spoke with bluntness. She sat looking at him; her eyes had a pathetic expression, her womanish fears and her fatigue had relaxed her usual guard.
"You think I'm rough. Let me be rough while I can, Margaret!"
He sent the boat forward towards the outlet, not back through the aisle of flowers. "We'll go on," he said.
After a while she called her husband's name again.
"What's the use of doing that?" he asked. "He isn't here."
"Oh, but I am sure he is. Where else could he be?"
"How should I know?—Where he was for eight years, perhaps."
Presently they came to a species of canebrake, very dense and high; there was no green in sight, only the canes. The channel wound tortuously through the rattling mass, the slight motion of the water made by the canoe caused the canes to rattle.
"Keep watch, please," he said; "it's not so wet here. It wouldn't be amusing to set such a straw-stack on fire."
While they were making their way through this labyrinth, there came a crash of thunder.
"The storm at last, and we haven't heard the least sound of the tornado that came before it! That shows what a place this is," he said. "We might as well be in the heart of a mountain. Well, even if wedosuffocate, at least we're safe from falling trees; if the lightning has struck one, it can't come down, wedged in as it is in that great tight roof overhead."
There came another crash. "I believe it grows hotter and hotter," he went on, throwing down his hat. "I am beginning to feel a little queer myself; I have to tell you, you know, in order that you may be able to act with—with discrimination, as Dr. Kirby would say."
She had turned quickly. "Do you feel faint?"
"Faint?" he answered, scoffingly. "Never in the world. Am I a woman? I feel perfectly well, and strong as an ox, only—I see double."
"Yes, that is the air of the swamp."
She took off the black lace scarf she was wearing, dipped it into the stream, and told him to bind it round his forehead above the eyes.
"Nonsense!" he said, impatiently.
But she moved towards him, and kneeling on the canoe's bottom, bound the lace tightly round his forehead herself, fastening it with her little gold pin.
"I must look like a Turk," he exclaimed when she released him.
But the wet bandage cleared his vision; he could see plainly again.
After another five minutes, however, back came the blur. "Shall we ever get out of this accursed hole?" he cried, pressing his hands on his eyes.
"I can paddle a little; let me take the oar."
But he dashed more water on his head, and pushed her hands away. "Women never know! It's much better for me to keep on. But you must direct me,—say 'one stroke on the right,' 'two on the left,' and so on."
"Oh, why did I ever bring you in here?" she moaned, giving no directions at all, but looking at his contracted eyes with the tears welling in her own.
"See here, Margaret,—I really don't know what would happen if I should put this oar down and—and let you pity me! I can tell you once. Now be warned." He spoke with roughness.
Her tears were arrested. "Two strokes on the right," she said, quickly.
They went on their course again, he putting his oar into the water with a peculiar deliberation, as though he were taking great care not to disturb its smoothness; but this was because he was guiding himself by sense of touch. It was not that all was dark before him, that he saw nothing, it would have been much easier if there had been nothing to see; but whether his eyes were open or closed he lookedconstantly and in spite of himself into a broad circular space of vivid scarlet, in the centre of which a smaller and revolving disk of colors like those of peacocks' feathers, continually dilating and contracting, wearied and bewildered him. In spite of this visual confusion he kept on.
Their progress was slow. "I think I'll stop for a while," he said, after a quarter of an hour had passed. They were still among the rattling canes, his voice had a drowsy tone.
"Oh, don't stop now; we're nearly out."
But he had stopped.
"If I had had any idea you would tire so soon—— Of course if Imusttake the oar—and blister my hands——"
"Keep back in your place," he cried, angrily, as she made a movement as though she were coming to take the paddle from him.
She went on giving the directions, she could scarcely keep the tremor from her voice, but she did keep it. When she looked at his closed eyes, and saw the effort he was making—every time he lifted his arms it was like lifting a gigantic weight, his fancy made it so—she longed to take the oar from him and let him rest. But she did not dare to, he must not sleep now. She put out her hand and touched an edge of his coat furtively, where he would not perceive it; the gentle little touch seemed to give her courage to say, in a tone of sarcastic compassion, "If, after all, youaregoing to faint, though you assured me——"
"Faint!" said Winthrop,—"what are you talking about?" He straightened himself and threw back his head. Her taunt had answered its purpose, it had made him angry and in his anger he sent the boat forward with more force.
Another anxious ten minutes, and then, "We're out!" she said, as she saw wide water in front. "Now it will be cooler." The channel broadened, they left the rattling canes behind.
Water was coming slowly down the trees, not in drops but in dark streaks; this was rain that had made its way through the roof of foliage, scanty fringe of the immense torrent now falling upon the drenched ground outside.
"I shall go through to that place you spoke of—Eustis Landing, wasn't it?" said Winthrop.
"Oh, youarebetter!"
Her relief showed itself in these words. But much more in her face; its strained tension gave way, her tears fell. She dried them in silence.
"Because I can speak of something outside of this infernal bog? Yes, I shall get you safely through now. And myself also. But—it hasn't been easy!"
"Oh, I know that."
"I beg your pardon, no, you don't; not the half."
In a moment or two more he announced that he was beginning to see "something besides fireworks." She still continued, however, to direct him.
The swamp had been growing more open. At length the channel brought them to a spectral lake, with a few dead trees in it here and there hung with white moss. "I remember this place, the creek opens out just opposite.At lastit's over!"
"And at last I can see. But I must take this thing off; it binds me." And he unloosed and threw off her lace scarf.
They found the creek and entered. "It seems strange to see solid ground again, doesn't it?" he said.
"Then youcansee it?"
"As well as ever."
The creek brought them to a waste that was open to the sky.
"Now we can breathe," he said; "I feel as though I should never want to be under a tree branch again!"
It was not very dark; there was a moon somewhere behind the gray clouds that closely covered the sky. The great storm had gone westward, carrying with it the tornado and the rain, and now a cool, moderate, New-England-feeling wind was beginning to blow.
Winthrop glanced back. The great trees of the Monnlungs loomed up in a long dark line against the sky; from the low level of the boat in the flat waste they looked like a line of mountains.
"All the same, you know," he said, contradictorily, "it was very beautiful in there."
The creek was wide; he went on rapidly. He was quitehimself again. "You look fearfully worn," he said, after a while.
"Must we have all these torches now?" She spoke with irritation, she could not get away from their light.
"Not if you object to them." He extinguished all but one. "Now put on some of those wraps; it's cold."
"I do not need them."
"Don't be childish." (There was no doubt but that he was himself again.) "Here, let me help you on with this cloak."
She submitted.
It took them three-quarters of an hour to reach the landing.
"This is it, I presume," he said, as he saw the dim outlines of two white houses at a little distance on the low shore. "I will knock them up, and get some sort of a place where you can rest."
"If there is any one to row, I should much rather go directly home."
"Always unreasonable. Give me your hands." He leaned forward and took them. "Cold as ice,—I thought so. You must come up to the house and go to bed."
"I could not sleep. Let me go home; it is the only place for me."
He still held her hands. "Very well," he said.
"Perhaps they have found Lanse," she went on.
"Old Dinah and Rose? Very likely."
In a few minutes he returned, followed by two negroes, one of whom carried a lantern. They got out their own boat. Winthrop helped Margaret into it, and took his place beside her; their canoe was taken in tow. With strong regular strokes the men rowed down the creek, and out on the broad St. John's.
When they came in sight of the house on the point it was gleaming with light; Margaret gave an exclamation.
Dismissing the men, Winthrop went up the path after her. "I am sure he has come," she said, hurrying on.
"Who? Lanse? Oh no, it's those old goblins of yours who have illuminated in this way; it's their idea of keeping watch for you."
The doors had been left unfastened, they entered. Inside, everything was as brilliant as though the house had been made ready for a ball. But there was not a sound, no one stirred. They went through to the kitchen; and there, each on her knees before a wooden chair, with her head resting upon it on her folded arms, appeared the little Africans, sound asleep; the soles of their shoes, turned up behind them, seemed almost as long as they were.
Winthrop roused them. "Here," he said; "we're back. Make some coffee for your mistress as quickly as you can; and you, Rose, light a fire in the sitting-room."
The queer little old women ran about like frightened hens. They tumbled over each other, and let everything drop. Winthrop stood over them sternly, he took the pitch-pine from the distracted Rose and lighted the fire himself. "Now go and put out all those lights," he said; "and bring in the coffee the moment it's ready."
He had made Margaret sit down in a low easy-chair, still wrapped in her cloak, and had placed a footstool for her feet; the fire danced and sparkled, she sat with her head thrown back, her eyes closed.
"Are you warmer?" he asked. "You were chilled through all the way down the river; every now and then I could feel you shiver."
"It was more fatigue than cold." His voice had roused her, she sat up. "Oh, I ought to be doing something—trying—"
"You can do no more now; you must have some coffee, and then you must go to bed. But, in the mean while, I will do everything possible."
"But you don't believe—I don't knowwhatyou believe!" She rose.
He put her back in her chair. "I will believe nothing if you will go and rest—I mean my beliefs shall not interfere with my actions; I will simply do everything I can—all I should do if I were sure he was lost, somewhere about here."
She remained where he had placed her. After a while she said, "I was so certain he was in the swamp!" Her tired eyes, beginning to glisten a little with tears, had a childlike look as she raised them to his.
Old Rose now came hurrying in with the coffee, its fragrant aroma filled the room. Winthrop poured it out himself, and made Margaret swallow it, spoonful by spoonful, until the cup was empty.
"You have a little color now," he said.
She put the cup down, and rose.
"You're going? Yes, go; go to bed, and sleep as long as you can, it must be near dawn. I will meet you here for a late breakfast at eleven."
She still stood there. "But will you—will you really——"
"Haven't I given you my word?" he said. "Are you afraid that I shall not be tender enough to him? Don't you comprehend that no matter how much I may hate him myself, his being your husband protects him perfectly, because, so long as you persist in continuing so subservient, he could visit anything else upon you?"
She went out without reply.
He sank into the chair she had left vacant to rest for a moment or two; he was desperately tired.
When he came back to the room at eleven, she was already there. It was a dark day, with the same New-England-feeling wind blowing over river and land; there had been spurts of rain, and he was wet. "Why have you no fire?" he asked.
"It did not seem cold enough."
"It's not cold, but it's dreary. I don't believe you have slept at all?" he continued, looking at her. Opening the door, he called Rose, and told her to light the fire. When the old woman had finished her task—it was but a touch, and again the magic wood was filling the room with its gay light and faint sweet odor of the pine—he repeated his question. "I don't believe you have slept at all?"
"How could I sleep!"
He sat down before the fire. "You are wet. And you must be very tired," she went on.
"I am glad you have thought of it—I like sympathy. Yes, I am tired; but the room is cheery now. Let us breakfast in here?"
"You have found no trace?" Her nervousness showed itself in her tone.
"No."
She went to the door, and gave Rose an order. Then she closed it, and walked first to one window; then to another.
"Do come and sit down. You wander about like a ghost."
"I will step softly." She began to walk up and down the room with her light, rather long-paced step. "Youare not afraid," she said at last.
"No, I am not afraid; if he were wrecked in mid-ocean, he would make the whales cook his dinner for him, and see to it, too, that it was a good one."
"Oh, don't speak in that tone; don't jest about him when we cannot tell—Here we are safe at home, safe and comfortable, when perhaps he—" she stopped.
"You are haunted by the most useless terrors. 'Safe,' are we? How 'safe' were we last night, for his sake too, in that deadly swamp?—how safe wereyou? And 'comfortable'—I sitting here wet and exhausted, and you walking up and down, white as a sheet, eating your heart out with anxiety! 'And home,' did you say? I like that! Pretty place it was to bring you to—hideous barrack miles from every living thing. Of course you've made it better, you would make a cave better; he knew you would do it when he brought you here!"
He changed his bitter tone into a laugh, "Instead of abusing him, I ought rather to admire him—admire him for his success—he has always done so entirely as he pleased! If one wishes to be virtuous or heroic, I don't know that it is the best way; but if one wishes simply to be comfortable, it most certainly is. You can't philosophize?" he went on, turning his head to look at her as she continued her walk.
"No, no. Would you mind telling me what you have done?"
"I have three parties out; one has gone up the shore, and one down; the third is across the river."
"You are very good. For I know you don't believe he is here."
"No, I don't."
"But where, then, can he be?"
"You have asked me that before. This time I will answer that he is probably where he intended to be when heleft here early yesterday morning—after ridding himself of Eliot and Dodd."
"You think he planned it. But why should he have been so secret about it? No one could have prevented him from taking a journey if he wished to take one."
"You would have prevented it; you wouldn't have thought him strong enough."
"That would not have deterred him."
"You're right, it wouldn't. Probably he didn't care even to explain that he did not intend to be deterred, Lanse was never fond of explanations."
"I am not at all convinced."
"I didn't expect to convince you. You asked me, and I had to say something."
After breakfast—she could eat nothing—he said, "I have sent for a little steamer; it is to take me to all the landings within ten miles of here. I shall not be back until late, probably; don't sit up." He left the room.
Fifteen minutes later, he appeared again.
"I was waiting for the steamer down by the water, when I saw the boy who brings the mail going away; you have had a letter?"
She did not answer. Her hands were empty.
"You heard me coming and concealed it."
"I have nothing to conceal." She rose. "Yes, I have had a letter, Lanse is on his way to New York; he is taking a journey—for a change."
"You will let me see the letter?"
"Impossible." She was trembling a little, but she faced him inflexibly.
"Margaret, I beg you to let me see it. Show me that you trust me; you seem never to do that—yet I deserve—Tell me, then, of your own accord, what he says. If he has left you again, who should help you, care for you, if not I?"
"You last of all!" She walked away. "Of course now that I know, I am no longer anxious,—I was foolish to be so anxious. We are very much obliged to you for all you have done."
"Very well, if you take that tone, let me tell you that Itoo have had a letter—Primus has just brought it from East Angels—it was sent there."
She glanced at him over her shoulder with eyes that looked full of fear—a fear which he did not stop to analyze.
"It is possible that Lanse has written to me even more plainly than he has to you," he went on. "At any rate, he tells me that he is going to Italy—it is the old affair revived—and that he has no present intention of returning. What he has said in his letter to you, of course I don't know; but it can hardly be the whole, because he asks me to 'break' it to you. 'Break' it,—he has chosen his messenger well!"
"O my God," said Margaret Harold.
Her words were a prayer. She sank down on her knees beside the sofa, and buried her face in her clasped arms.
Evert Winthrop had felt that her words were a prayer, that she was praying still.
Against what especial danger she was thus invoking aid, he did not know; before he could speak, old Rose had opened the door, and Margaret, springing up, was going forward to meet the Rev. Mr. Moore, who with his usual equable expression entered, hat in hand, to pay Mrs. Harold a short visit; he had been obliged to come over to the river that morning on business, and had thought that he would take the occasion for a little social pleasure as well.
Margaret put out her hands eagerly; "It's wonderful—your coming now! You will stay with me, won't you?—I am in great trouble."
Mr. Moore took her hand; all the goodness of his nature came into his long narrow face, making it lovely in its sympathy as he heard her appeal. She was clinging to him—she had put her other hand on his arm. "You will stay?" she repeated urgently.
"If I can be of any use to you, most certainly I will stay."
Upon hearing this, she made an effort to recover herself, to speak more coherently. "I shall need your advice—thereare so many things I must decide about. Mr. Winthrop will tell you—but why should I leave it to him? I will tell you myself. My husband has gone north, he is going abroad again. You will understand—it was so sudden. I did not know—" She made another effort to steady her voice. "If you will stay with me for a day or two, I will send over to Gracias for anything you may need."
"I will stay gladly, Mrs. Harold."
"Oh, you are good! But I always knew you were. And now for a few minutes—if you will excuse me—I have only just heard it—I will come back soon." And with swift step she hastened from the room.
Mr. Moore, his face full of sympathy, turned to Winthrop.
But Evert Winthrop's expression showed only anger; he walked off, with his back turned, and made no reply.
"Is it true, then?" said Mr. Moore, infinite regret in his mild tones.
Winthrop was standing at the window, he bit his lips with impatience; he was in no mood for what he would have called "the usual platitudes," and especially platitudes about Lansing Harold.
It could not be denied that Mr. Moore's conversation often contained sentences that were very usual.
"Perhaps he will return," pursued the clergyman, hopefully. "Influences might be brought to bear. We may be able to reach him?" And again he looked at Winthrop inquiringly.
But Winthrop had now forgotten his presence, at this very moment he was leaving the room; he was determined to see Margaret and speak to her, if but for a second. He found Rose, and sent her with a message; he himself followed the old woman up the stairs, and stood waiting in the upper hall as she knocked at Margaret's closed door.
But the door did not open; in answer to Rose's message delivered shrilly outside the door, Margaret replied from within, "I can see no one at present."
Rose came back. "She can't see nobody nohow jessdisminute, marse," she answered, in an apologetic tone. Then, imaginatively, "Spec she's tired."
"Go back and tell her that I'm waiting here—in the hall,and that I will keep her but a moment. There is something important I must say."
Rose returned to the door. But the answer was the same. "She done gotmightytired, marse, sho," said the old servant, again trying to clothe the refusal in polite terms, though unable to think of a new apology.
"Her door is locked, I suppose?" Winthrop asked. Then he felt that this was going too far; he turned and went down the stairs, but with a momentary revival in his breast all the same of the old despotic feeling, the masculine feeling, that a woman should not be allowed to dictate to a man what he should say or not say, do or not do; in refusing to see him even for one moment, Margaret was dictating.
He walked down the lower hall, and then back again. Happening to glance up, he saw that old Rose was still standing at the top of the stairs; she dropped one of her straight courtesies as he looked up—a quick ducking down of her narrow skirt; she was much disturbed by the direct refusal which she had had to give him.
"I can't stay here, if they are going to watch me," he thought, impatiently. He turned and re-entered the sitting-room.
Mr. Moore was putting more wood on the fire. His mind was full of Margaret and her troubles; but the fire certainly needed replenishing, it would do no one any good to come back to a cold room, Mrs. Harold least of all; Winthrop therefore found him engaged with the coals.
Mr. Moore went on with his engineering feats. He cherished no resentment because Winthrop had left him so suddenly. Still, he had observed that such sudden exits were sometimes an indication of temper; in such cases there was nothing better than an unnoticing, and if possible an occupied, silence; so he went on with his fire.
"It's most unfortunate that there's no one who has any real authority over her," Winthrop began, still smarting under the refusal. Margaret had chosen the clergyman as her counsellor; it would be as well, then, to indicate to that gentleman what course should be pursued.
"You have some plan to recommend to her?" said Mr. Moore, putting the tongs away and seating himself. Heheld out his long hands as if to warm them a little by the flame, and looked at Winthrop inquiringly.
"No, I don't know that I have. But she is sure to be obstinate in any case." He too sat down, and stared moodily at the flame.
"You think it will be a great grief to her," observed the clergyman, after a while. "No doubt—no doubt."
"No grief at all, as far as that goes. Lanse has always treated her abominably." He paused. Then continued, as if there were now good reasons for telling the whole tale. "Before he had been married a year, he left her, she did not leave him, as my aunt supposes; he went abroad, and would not allow her to come to him. There had never been the least fault on her side; there hasn't been up to this day."
"I cannot understand such fickleness, such dark tendencies towards change," said Mr. Moore, in rebuking wonder.
"As far as regards change, I ought to say, perhaps, that there hasn't been much of that," Winthrop answered. "What took him abroad was an old interest—something he had felt long before his marriage, and felt strongly; he has never changed in that respect."
"Do you allude—is it possible that you are alluding to an interest in aperson?" asked Mr. Moore, in a lowered tone.
"It certainly wasn't a thing; I hardly think you would call a beautiful French woman of rank that, would you?"
Mr. Moore looked at him with a stricken face. "A beautiful French woman of rank!" he murmured.
"That's what is taking him abroad now, this second time. She threw him over once, but she has evidently called him back; in fact, he admits it in his letter to me."
"Oh, sin! sin!" said Middleton Moore, with the deepest sadness in his voice. He leaned his head upon his hand and covered his eyes.
"I suppose so," answered Winthrop. "All the same, she is the only person Lanse has ever cared for; for her and her alone he could be, and would be if he had the chance, perhaps, unselfish; I almost think he could be heroic. But, you see, he won't have the chance, because there's the husband in the bush."
"Do you mean to say that this wretched creature is amarriedwoman?" demanded the clergyman, aghast.
"Oh yes; it was her marriage, her leaving him in the lurch, that made Lanse himself marry in the first place—marry Margaret Cruger."
"This is most horrible. This man, then, this Lansing Harold, is an incarnation of evil?"
"I don't know whether he is or not," Winthrop answered, irritably. "Yes, he is, I suppose; we all are. Not you, of course," he added, glancing at his companion, and realizing as he did so that here was a man who was an incarnation of good. Then the opposing feeling swept over him again, namely, that this man was good simply because he could not be evil; it was not that he had resisted temptation so much as that he had no capacity for being tempted. "An old woman," he thought.
He himself was very different from that, he knew well what temptation meant! A flush crossed his face. "Perhaps Lanse can't help loving her," he said, flinging it out obstinately.
"A man can always help a shameful feeling of that sort," the clergyman answered, with sternness. He drew up his tall figure, his face took on dignity. "We are not the beasts that perish."
"We may not be altogether beasts, and yet we may not be able to help it," Winthrop answered, getting up and walking across the room. Margaret's little work-table stood there, gay with ribbons and fringes; mechanically he fingered the spools and bright wools it held.
"At least we can control its manifestations," replied Middleton Moore, still with a deep severity of voice and eyes.
"You would like to have all sinners of that disposition (which doesn't happen to be yours) consumed immediately, wouldn't you? for fear of their influencing others," said Winthrop, leaving the work-table and walking about the room. "In the days of the burnings, now, when it was for strictly wicked persons of that tendency, I suspect you would have brought a few fagots yourself—wouldn't you?—even if you hadn't taken a turn at the bellows."
Mr. Moore turned and surveyed him in unfeigned astonishment.
"I beg your pardon," said the younger man, "I don't know what I'm saying. I'll go out for a while, and try the fresh air."
When he came back half an hour later, Margaret had returned.
"Ah! you have had a walk? The air is probably pleasant," said the clergyman, welcoming him kindly. He wished to show that he had forgotten the bellows. "I was on the point of saying to Mrs. Harold, as you came in, that in case she should be thinking of leaving this house, I will hope most warmly that she will find it consistent with her plans to return to us at Gracias."
"I should much rather stay here," responded Margaret. "I could have Dinah's son Abram to sleep in the house, if necessary."
"You could never stay here alone, you ought not to think of it," said Winthrop. "We know better than you do about that." He had seated himself at some distance from her. Mr. Moore still kept his place before the fire, and Margaret was beside him; she held a little fan-shaped screen in her hand to shade her face from the glow.
"I am sure Mr. Moore will say that it is safe," she answered.
"I included him; I said 'we,'" said Winthrop, challengingly.
Mr. Moore extended his long legs with a slightly uneasy movement. "I regret to say that I fear Mr. Winthrop is right; it would not be safe at present, even with Abram in the house. The river is no longer what it was" (he refrained from saying "your northern steamers have made the change;") "the people who live in the neighborhood are respectable, but the increased facilities for traffic have brought us dangerous characters."
"Of course you will go back to East Angels," Winthrop began.
"I think not. If I cannot stay here, I shall go north."
"North? Where?"
"There are plenty of places. There is my grandmother'sold house in the country, where I lived when I was a child; it is closed now, but I could open it; I should like to see the old rooms once more." She spoke quietly, her manner was that she was taking it for granted that the clergyman knew everything, that Winthrop had told him all. She was a deserted wife, there was no need for any of them to go through the form of covering that up.
"That would be a perfectly crazy idea," began Winthrop. Then he stopped.
"We should be exceedingly sorry to lose you, Mrs. Harold—Penelope would be exceedingly sorry," said Mr. Moore, in his amiable voice. "I can understand that it would afford you much pleasure to revisit your childhood's home. But East Angels, too—after so long a stay there, may we not hope that it presents to you a friendly aspect?"
"I prefer to go north," Margaret answered.
Mr. Moore did not combat this decision; he did not, in truth, know quite what to advise just at present; it required thought. Here was a woman who had been cruelly outraged by the scandalous, by the incredibly abandoned conduct of the worst of husbands. She had no mother to go to (the clergyman felt this to be an unspeakable misfortune), but she was not a child; they could not dictate to her, she was a free agent. But women—women of refinement—were generally timid (he glanced at Margaret, and decided that she was timid also); she might talk a little about her house at the north, but probably it would end in her returning to East Angels after all.
"If I find that I don't care for the country-house, the life there, I can go abroad," Margaret continued. She rose and went out.
This was not much like returning to East Angels!
"Is she thinking, do you suppose, of going to him?" asked the clergyman, in a cautious voice, when the door was closed.
"I don't know what she is thinking of. She is capable of the most mistaken ideas!" Winthrop answered.
"She is possessed of a wonderful sense of duty, if she does go; I mean, in case she is acquainted with the cause of his departure?"
"She is acquainted with everything."
Margaret came back and sat down again. "You decidedly think, then, that I cannot stay here?" she said to the clergyman.
"Do you wish to stay so very ranch?" he asked, kindly.
"Yes, I should much rather stay, much rather make no change; this is my home."
"How can you talk in that way?" said Winthrop. He had risen again, and begun to walk up and down the room; as he spoke, he stopped his walk and stood before her. "You came here against your will; you disliked the place intensely; you said so of your own accord, I heard you." "I know I have said so. Many times. Still, I should like to stay now."
"You cannot. Even Mr. Moore tells you that."
"Yes," said the clergyman, conscientiously, "I must say it though I do not wish to; the place is unusually lonely, it stands quite by itself; it would be unwise to remain."
"I must give it up, I see," Margaret answered; "I am sorry. But at least I can retain the house; I should like to keep it open, too; the servants could stay here, I suppose."
Winthrop turned and looked at her, a quick surprised suspicion in his glance.
"I could do that, couldn't I?" she repeated, addressing Mr. Moore.
Again the clergyman looked uncomfortable. He crossed his legs, and extending the pendent foot a little in its long, thin-soled boot, he looked at it and moved it to and fro slightly, as if he had been called upon to give an opinion upon the leather. "I fear," he said, as the result of his meditation, "that it might not be altogether prudent. The negroes have much hospitality; with a large house at their command, and nobody near, I fear they might be tempted to invite their friends to visit them."
"The place would swarm with them," said Winthrop.
"At any rate, I shall keep the house even if I close it," said Margaret. "It must be ready for occupancy at any time."
"Then you are thinking of coming back?" Winthrop asked. His face still showed an angry mistrust.
"I may come back. At present, however, I shall go north; and as I prefer to go immediately, I shall set about arrangingthe rooms here so that I can leave them. It will not take long, two days, or three at most; it would be a great kindness, Mr. Moore, if you would stay with me until I leave—by next Saturday's steamer, probably."
"I hardly think you will be able to accomplish so much in so short a time," answered the clergyman, a good deal bewildered by this display of energy. To Mr. Moore's idea, a woman who had been deserted by her husband, even though that husband had been proved to be abnormally vicious, could not well be in the mood for the necessary counting of chairs, for the proper distribution of gum-camphor among carpets and curtains, all so important.
Then, reading again the deep trouble in Margaret's face, under all the calmness of her manner, he dismissed his objections, and said, heartily, "In any case, I will stay with you as long as you wish."
"Possibly one of your difficulties is that I am here," said Winthrop to Margaret. "You cannot expect me to leave you entirely, as long as you are still in this house, I am, after all, your nearest relative; but of course I could stay at the hotel." He spoke with extreme coldness.
Margaret, however, did not try to dissipate it by asking him to remain.
He showed that he felt this, for he said, "Perhaps I had better go up at once and see to getting quarters there."
She did not answer. He walked about aimlessly for a moment or two, and then left the room.
"Will you go over the house with me now, Mr. Moore—I mean this afternoon?"
"Certainly. It would be better, I think, to make a list," Mr. Moore answered, in an interested voice. Mr. Moore enjoyed lists; to him an index was an exciting object; in devising catalogues, or new alphabetical arrangements, he had sometimes felt a sense of pleasure that was almost dissipation.
"You will have three enemies to encounter," he began with much seriousness. "They are, first, the Mildew. Second, the Moth. Third, the Damp; the Mouse, so destructive in other climates, will trouble you little in this. We shall need red pepper."
A week later, Margaret was still in the house on the point, she had not been able to complete as rapidly as she had hoped the arrangements necessary for leaving it in safe condition behind her. This was not owing to any lingering on her own part, or to any hesitation of purpose; it was owing simply to the constitutional inability of anybody in that latitude, black or white, to work steadily, to be in the least hurried. The poorest negro engaged to shake carpets could not bring himself, though with the offer of double wages before him, to the point of going without a long "res'" under the trees after each (short) "stent." Mr. Moore, with his lists, made no haste—Mr. Moore had never been in a hurry in his life.
But now at last all was completed; the house was to be closed on the morrow. No one but the clergyman was to sleep there on this last night; the negroes, generously paid and rejoicing in their riches, were going to their own homes; in the morning one of them was to return to dismantle Mr. Moore's room, and then the clergyman himself was to bar the windows, lock the doors, and carry the keys to the hotel, where they were to be kept, in accordance with Margaret's orders. She herself was to sleep at the hotel, in order to be in readiness to take the sea-going steamer, which would touch at that pier at an early hour the next morning.
Evert Winthrop had returned to East Angels. Five days he had stayed at the hotel, coming down every morning to the house on the point; not once had he been able to see Margaret alone. Mr. Moore was always with her, or if by rare chance he happened to be absent, she was surrounded by the chattering blacks, who with the jolliest good-humor and aimless wandering errands to and fro, were carrying out, or pretending to, the orders of "Mis' Horrel."
Winthrop chafed against this constant presence of others. But he would not allow himself to speak of it, pride preventedhim. Why should he be kept at a distance, and a comparative stranger like Mr. Moore consulted about everything? Mr. Moore! He looked on with impatience while the clergyman gave explanations of Penelope's excellent methods of vanquishing the Mildew, the Damp, the Moth; with impatience grown to contempt he heard him read aloud to Margaret and check off carefully the various items of his lists. Mr. Moore had even made a list of the inhabitants of the poultry-yard, though Margaret intended to present them in a body to Dinah and Rose.
"One brown hen spotted with white," he read; "one yellow hen, spotted with brown. A black hen. A duck."
He had never seemed to Winthrop so narrow, so given up to little details, as now.
On the fourth day Winthrop (perhaps having found pride, in spite of the dignity it carried with it, rather unfruitful) suddenly resolved to overpower the dumb opposition, make himself master of this ridiculous situation—"ridiculous" was his own term for it. Margaret was evidently determined not to see him alone; after their long acquaintance, and their relationship (he insisted a good deal upon this rather uncertain tie), she should not be allowed to treat him in that way;hewould not allow it. Of what, then, was she afraid?
It came across him strongly that he should like to ask her that question face to face.
He rode down to the house on the point. He found her in the sitting-room, the blacks coming and going as usual.
"Go away, all of you," he said, authoritatively. "Find some work to do in another room for half an hour; I wish to speak to your mistress."
Margaret looked up as she heard this imperative command. She did not contradict it, she could not come to an open conflict with him before her own servants. He knew this.
Closing the door after the negroes, who, in obedience to the thorough master's voice which had fallen upon their ears, had shuffled hurriedly out in a body, Winthrop came over to the writing-table where she was seated. She had kept on with her writing.
"You don't care any more about that list, about any ofthese trifling things, than I do," he began; "why do you pretend to care? And why do you make it so impossible for me to speak to you? What are you afraid of?"
She did not answer. And he did not get the satisfaction he had anticipated from his question, because her face was bent over her paper.
"Why are you going north?" he went on, abruptly.
"I need a change."
"You cannot live all alone in New York."
"I shall not be in New York. And I could easily have a companion."
"Your best companion is Aunt Katrina. I admit that she is selfish; but she is growing old, and she is ill. Who, after all, is nearer to you?"
"No one is nearer. I have always been alone."
"That is cynical—and it is not true." He paused. "Every one likes you."
"Well they may! When haveIbeen—permitted myself to be disagreeable? When haveIever failed to be kind? I have always repressed myself. What is the result? I have been at everybody's beck and call, I have been expected to bear everything in silence; to listen, always to listen, and never to reply." She spoke with bitterness, keeping on with her writing meanwhile.
"It is perfectly true—what you say, and I think you have done too much of it. Are you getting tired of therôle?"
"I am tired at least of East Angels; I cannot go back there."
"You think Aunt Katrina will talk about Lanse in her usual style—about this second going away of his? I myself will tell her the whole story—it is time she knew it! She will talk about him no more."
"It isn't that." She threw down her pen and rose. "I need a complete change, I must have it. But I shall arrange it myself. The only thingyoucan do for me is to leave me free; I should like it if you would go back to East Angels—if you would go to-day; you only trouble me by staying here, and you trouble me greatly."
"Margaret, it's outrageous the way you treat me. What have I done that I should be thrust off in this way? Andit's a very sudden change, too; you were not so that night in the swamp."
"It's kind to bring that up. I was tired—nervous; I wasn't myself—"
"You're yourself now, never fear," he interpolated, angrily.
—"Will you do what I ask?"
"You really wish me to go?" His voice softened. "You don't want me to see you off? It's very little to do—see you off."