"I should be grateful if you would go now."
"You are throwing us overboard together, I see—all Lanse's relatives; you think we are all alike," he commented, in a savage tone. "And you, well rid of us, free, and determined to do as you please, are going north alone—you do not even say where?"
"There will be no secret about that; I will write. You talk about freedom," she said, breaking off suddenly, "what doyouknow of slavery? That is what I have been for years—a slave. Oh, to be somewhere!"—and she threw up her arms with an eloquent gesture of longing,—"anywherewhere I can breathe and think as I please—as I really am! Do you want me to die without ever having been myself—my real self—even for one day? I have come to the end of my strength; I can endure no longer."
Winthrop had been thrilled through by this almost violent cry and gesture. Coming from Margaret, they gave him a great surprise. "Yes, I know," he began; "it has been a hard life." Then he stopped, for he felt that he had not known, he had not comprehended; he did not fully comprehend even now. "I am only harsh on account of the way you treat me," he said; "it galls me to be so completely set aside."
"You can help me only by leaving me, I have told you that."
"But where is the sense—"
"I cannot argue. There may be no sense, but your presence oppresses me."
"You shall not be troubled with it long." He went towards the door. But he came back. "Give meonereason."
"I have no reason; it is instinct."
He still stood there.
She waited a moment, looking at him. "If you do not leave me, I shall leave you," she said, "I shall refuse to see you again. You are the best judge of whether you believe me or not."
"Womenareabsurd," exclaimed Winthrop; "they must always have vows, renunciations, eternal partings—nothing less contents them. Oh, I believe you! you would keep a vow or die for it, no matter how utterly senseless it might be. Of course I want to see you again; so I will go now—that is, for a while; I will go back to East Angels."
He took her hand, though she did not extend it. "You have been extremely unreasonable," he said. Though he obeyed, she should feel that he had the mastery still.
He left her, and rode back to the hotel. Mr. Moore learned a few hours later, that he had returned to East Angels.
This had happened three days before. It was now late in the afternoon of the third day, and the house was prepared for "Mis' Horrel's" departure. Mr. Moore, standing on the low bank, waved his hand in farewell as the boat, rowed by two old negroes, carried her down the river.
The five miles seemed short. When the men turned in towards the hotel, twilight had fallen, the river had a veil of mist. Margaret's eyes rested vaguely on the shore; suddenly, in a low voice, she said, "Stop!"
The men obeyed. She strained her eyes to see more clearly a figure under the trees near the landing; it was a man, dressed in gray clothes, he was walking up and down; they could see him as he moved to and fro, but he could not see their low boat, pausing out there in the fog.
Margaret appeared to have satisfied herself. "Row out now into the stream," she said, briefly.
And in a few minutes the shore, left behind them, was but a dark line.
"I have changed my mind, I shall not sleep at the hotel, after all. You can take me back home—to the house on the point. Then, to-morrow morning, you can be there again at dawn, and bring me up in time for the steamer; it will do quite as well."
The old men, without comment either of mind or tongue, patiently rowed her back down the river.
When they reached the point, Margaret, after charging them to be punctual, dismissed them, and walked up the path alone towards the house. No lights were visible anywhere. There was a young moon, and she looked at her watch, it was not yet nine o'clock; Mr. Moore had apparently gone to bed at a very early hour.
The truth was that during all this visit of his on the river Mr. Moore had kept much later hours than he was in the habit of keeping at home. At home Penelope, who believed that he needed a great deal of sleep, was in the habit of saying, about ten o'clock, "Now, Middleton—" And Middleton, as Dr. Kirby once expressed it, always "now'd."
On the present occasion, after partaking of the supper which Dinah had prepared for him, he had sent the old woman to her home; then, remembering that he had a week of arrears to make up, he had gone to his room, though there was still a gleam of sunset in the west.
Margaret understood what had happened, she determined that she would not disturb him; probably it would not be difficult to find a way into the house. As she had expected, among the numerous windows on the ground-floor she found one which she could raise; light and lithe, she easily effected an entrance, and stole on tiptoe to a room up-stairs in the south wing, where she knew there was a lounge whose pillows had been left in place. She had her travelling-bag with her, but she did not intend to undress; she would take what sleep she could on the lounge until dawn, covered by her travelling shawl. But she was more weary than she knew, and nature was kind that night at least; very soon she fell asleep.
The figure she had seen on the shore, was, as she had thought, that of Evert Winthrop. He had come back.
It might have been that he did not consider a return to the river prohibited, so long as he did not go down to the house on the point; there was no law, certainly, against a man's travelling where he pleased. He had not been down to the house on the point, he had stayed at the hotel all day. He had seen her trunks when they arrived, and he knewfrom their being there that she must be expecting to take the next morning's steamer, northward-bound; was she coming herself to the hotel to sleep? After a while he made the inquiry; his tone was careless, he asked at what hour they expected her.
"I will be surprised if she is not here by supper-time," was the answer he received.
At sunset he went down to the shore and strolled to and fro. But though he thus kept watch, he did not see the boat that stole up in the fog, floated off-shore for a moment, and then disappeared.
That night, at three o'clock Middleton Moore woke with the feeling that he had been attacked by asthma, and that Penelope was trying to relieve him with long smoking wisps of thick brown paper, her accustomed remedy. Then consciousness became clearer, and he perceived that there was no Penelope and no candle; but that there was smoke. He sprang up and opened the door, there was smoke in the hall also. "The house is on fire," was his thought; "how fortunate that there is no one here!" He threw on his clothes, drew on his boots, and seizing his coat and hat, ran down the hall. His room was on the ground-floor, he looked into the other rooms as he passed; there was smoke, but no flame; yet he could distinctly perceive the odor of burning wood. "It must be up-stairs," he said to himself. He unlocked the house door, and ran across the lawn in order to see the upper story.
Yes, there were the flames. At present only little tongues, small and blue, creeping along under the cornice; they told him that the fire had a strong hold within, since it had made its way outward through the main wall. It would be useless for him to attempt to fight it, with the water at a distance and no one to assist. The old mansion was three stories high. "It will go like tinder," he thought.
His next idea was to save for Margaret all he could; jamming his clerical hat tightly down on his forehead, he began to carry out articles from the lower rooms, and pile them together at the end of the lawn. He worked hard; he ran, he carried, he piled up; then he ran again. He lifted and dragged ponderous weights, the perspiration stood in dropson his face. But even then he made a mental list of the articles he was saving: "Six parlor chairs. One centre table of mahogany. A work-table with fringe. A secretary with inlaid top. A sofa." In the lower rooms the smoke was blinding now. Outside, the tongues of flame had grown into a broad yellow band.
Presently the fire burst through the roof in half a dozen places, and, freed, rose with a leap high in the air; heretofore there had been but little noise, now there was the sound of crackling and burning, and the roar of flames under headway; the sky was tinged with the red glow, the garden took on a festal air, with all its vines and flowers lighted up.
Mr. Moore did not stop to look at this, nor to call the flames "grand." In the first place, he did not think them grand, eating up as they were a good house and a large quantity of most excellent furniture. In the second, he had not time for adjectives, he was bent upon saving a certain low bookcase he remembered, which stood in the upper hall. He had always admired that bookcase, he had never seen one before that was unconnected with associations of step-ladders, or an equally insecure stepping upon chairs.
He jammed his hat hard down upon his forehead again (he should certainly be obliged to have a new one), and ran back into the house. But the flames had now reached the lower hall, they had burned down as well as up; he was obliged to content himself with a hat-stand near the door. As he was dragging this out he heard shouts, and recognized the voices as those of negro women; when he had reached the lawn, there they were, Dinah and Rose and four other women; they had seen the light, and had come running from their cabins, half a mile down the shore. They were greatly excited; one young girl, black as coal, jumped up and down, bounding high like a ball each time; she was unconscious of what she was doing, her eyes were on the roaring flames, every now and then she gave a tremendous yell. Old Rose and Dinah wept and bewailed aloud.
"Dar goes de settin'-room winders—ow!"
"Dar goes de up-steers chimbly—ow!"
Another of the women, a thin old creature, clapped herhands incessantly on her legs, and shouted, "De glory's a-comin', de glory's a-comin', a-comin'!"
Mr. Moore deposited his hat-stand under a tree, and standing still for a moment, wiped his hot forehead. He did not attempt to stop their shouting, he knew that it would be useless; he thought with regret of that bookcase.
And now there came a shout louder, or at least more agonized, than any of the others, and round the corner of the house appeared the boy Primus; he ran towards them, shouting still, with each step he almost fell—"She'sdar—Mis' Horrel!"
He too had seen the light, and, approaching the place from the south, he had passed, in running towards the front, the narrow high south wing; here at a window he had seen a face—the face of Margaret Harold.
Mr. Moore was gone at the boy's first cry. The others followed.
The south wing was not visible from the front. Its third story was in flames, and the back and sides of the ground-floor had caught, but at a second-story window (which she had opened) they all saw a face—that of Margaret Harold; the glare of the main building showed her features perfectly. They could not have heard her, even if she had been able to call to them, the roar of the fire was now so loud.
"She cannot throw herself out, it's too high; and we have no blanket. There's a door below, isn't there? And stairs?" It was Mr. Moore's voice that asked.
"Yes, passon, yes. But it's alla-bu'nin'!"
Mr. Moore clasped his hands and bowed his head, it did not take longer than a breath. Then he started towards the wing.
"Oh, passon, yer dassent!"
"Oh, passon, yer can't help her now, de sweet lady, it's too late. Pray for heryere, passon; she'll go right straight up, she's wunner der Lawd'sownchillun, de dove!"
"Oh, passon! de Lawd ain't willin' fertwoter die."
The negro women clung about him, but he shook them off; going hastily forward, he broke in the door and disappeared. His moment's prayer had been for his wife, in the case—which he knew was probable—that he should not come from that door alive.
The gap he had made revealed the red fire within; behind the stairs the back of the wing was a glowing furnace.
The negroes now all knelt down, they had no hope; they began to sing their funeral hymn.
The fire had reached the second story; Margaret's face had disappeared.
A bravery which does not reason will sometimes conquer in the teeth of reason. One chance existed, it was one amid a dozen probabilities of a horrible death; it lay in swiftness, and in the courage to walk, without heeding burned feet, directly across floors already in a glow.
Middleton Moore crossed such floors; he went unshrinkingly up the scorching stairs. He found Margaret by sense of touch in the smoke-filled room above, and tearing off his coat, he lifted her as she lay unconscious, wrapped her head and shoulders in it, and bore her swiftly down the burning steps, and through the fiery hall, and so out to the open air. His eyebrows, eyelashes, and hair were singed, his face was blistered; brands and sparks had fallen like hail upon his shoulders and arms, and scorched through to the skin; his boots were burned off, the curled leather was dropping from his burned feet; his breath was almost gone.
He gave Margaret to the women, and sank down himself upon the grass; he could not see, he felt very weak; something was tightening in his throat. The boy Primus, with great sobs, ran like a deer to the well for water, and bringing it back, held a cupful to the lips of the blinded man.
Margaret, though still unconscious, appeared to be unhurt. The skirt of her dress was burned in several places. The women chafed her hands, and bathed her face with the fresh water; once she opened her eyes, but unconsciousness came over her again.
With a crash the northern wing fell in.
"De front'll go nex'," said Primus. "We mus' git 'em 'way from dish yer."
The women lifted Margaret tenderly, and bore her to the end of the lawn. Mr. Moore rose on his burned feet, and, leaning on the boy's shoulder, slowly made his way thither also; their forlorn little group, assembled near the piled-up furniture, was brightly illuminated by the flame.
Presently the front fell in. And now, as the roar was less fierce, they could hear the gallop of a horse, in another minute Evert Winthrop was among them. He saw only Margaret, he knelt by her side and called her name.
"Depassondone it," said Primus,—"de passon! He jess walk right straight inter de bu'nin',roarin'flameses! En brung her out."
Mr. Moore had not seen Winthrop, he could see nothing now. He seemed besides, a little bewildered, confused. As Winthrop took his hand and spoke to him, he lifted his face with its scorched cheeks and closed eyes, and answered: "There was some furniture saved, I think. I think I saved a little. Six parlor chairs—if I am not mistaken; and a centre table—I was sorry about that bookcase."
"Hear de lamb!" said one of the negro women, bursting into fresh tears.
Margaret Harold was sitting on a bench at the East Angels landing. She was in walking dress; her large hat, with its drooping plumes, made her face look like that of a Gainsborough portrait. A bunch of ferns which she had gathered had slipped from her lap to her feet. Carlos Mateo, very stiff, stood near. It was sunset; a mocking-bird was pouring forth a flood of notes, rioting in melody, it was marvellous to realize that such a little creature could produce from his tiny throat matchless music like this.
Coming down the live-oak avenue appeared the figure of Celestine.
"If you please, Miss Margaret, Mrs. Rutherford has sent me to look for you."
"Yes, I know; I am late to-night, I will come in now."
"There's no occasion for haste," Celestine answered, bestowing a short glance of general inspection upon the lagoon, the tinted sky, and the stiff figure of the crane. "What a pagan bird that crane is!"
"You hear, Carlos?" said Margaret.
But Carlos was never conscious of the existence of Celestine, he kept his attentions exclusively for his southern friends; the only exception was Margaret, whose presence he was now beginning to tolerate.
"You don't call that mocking-bird a pagan, do you?" Margaret asked.
"I don't care much for mocking-birdsmyself," Celestine responded. "Give me a bobolink, Miss Margaret! As for them leaves you've got there—all the sweet-smelling things in Florida—I'd trade the whole for one sniff of the laylocks that used to grow in our backyard when I was a girl."
"Why, Minerva, you're homesick."
"No, Miss Margaret, no; I've got my work to attend to here; no, I ain't homesick: you get home knocked out of you when you've traipsed about to such places as Nice, Rome, Egypt, and the dear knows where. But if anybody was really going tolivesomewheres (I don't mean juststaying, as we're doing now), talk about choosing between this and New England—my!"
Margaret rose.
"There's no occasion for haste if you don't want to go in just yet," said Celestine; "she isn't alone, I saw Dr.Kirbyride up just as I came away. Well—she's got on that maroon silk wrapper."
"Nobody has such taste as you have, Celestine," said Margaret, kindly. "My aunt is always becomingly dressed."
There was a little movement of the New England woman's mouth, which was almost a grimace. In reality it expressed her pride and pleasure—though no one would have suspected it. It was the only acknowledgment she made.
Dr. Kirby was sitting with his esteemed friend when Margaret entered.
His esteemed friend's feeling for Margaret now seemed to be always a tender compassion.
"My dear child, I fear you have been out too long, you look pale," was the present manifestation of it.
"I have often thought what a variation it would make in the topics of my friends," said Margaret, as she drew off her gloves, "if I should take to painting my cheeks a little;think of it—a touch of rouge, now, and the whole conversation would be altered."
"I am sure that, for artistic purposes at least," said Dr. Kirby, gallantly, "rouge would be totally misapplied. We all know that Mrs. Harold's complexion has always the purest, the most natural, the most salubrious tint; it is the whiteness of Diana."
"Pray give those—those green things to Looth," Aunt Katrina went on, languidly; "I hope they are not poison-ivy?" (Aunt Katrina lived under the impression that everything that came from the woods was poison-ivy.) "And do go to my room, dear child, and sit down there a while before the fire—there's a little fire—and let Looth change your shoes, and make you a nice cup of tea. Later—later," Aunt Katrina went on, more animatedly, "we'll have some whist." She spoke as though she were holding out something which Margaret would be sure to enjoy.
There were very few evenings now when Aunt Katrina did not expect her niece to make one at the whist-table drawn up at her couch's side, the other players being Dr. Kirby, Betty, or occasionally Madam Ruiz or Madam Giron. The game had come to be her greatest pleasure, she had therefore established and set going in her circle of friends the idea that it was an especial pleasure to Margaret also; Aunt Katrina was an adept in such tyrannies.
"How is Mr. Moore to-day?" Margaret inquired, not replying to the change of shoes.
"He improves every hour, it's wonderful! He is getting well in half the time that any one else would have taken. He will walk as lightly as ever before long—or almost as lightly. He is rather uncomfortably comfortable just now, however," the Doctor went on, laughing, "he doesn't know how to adapt himself to all his new luxuries; he took up an ivory-handled brush this morning almost as though it were an infernal machine."
"I should hardly think Mrs. Moore would approve ofuselessluxuries," said Aunt Katrina, not with a sniff—Aunt Katrina never sniffed—but with a slight movement of the tip of her very well shaped nose; she followed the movement with a light stroke upon that tip with her embroidered handkerchief.
"Penelope nowadays approves of everything for her Middleton," said Dr. Kirby, laughing again. "I believe she'll deck him out with pink silk curtains round his bed before she gets through."
"Yes—but ivory-handledbrushes," said Aunt Katrina, confining herself, as usual, to the facts. "And his hair is so thin, too!"
"I must confess I roared—if you will permit the rather free expression. But the brushes came with the other things that nephew of yours sent down; I believe he's trying to corrupt the dominie."
"I am glad, and very thankful to hear that Mr. Moore is going on so well," said Margaret, "there is nothing I care so much about." Carrying her plumed hat in her hand, she left the room.
"He is an excellent man, Mr. Moore—most excellent," observed Aunt Katrina, a little stiffly; "of course we can never forget our obligations to him."
"I should think not, indeed," answered Reginald Kirby, for the first time losing some of his gallantry of tone.
"I am sure we have shown that we do not forget them," Aunt Katrina went on, with dignity. "Margaret has shown it, and Evert; between them they have made Mr. Moore comfortable for life."
"There wouldn't have been much life left in any of you without him," said Kirby, still fierily.
"I beg your pardon, I am not so dependent upon my niece, dear as she is to me, asthat; I thinksuchdependence wrong. You must remember, too, that I have already been through great sorrows—the greatest; my life hasnotbeen an easy one." The gemmed hand was gently raised here; then dropped with resignation upon the maroon silk lap. "I esteem Mr. Moore highly—haven't I mentioned to you that I do? surely I have. But Icannotbe deeply interested in him; Mr. Moore is not an interesting man, he isnotan exciting man. I am afraid that when I care for a friend," said Aunt Katrina, frankly, "when I find a frienddelightful, I am afraid I am apt, yes,veryapt, to make comparisons." And she glanced at the Doctor with a gracious smile.
"Pardon my ill temper," murmured the Doctor, completelywon again. "After all," he said to himself, with conviction, "she's a deucedly fine woman still."
Three months had elapsed since the burning of the house on the river.
Mr. Moore had remained for four weeks in the neighboring hotel, his wife and Dr. Kirby constantly with him. They had then decided to take him on a litter to Gracias; they crossed the St. John's in safety, and came slowly over the pine barrens.
As they approached the town, Dr. Kirby, who, with Winthrop, was accompanying the litter on horseback, a little in advance, saw a number of people in the road.
"They have come out to meet him," said the Doctor, angrily. "How senseless! how wicked! In his present state the excitement will kill him; I shall ride forward and tell them to go back."
"No, don't," said Winthrop; "I think you're mistaken, I think it will do him good. He has never in the least understood how much they care for him; he has been kept both mentally and physically too low. What he needs now is a richer diet."
"Are you turning into a doctor yourself?" inquired Kirby, with impatience, yet struck, too, by the suggestion. "It is true that I have always said he'd be twice the man he was if he had a glass of port with his dinner."
"This will be the glass of port."
Mr. Moore's litter had curtains, which were down, he had not yet seen the assemblage. His improvised couch was swung carefully across a large wagon, which was drawn by Winthrop's horses on a walk, a man leading them; Penelope followed in another carriage, which Winthrop had also provided.
"I declare—it's all Gracias!" exclaimed the Doctor, as they came near the assembled groups. "Not only our own people, but Our Lady of the Angels' people have come too—there's Father Florencio at the head."
Penelope had now discovered the assemblage, and had bidden her coachman hasten forward. Descending with her weak step, she herself fastened back the curtains of the litter; "Dear," she said, tenderly, "they have come out to meet you—the Gracias people. I know you will be glad."
She kissed him, and rearranged his pillows; then she let Winthrop help her back into her carriage, which fell behind again. Penelope agreed with him, evidently, in thinking that excitement would do the injured man good.
Winthrop, who had dismounted, gave his horse to Tom, and walked himself beside the litter; the Doctor rode on the other side, and thus they went on their way again towards the waiting people.
These people were showing more sense than the Doctor had given them credit for; they had drawn themselves up in two lines, one on each side of the narrow pine barren road, on the right the congregation of St. Philip and St. James, with their senior warden at the end of the line; and, opposite, the flock of Our Lady of the Angels, led by their benign, handsome old priest, Father Florencio. Then, farther on, at a little distance, came the negroes, drawn up also in two lines.
The whites were very still; they did not cheer, they bowed and waved their hands. Mr. Moore looked from one side to the other, turning his head a little, and peering from his half-closed eyes, as his litter passed on between the ranks of friends. It had been agreed that nothing should be said—he was too weak to bear it; but all the people smiled, though many of them felt their tears starting at the same moment, as they saw his helpless form; they smiled determinedly, and winked back the moisture, he should see none but cheerful faces as he passed. At the end of the line the senior warden, in their name, stepped forward and pressed the rector's hand. And then from the other side came Father Florencio, who heartily did the same.
Penelope, looking from the open carriage behind, was crying. But Mr. Moore himself was not excited. He thought it very beautiful that they should all have come out in this way to meet him, it was the sign of a great kindness.
It did not occur to him that it was the sign of a great admiration as well.
When the litter came abreast of the two long lines of blacks, they could not keep back their demonstrations of welcome quite so completely as the whites had done; the Baptist minister of their own race, who was the pastor of most of them, stood, in his Sunday clothes, with his handup warningly, in order to check their exuberance. One broad gleam of white teeth extended down the entire line, and, "He's come back fum de gold'n gate!" "Blessde passon!" were murmured in undertones as the litter passed. And then, behind it, there were noiseless leaps, and hats (most of them battered) in the air; next, they all ran forward over the barren in a body, in order to precede the procession into Gracias.
"Don't shout—do you hear me?—no shouting," said Dr. Kirby, imperatively. He had been obliged to leave his place beside the litter, there was no room for his horse between the close-pressing ranks; now he rode forward in order to keep a control, if possible, over the joyous throng. "If you shout, it will be very bad for him," he went on, threateningly. He had stopped his horse and was addressing them from the saddle; the litter was some distance behind.
"But we gotter dosumpen, marse," said one of the men, protestingly.
"Dance, then! But make no noise about it; when he's safely in his own house again,thengo down to the pier, if you like, and shout as much as you please."
This was done. The negroes preceded the litter through the streets of Gracias, and waited in sympathetic silence until Mr. Moore had been carried into the rectory, and the door was closed behind him; then they adjourned to the pier, and danced and shouted there as if, old Mrs. Kirby declared, with her hand over her little ears—"as if they meant to raise the dead."
"No, ma, no; they mean to raise the living if they can," said her son, when he came in.
He had been more affected than he would confess by that welcome out on the barren. He had not known himself how much attached he was to the mild-voiced clergyman until it had become probable that soon they should hear that voice no more. The danger of death was now averted, he hoped, though the illness might be a long one; in his own mind he registered a vow never to call any one "limp" again;—he had called Mr. Moore that about once a week for years. "There's a kind of limpness that's strength"—thus he lectured himself. "And you, Reginald Kirby, for all your talk, might not, in an emergency, be able even toapproachit. Andturning out your toes, and sticking out your chest won't save you, my boy; not a whit!"
Fond as Aunt Katrina was of the position of patroness, she was not altogether pleased with some steps that were taken, later. "A proper acknowledgment, of course, is all very well," she said. "But you and Margaret, between you, have really given Mr. Moore a comfortable little fortune. And you have put it in his own hands, too—to do what he likes with!"
"Whose hands wouldyouhave put it into?" Winthrop asked.
"A lawyer's, of course," Aunt Katrina answered.
"I am afraid Margaret and I are not always as judicious as you are, Aunt Kate."
Aunt Kate was not quick (it was one of the explanations of the preservation of her beauty). "No, you're not; but I wish you were," she responded.
Mr. Moore knew nothing of the increase of his income; it was Penelope who had been won over by Winthrop's earnest logic—earnest in regard to the comfort of the poor sufferer lying blinded, voiceless, helpless, in the next room. What Winthrop was urging was simply that money should not be considered in providing for him every possible alleviation and luxury. His illness might be a long one (at that stage—it was while Mr. Moore was still in the river hotel—no one spoke of death, though all knew that it was very near); everything, therefore, should be done to lighten it. If the rectory was gloomy, another house in Gracias should be taken—one with a large garden; two good nurses should be sent for immediately; and, later, there must be a horse, and some sort of a low, easy vehicle, made on purpose to carry a person in a recumbent posture. Many other things would be required, these he mentioned now were but a beginning; Mrs. Moore must see that neither his aunt, Mrs. Harold, nor himself could take a moment's rest until everything was done that could be done, they should all feel extremely unhappy, miserable—if she should refuse them. If she would but stop to think of it, she must realize that.
Penelope agreed to this.
She had cried so much that she was the picture of livingdespair, she was thinking of nothing but her husband and his pain; but she forced a momentary attention towards Winthrop, who was talking so earnestly to her, trying to make some impression.
He could see that he did not make much.
"Your husband gave his life—it amounted to that—to save Margaret's; she was nothing to him—that is, no relative, not even a near friend, yet he faced for her the most horrible of deaths. If it had not been for him, that would have beenherdeath, and think, then, Mrs. Moore, think whatweshould be feeling now." He had meant to say this steadily, but he could not. His voice became choked, he got up quickly and went to the window.
Penelope, who, tired as she was, and with one hand pressed constantly against her weak back, was yet sitting on the edge of a hard wooden chair, ready to jump up and run into the next room at an instant's notice, tried again to detach her mind from her husband long enough to think of what it was this man was saying to her; she liked Margaret, and therefore she succeeded sufficiently well to answer, "It would have beenterrible." Then her thoughts went back to Middleton again.
"Don't you see, then," said Winthrop, returning, "that, standing as we do almost beside her grave, your husband has become the most precious person in the world to us? Howcanyou hesitate?" he said, breaking off, "how can you deny us the pleasure of doing everything possible—so little at best—to help him in his great suffering?"
"Oh yes—his suffering! his suffering!" moaned the wife, the tears dropping down her white cheeks without any distortion of feature. Her eyes looked large; singularly enough, though she was so exhausted, her countenance appeared younger than he had ever seen it; under the all-absorbing influence of her grief its usual expressions had gone and one could trace again the outlines of youth; her girlhood face—almost her little-girl face—had come strangely back, as it does sometimes after death, when grandchildren see, with startled, loving surprise, what "grandma" was when she too was only sixteen.
Winthrop took her thin worn hand and carried it to hislips; her sorrow was very sacred to him. "For you too," he urged—"you who are so tired and ill—let us help you all we can. Do not refuse us, Mrs. Moore;donot."
The door into the next room now opened softly, and Dr. Kirby entered, closing it behind him. "No—sit still," he said, as Mrs. Moore started up. "There's nothing to be done for him just now; he's asleep." He called it "sleep," to pacify her. "I came in to say," he went on—"I knew you were here, Mr. Winthrop—that there mustnotbe so much noise on this floor; I have no doubt the people of the house are as careful as they can be, in fact, I know they are; but there are others here."
Winthrop turned to Penelope. "Nowwill you consent?" he said.
(She looked at him; she was thinking only of the blessed fact that Middleton was asleep.)
"You hear what Dr. Kirby says?—the house must be kept more quiet. I can clear it immediately of every person in it. The noise is bad for your husband—don't you understand? It will make a difference in his—in his recovery."
"Oh! do anything, anything!" said the wife, wringing her hands.
He pursued his advantage. "You are willing, then, that I should do everything possible—for his sake, you know? You consent."
"Yes, yes," she answered.
"By—all—means," said Dr. Kirby, impressively. "Consent? Of course you consent, Penelope." He had never called her Penelope before in his life. After that he never called her by any other name.
It seemed to Reginald Kirby a natural thing (and a small one too) that these northerners should wish to do everything they could for the dying hero in there; at that time the Doctor thought that the clergyman must die.
Twelve hours later, with the exception of the proprietors and their servants, there was no one save Mr. Moore and his friends in the river hotel. And the house was held empty as long as he remained there. Aunt Katrina never could find out how much those weeks cost her nephew.
But she did find out that her nephew and Margaret togetherhad given the Moores that "comfortable little fortune," though it was not in Mr. Moore's hands, as she supposed; it was in Penelope's.
Penelope herself knew but little about it even now, save the fact (a great one) that where she had once had a dollar to spend in a certain time, she now had ten; they had lived on six hundred a year, they now had six thousand.
Mr. Moore noticed his new luxuries; he knew that Evert Winthrop had sent many of them down from New York, and he felt very grateful; he asked Penelope if she had sufficiently thanked him.
"Why, Middleton dear, he's grateful toyou," Penelope answered.
She never confessed that it was she herself who had asked for the ivory brushes. Once let loose on that track, her imagination had become wildly lawless; she had not considered the rectory gloomy, as Winthrop had suggested, but there was no doubt but that she would have suspended pink silk curtains round Middleton's bed if the idea had once occurred to her. She had always had a secret admiration for velvet coats—which she associated in some way with King Charles the Martyr—and she now cherished a plan for attiring Middleton in one (when he should be able to be attired), and had even selected the color—a dark wood brown; it would not do for church work, of course; but while he was still an invalid, now—And she lost herself in dreams of satin linings.
On the day after the fire Margaret had left the river.
It was now thought that she had caused the fire herself; she had wakened, feeling somewhat chilled, and had gone across to a store-room in the main building to see if she could get a blanket; having no candle, she had taken a box of matches from her travelling-bag, and had used them to light her way, and probably some spark or burning end had fallen among the stored woollens, and the fire had smouldered there for some time before making its way out.
She was suffering from nervous shock, she knew that she should be of no use as a nurse, at least for the present; Dr. Kirby and Mrs. Moore had reached the hotel, and Winthrop was to remain with them. She could not travel far, but she could cross over to East Angels; she decided to do that.
When she reached the house, Aunt Katrina's voice greeted her: "Oh, Margaret! Margaret! what a horrible fright youhavegiven me!"
Celestine, however (there were certain emergencies when Celestine did not scruple to interrupt Aunt Katrina), appeared promptly upon the scene from somewhere, took Margaret up in her arms as though she had been a child, and carried her off to her bedroom.
"Oh, Miss Margaret!" she said, weeping over her one or two big tears as she laid her down on the bed—"oh, Miss Margaret!"
"There's nothing the matter with me, Minerva, except that I am tired," Margaret answered.
And she did look tired; she was so exhausted that she had not laughed over Celestine's idea of taking her up and carrying her, she was glad to be carried.
But having shed her tears, Celestine was now the nurse again. "Don't speak another word!" she said, peremptorily. And then, with careful hands, she undressed Margaret and put her to bed.
At the end of the third day Margaret was able to present herself again in Aunt Katrina's sitting-room.
"I suppose you've got to get it oversometime," was Celestine's reluctant assent.
"But how in the world, Margaret, did you ever come to go back to that house all alone,lateat night, and without letting a soul know?" demanded Aunt Katrina, in the course of her cross-examination. "I'vetriedto conceal what I thought of such a freak!"
"It was not late," Margaret answered, "it was early. I changed my mind about sleeping at the hotel, I thought I should rather sleep in my own house, after all; so I went back. Then when I found that Mr. Moore had already gone to bed, early though it was, I decided not to disturb him."
"What a piece of craziness!—and to think, too, that at your age you should have gone wandering about with matches! Well, I am glad thatIat least have no such tastes; when I say I am going to sleep in a place, I sleep there, and you have no idea what sacrifices I have made sometimes, when travelling, to keep my word—keep it merely to myself;itisso much better to do what you say you're going to, and not keep changing your mind. I can never be thankful enough that Lanse was not there;hecould never have escaped so easily as you did, poor fellow; it really seems almost providential—his having gone off on that journey just at that time. And as to the wandering about with matches, Margaret (for it all comes back to that), it's an excellent rule for people who have those manias never to allow themselves to get out of bed (until the next morning, of course) after once they're in; now do promise me that you will make it yours, at least as long as you are staying here; otherwise I shall be so nervous."
"I wasn't in bed at all," said Margaret.
"A lounge is the same thing; don't quibble," said Aunt Katrina, severely.
Here Betty, hurrying in, fell on Margaret's neck and kissed her, holding her closely in her affectionate arms. "Oh, my dearest child! restored to us from thatdreadfuldanger, thank God! To think how near you came—Oh, my dear, dear girl!" She kissed her again, and got out her handkerchief to dry her brimming eyes. "We're going to have prayers in the church, my dear—thanksgiving."
"What a pity it is, Betty, that you are so demonstrative! Can't you be glad to see Margaret without boohooing? And when my head is in such a state, too."
"I am very sorry, Kate, I'm sure," Betty answered. She sat down on the sofa beside Margaret; as there was a table in front of her which concealed the movement, she put out her hand furtively and took Margaret's in hers, holding it with tenderness, and giving it every now and then a motherly pressure. In the mean while, she talked as usual to her dear Kate. This was not duplicity on Betty's part; on principle she never opposed Kate now, she was such an invalid, poor thing! In her heart lurked the conviction that if Kate would only "let her figure go," and be just "natural," as she (Betty) was, her health would immediately improve. People's figures altered as they grew older, it was useless to say they didn't; no one could retain a slim waist after forty-five; dear Kate was over sixty,—really it was notseemlyto be so girted in.
If dear Kate could have suspected these opinions, there is no doubt but that she would have risen from her couch, figure and all, and turned her uncinctured Elizabeth from the room.
On the fourth day Winthrop came over from the river.
Learning from Celestine that his aunt was in a fairly comfortable condition, he had fifteen minutes of serious conversation with her; he told the truth about Lansing Harold's relations with his wife, as well as his relations with another person.
Aunt Katrina was greatly overcome. She cared more for Lanse than for any one; much as she cared for him, she had always admired him even more. She cried—really cried; her handsome face became reddened and disfigured, and she did not think of it. "He was such adearlittle boy," she said, sobbing. Then she rallied. "If he had had another sort of wife, he would have been different."
"That's what is always said about such men. In any case, there's nothing gained by going back to that now."
"Ithink something is gained; justice is gained—justice for Lanse. And, mark my words, Evert, MargaretCrugerhas not suffered."
"Whether she has or not, she is going to leave us."
"What?" said Aunt Katrina, quickly, turning towards him her altered countenance. He scarcely knew it, with its reddened eyes and spotted look.
"You thought, I believe, that she was only going to be absent a short time," he went on; "that it was merely that she wished a change. But it was more than that; she has a plan for opening that old house of hers near Cherry Valley, and living there."
"Andme?" said Aunt Katrina, in angry amazement. "Does she cut herself free frommein that way? Inmystate of health?"
"It appears so."
Aunt Katrina remained speechless. Pure dismay was now conquering every other feeling.
"The truth is, Aunt Katrina, you have not been kind enough to Margaret, ever."
"Kind!" ejaculated the lady.
"No. She has done everything for you for years, and you have constantly illtreated her."
"Illtreated! Good heavens!"
"She has therefore decided—and I am not much surprised—that she would rather have a home of her own."
"And you abet her in this?"
"Not at all, I think she had much better stay with you; I am only explaining to you how she feels."
"I don't know that I care to understand MargaretCruger'sfeelings."
"Exactly; you don't. And therefore she is going."
Aunt Katrina was evidently struggling with her own thoughts. He left her to the contest.
At last, "Poor child!" she said, sighing, as she gently pressed a handkerchief to different parts of her disordered countenance—"poor child!"
Winthrop waited for further developments; he knew they would come.
"It is natural that I should have been cold to her, perhaps, feeling as I did so keenly how unqualified she was to make a congenial home for Lanse. But, as you say, probably she cannot help it, it is her disposition. And now, to think what she must be feeling!—she has, in her way, a strict conscience, and to-day she faces the fact that, by her own utter want of sympathy (which I suppose she really cannot help), she has driven her husband away asecondtime, sent him asecondtime into bad courses! I realize, indeed, that it is the moment when I ought to do everything I can for her, when I should stifle my own feelings, and treat her with the greatest tenderness; don't you agree with me?"
"Fully. But even then I don't know that you can induce her to stay."
"Really—the more I think of it, the more sorry I feel for her, she is deeply to be pitied; I can imagine how crushedIshould have felt if Peter had deserted me! But if hehaddone so, I should have gone immediately, of course, to stay with some older relative—it is the only proper way. You might represent to Margaret how much better it would look if she should continue, as before, to reside with me."
"Perhaps she won't take so much pains about the 'look'of anything, this time; perhaps she will let people know the real facts; she has always concealed them before."
"They would only be her own condemnation, in any case; everybody would perfectly understand that it was some lack inher," answered Aunt Katrina, with decision. "But I think you had better speak to her, and immediately; itisso much more desirable, on her own account, that she should remain with me. I don't fancy she cares much foryou, or she would never have tried to engage you to that odious Garda Thorne; still, you are a relative—- after a fashion, and she ought to listen to you; you might tell her," she added, her voice falling into a pathetic key, "that probably I shall not be left to herlong."
"My dear aunt, you will outlive us all," said Winthrop, rising. "I will see her, and do what I can," he added, as he left the room.
At first he could not find Margaret, she was not in any of the usual places; he began to fear that she was in her own room, and that he should not find her at all. At last he met Celestine. "Do you know where Mrs. Harold is?" he said.
"Well, Mr. Evert, she's in the garden," Celestine answered, with some reluctance. "I've fixed her up nicely in an easy-chair on a rug, and I've told everybody to keep away, so that she can just rest—that's what she needs. I've let her haveonebook—an easy-looking story that didn't seem exciting. And I'm going out after her in about an hour, to bring her in."
"I won't be any more exciting than the easy-looking story, Minerva; I promise you that."
Celestine watched him go, she was not pleased, but she could not help herself. She shook her head forebodingly, with her lips pursed up; then she went about her business—as she would herself have said.
Margaret was sitting under the rose-tree, in the easy-chair Celestine had mentioned, a rug spread under her feet. She had a parasol beside her, but the tree gave a sufficient shade; over her head Celestine had folded a Spanish veil.
"I thought perhaps we should see you to-day," she said.
"Yes, it hasn't been possible to come before. But of course you have had my letters—I mean about Mr. Moore?I have written twice a day. Is that the book Minerva said was an easy-looking one, not exciting—'Adam Bede?' What do you suppose she calls exciting?"
"The 'Wide, Wide World,' I presume."
He sat down on the bench near her. Carlos stalked out of the bushes, surveyed them, and then, with great dignity, secluded himself again.
"He misses Garda," Margaret said.
"I suppose Garda is still pursuing her triumphant career over there?"
"I don't know what you mean by triumphant. She is very happy."
"That's what I mean; it's extremely triumphant to be so happy, isn't it?"
"I am sure I don't know."
"You mean you have never been either?—Margaret, I have come to speak about your going away. Are you still thinking of going?"
"Yes; as soon as I am a little stronger."
"Aunt Katrina has sent me to plead with you; of course that's the last thing she calls it, but it's pleading all the same. I don't make any plea for her, because I don't think, as far as you are concerned, she deserves the least fragment of one; but I will say that I have told her the whole truth about Lanse at last, and that it has been a great blow to her, I have never seen her so much overcome. She has rallied however, she has taken her line; her line is the tenderest pity for you,becauseyou must feel it all to be so entirely your own fault!—you see how much that allows her? But she is so exceedingly anxious—abjectly anxious, to keep you with her, that I think you need fear no unpleasant manifestations of it."
"Aunt Katrina does not really need me. And for myself a change is indispensable."
"But it is so safe for you here—so quiet and protected. It is a species of home, after all. I like to see you, as you are at this moment, sitting in this old garden; it seems to me so much pleasanter for you—with this restful air to breathe—than that bustling, driving New York."
"It may be so. But I need change."
"You cling to that." He paused. "I believe you simply mean freedom."
"Yes, I do mean it. But we are going over the same ground we have already been over; that is useless."
"Everything is changed to me since then," said Winthrop, abruptly. "I have seen you brought back from the very threshold of death, I cannot pretend to be the same."
"I am the same."
"Yes; you didn't seeyourself—"
"Don't talk about it, please. It is true that, personally, I do not realize it. But when I think of Mr. Moore, I do; and it makes me ill and faint."
"Why shouldn't you begin your freedom—yes; but begin it here?" he went on, returning to his argument. "Aunt Katrina has taken a new line about you. Why shouldn't you take one about her? And about everything? The people here are tiresome, of course; but people are tiresome everywhere, sooner or later, unless one leads a life of just dipping in, never staying long enough in any one place to get much below the surface. You could set up your own horses, your own servants; you could rearrange half the house to please yourself; you could carry it all out, as regards Aunt Katrina, with a high hand; she wouldn't make a murmur, I'm confident! And you could easily take some pleasant trips too from here—to New Orleans and Cuba; there's really a great deal to see. And if you are tired (as I should think you might well be) of always saying where you are going, and where you have been, how long you have stayed or intend to stay, and why, you could lay down a rule that no one should ask you a question. If they should continue to do it, you might throw something at them." His plan seemed to him so good as he unfolded it that it made him jocular.
She returned no answer.
"You don't care at all for what I think, or wish."
"No, I don't."
He looked at her as she sat there with face averted, his expression was that of angry helplessness. "All I want," he went on, trying to curb his irritation, "is to feel that you are safe."
"I shall be safe wherever I am."
"No, you won't, a woman like you cannot be, alone. Of course you will do all that is best and proper, but you are far too beautiful to be knocking about the world by yourself."
"Aren't you confusing me a little with Garda?"
"Your sarcasms have no effect; if I were as innocent in other matters as I am with regard to that effulgent young person, I should be quite perfect. But we won't speak of her; we'll speak of you."
"I am tired of the subject." She looked towards the gate as if in search of Celestine.
"She won't be here for some time yet. Bear with me a little, Margaret, don't be so impatient of the few minutes I have secured with you; what we're deciding now is important—your whole future."
"It is already decided."
He dashed his hand down upon his knee. "There's no use trying to argue with women! A woman never comprehends argument, no matter how strong it may be."
She was silent. Her face had a weary look, but there were in it no indications of yielding.
"You appear to be determined to go," he began again; "if you do go, Aunt Katrina will have the mental exercise of learning to get on without either of us."
She looked up quickly; his eyes were turned away now, straying over the tangled foliage of the crape-myrtles.
"I am sick of everything here," he went on—"East Angels, Gracias, the whole of it. If you are tired of seeing the same few people always day after day, what must I be? There are two spinster cousins of Aunt Katrina's who might come down here for a while, and I dare say they would come if I should ask them; with these ladies to manage the house, with Dr. Reginald and Betty, Celestine and Looth, Aunt Katrina ought to be tolerably comfortable."
Margaret had listened with keen attention. But she did not answer immediately; when she did reply, she spoke quietly. "Yes, I should think you would be glad to go north again, you have been tied down here so long. I am sure we can assume now that there is at least no present danger in Aunt Katrina's case; both of us certainly are not neededfor her, and therefore, as you did not speak of going, I thought I could. But now that you have spoken, now that I see you do wish to go, I feel differently, I giveyouthe chance. The change I wished for I will create here, I will create it by buying this house from you—that will be a change; I can amuse myself restoring it, if one can say that, when it's not a church."
"Youwoulddo that?" said Winthrop, eagerly. Then he colored. "I see; it means that you will stay ifIgo!"
"I shall do very well here if I have the place to think about," she went on, "I shall have the land cultivated; perhaps I shall start a new orange grove. Of course I shall lose money; but I can employ the negroes about here, and I should like that; as to the household arrangements, Aunt Katrina would be staying with me, not I with her; that would make everything different."
"Yes; I could not come here as I do now, bag and baggage."
"I should not ask you," she answered, smiling. "I believe in your heart you like no woman to lead a really independent life."
"You're right, I do not. They're not fitted for it."
"Oh—"
"And they're not happy in it."
"It's so good of you to think of our happiness."
"All this is of no consequence, Margaret, it's quite beside the mark. The real issue is this: if I stay, you go; if I go, you will stay."
"I thought you didn't like repetitions; you're always so severe on poor Aunt Betty when she indulges in them."
"You've got the upperhand, and you know it, and are glorying," he said, sullenly.
"Glorying!" said Margaret, with a sudden drop in her voice. "Well, we will say no more about it," she added.
"Excuse me, we will say plenty more. I would do a great deal to keep you here, there's no doubt of that. If I must, I must, I suppose! You may have the place—though I'm fond of it still."
"It must be quite fair?" she said, looking at him hesitatingly.
"You mean that I am not to come back and hang about in the neighborhood? Oh, rest content; I've had enough of the Seminole for a lifetime."
"I presume you will be in a hurry," he went on. "You will expect to have the deeds made out to-morrow."
"Yes, I should rather have it done soon."
"Of course.—How you hate me!" He rose.
She did not speak.
"But I'm not surprised—stubborn fool, ineffable prig as I must have seemed to you all these years! Take the place. And I'll go."
The gate clicked, Celestine was coming towards them.
"But though I acknowledge my own faults, don't imagine I admire such perfection asyoualways exhibit," he went on. "It's too much, you're too faultless; some small trace of womanly humility would be a relief, sometimes." He left the garden. Celestine, coming up, found her patient looking anything but rested. The next moment she put her hand over her eyes, physical weakness had conquered her.
"Just what I expected, men haven't a spark of gumption," said Celestine, indignantly. "He might have seen you weren't fit for talking; anybody could have seen. There, Miss Margaret, there; don't feel so bad, you'll soon be stronger now." And Celestine put one arm round her charge tenderly.
The touch made Margaret's tears flow faster; leaning her head against her faithful New England friend, she cried and cried as if her heart would break.
"You're clean tuckered out, I declare," said Celestine, half crying herself. "Everybody plagues you—I never see the beat! And they all seem to think they've got a right to. Just get real mad, now, Miss Margaret, for once; andstayso. My! wouldn't they be surprised?"
This was three months before. Margaret was now the owner of East Angels.
On the evening when she had returned from the landing with her ferns, and had found Dr. Kirby talking with Aunt Katrina, she went to her own room; here she threw off the long, closely fitting over-garment of dark silk, and gave it and the Gainsborough hat to her maid; she had a maid now.
"If you please, Mrs. Harold, there are five letters for you; they are on the dressing-table."
"Very well; you need not wait, Hester, I shall not need you at present."
The woman went out with noiseless step. Margaret turned over the letters, glancing at the superscriptions rather languidly. She did not care much for what the mails brought her at present, excepting Garda's short, rapturous notes with various foreign headings.
The last envelope of the pile—it is always the last letter that strikes the blow—was inscribed in a handwriting that made her heart stop beating. "Mrs. Lansing Harold" was scrawled there, in rather large, rough letters; and within, at the end of the second page—there were only two filled—the same name was signed without the "Mrs."
Lanse had come back to America. He was coming back to Florida. He was on his way at that moment to Fernandina, having selected that place because he had learned that she had "burned down the house on the point," which, he thought she would allow him to say, was inconsiderate. He had made up his mind not to take her by surprise, he would go to Fernandina, and wait there. He was a cripple indeed, this time. And forever. No hope of a cure, as there had been before. It wasn't paralysis, it was something with a long name, which apparently meant that he was to spend the rest of his days in bed, with the occasional variation of an arm-chair. This last journey of his abroad had been a huge mistake from beginning to end (the only one he had ever made—he must say that). But he didn't suppose she would care to hear the particulars; and he should much prefer that she should not hear them, it wasn't a subject forher. He had come home this time for good and all, it would never be possible for him to run away again, she might depend upon that. In such afflictions a man, of course, counted upon his wife; but he wished to be perfectly reasonable, and therefore he would live wherever she pleased—with his nurses, his water-pillows, and his back rest—yes, he had come to that! At present it wasn't clear to him what he was going to do to amuse himself. He could use his hands, and he had thought of learning to makefish-nets. But perhaps shecould think of something better? And then, with a forcible allusion to the difficulties of his present progress southward, and a characteristic summing up of the merits of the hotel where he, with his two attendants, was resting for a day, the short two pages ended abruptly with his name.
His wife had sunk into a chair, she sat staring at it.
A week later, Margaret was out to walk on the barren.
She had walked far, though her step had been slow; it seemed to her that her step would always be slow now, her effort must be to keep it steady. She had reached a point where there rose on the green level a little mound-like island of a different growth, its top covered with palmetto-trees. She made her way to the summit; though the height of the little hill was low, the view one obtained there was extensive, like that from a small light-house in a salt-marsh. Where she stood there was a cleared space—the ground had been burned over not long before; on this brown surface the crosiers of new ferns were unrolling themselves, and when tired of the broad barren, her eyes rested on their little fresh stalks, green and woolly, though she no longer stooped to gather them. She did not come home now laden with flowers and vines to plant in the old East Angels garden; the life she had been trying to build up there was suddenly stopped, a completely different one was demanding her. She had been very free, but now she was called back—called back to the slavery, and the dread.
Oh, blessed, twice blessed, are the women who have no very deep feelings of any kind! they are so much happier, and so much better! This was what she was saying to herself over and over again, as, with one arm round a slender tree, so that she could lean her head against it, she stood there alone on the little island, looking over the plain. Not to care very deeply, too deeply, for anything, any one; and with that to be kind and gentle—this was by far the happiest nature for women to have, and of such the good weremade. Mothers should pray for this disposition for their daughters. Anything else led to bitter pain.
She thought of her own mother, of whom she had no recollection. "If you had lived, mother, perhaps I should have been saved from this; perhaps I should not be so wretched—" this was her silent cry.
She heard a sound, some one was coming through the high bushes below; a moment more, and the person appeared. It was Evert Winthrop.
"You?" she said, breathlessly. "When did you come? How could you know I was here?"
"For once I've been fortunate, I have never been so before where you were concerned. I reached East Angels half an hour ago, Celestine said you were out on the barren somewhere, and Telano happened to know the road you had taken; then I met some negro children who had seen you pass, and, farther on, a boy who knew you had come this way; he brought me here. But I saw you a mile off myself, you are very conspicuous in that light dress on the top of this mound."
"We had no idea you were coming—"
"I couldn't let you know beforehand, because I came myself as quickly as a letter could have come; as soon as I knew you would need help, I started."
"Help?"
"Yes, about Lanse."
"Lanse is not here."
"Oh, I know where he is, he is in Fernandina; established there in the best rooms the hotel affords, with three attendants, and everything comfortable. But this time he did not tell me his plans; he arrived in New York, and then came southward, without letting me know a word of it. I heard of him, though, almost immediately, and I started at once."
Margaret did not reply.
"You will need help," he went on.
"No, I think not."
"Then he has not written to you?—has made no demands? I shall think better of him than I had expected to think, if that is the case; I supposed, from his coming south, that he had intentions of molesting you."
"It would not be molesting."
"Hashe written to you?"
"Yes."
"What demands, then, does he make—is it money?"
"He wishes me to come back to him, as I did before. But he will live wherever I prefer to live. He is quite willing to leave the choice of the place to me." She spoke slowly, as though she were repeating something she had learned.
"Very good. I suppose you told him that wherever you might prefer to live, there would at least be no place there for Lansing Harold?"
"I haven't told him anything yet. He was willing to wait—he wrote that he would give me a month."
"A month for what?"
"For my answer," she said, drearily.
"It won't take a month. That is what I have come down for—to answer in your place."
She began to look about for the best way to descend.
"I sent the boy who brought me here to East Angels for the phaeton; it will come before long, you won't have to walk back. Now, Margaret, let us have no more useless words; of course you do not dream of doing as Lanse wishes?"
"Yes, I think I shall do it."
"Do you mean to tell me that you wish to go back to that man—after all he has done?"
"I do not wish to. But I must."
"Youshallnot!" he burst out. His face, usually so calm, was surprisingly altered; it was reddened and darkened.
"Nothing you can say will make any difference," she answered, in the same monotonous tone. Even his rage could not alter the helpless melancholy of her voice.
"Do you think he deserves it—deserves anything? You actually put a premium on loose conduct. You reward him for it, while—while other men, who aretrying, at least, to lead decent lives, are thrust aside."
"He is my husband."
"So good a one!"
"That has nothing to do with it."
"Nothing?"
"No; not with my duty."
"I believe you have lost your wits, you are demented," he said, violently.
"Oh, I wish Iweredemented! Then my troubles would be over."
The despair of these words softened him. She had turned away, he followed her. "Margaret, listen to reason. In some cases itisright that a wife should go back to her husband, almost no matter what he has done. But yours is not one of them, it would kill you."
"No more than it did before."
"But it's worse for you now."
"It's exactly the same."
"He left you asecondtime."
"I have only to thank him for that, haven't I? It gave me a respite. Over there on the river, when I learned—when I knew—that he had really gone, I could scarcely hide my joy—I had to hide myself to do it! It was the relief, the delight, of being free."
"The law, you know, would free you forever."
"I shall never take advantage of it."
"Do you think you know better than the law?"
"Yes; the law only touches part of the truth. Its plea would not do for me."
"This is pure excitement. Womanlike, you have wrought yourself up to this new view; but it is without a grain of foundation in either justice or common-sense."
"It isn't a new view, I have always known what I should do. That was the reason I wished to keep the house on the river—so that it could be ready in case he should come back. For I felt that he might come at any time, I was never deceived as to any permanent improvement in his health. I have thought it all over again and again; there isn't a loop-hole of escape for me. Let us say no more."