"I shall say a great deal more."
She put out both hands towards him, with a desperate repelling gesture. "Oh,leaveme!" she cried.
"I shall not leave you until you have given me an explanation that is reasonable; so far, you have not done it. Time and time again you have put me off, to-day you shall not."
Her own cry had seemed to restore to her her self-control.
"Very well," she said. She folded her arms in her mantle. "What explanations do you wish?" she asked, coldly.
"Why are you going back to Lansing Harold, when you are not in the least forced to go?"
"I am forced; my marriage forces me."
"Not after the ill treatment you have received from him."
"He has never illtreated me personally; in many ways he has never been unkind, many men called good husbands are much more so. He does not drink. If he drank, that would be an excuse for me—an excuse to leave him; but he does not, I have never had a fear of that sort, he has never struck me or threatened me in his life. And I have no children to think of—whether his influence over them would be bad. That too would have been an excuse, a valid one; but it is not mine. He leaves me my personal liberty as he left it to me before. In addition, he is now hopelessly crippled—he has sent me his physician's letter to prove it; his case is there pronounced a life-long one, he will never walk, or be any better than he is now. Are these explanations sufficient? or do you require more?"
"No explanations can ever be sufficient," Winthrop answered. He stood looking at her. "Oh, Margaret, it is such a fearful sacrifice!" He had abandoned for the moment both his anger and his efforts at argument.
"Yes; but that is what life is, isn't it?" she said, her voice trembling a little in spite of herself.
"No, it's not. And it shouldn't be. Why should an utterly selfish man of that kind, who has forfeited every claim upon you a hundred times over—why should he be allowed to dictate to you, to wither your whole existence? Yes, I am beginning again, I know it; but I cannot help it! It is true that I have always talked against separations—preached against them. But that was before my own feelings were brought in, and it makes a wonderful difference? When a woman you care for is made utterly wretched, you take a different view, and you want to seize your old preaching-self, and knock him against the wall! It isnotright that you should go back to Lanse, it is wicked, as murder is wicked. He does not strike you—that may be; but the life will kill you just as surely as though he should give youevery day, with his own hand, a dose of slow poison. You have an excessively sensitive disposition—you pretend you have not, but you have; you would not be able to throw it off—the yoke he would put upon you, you would not be able to rise above it, become indifferent to it; you would never grow callous, he would always have the power of making you unhappy. This would wear upon you; at last it would wear you out; you would die, andhewould live on! And, besides, remember this—it isn't as though he really depended upon you for personal care; he doesn't need you, as far as that goes, he says so. Give him your money, if you like; give him houses and nurses and servants, every luxury, all you have; but do not, do not give him yourself."
She remained silent. She had steeled herself, so it seemed, against anything he could say.
"You are counting the minutes before the phaeton comes," he went on; "that is your only thought—to get away! Very well, then, you shall have the whole, which otherwise I would have kept from you; I love you, Margaret, I have loved you for a long time. If it is horrible to you that I should say it, and force you, too, to hear, bear this in mind: though I say it, I ask for nothing, I do not put myself forward. I tell you because I want you to understand how near your best interests are to me—how I consider them. I deserve some mercy, I have tried hard to hold myself in check—did I say a word all that night in the swamp? You may imagine whether I am happy, loving you hopelessly as I do! It began long ago; when I thought I disliked you so bitterly, that was the beginning; it was a dislike, or rather a pain, which came from your being (as I then supposed you were) so different from the sweet woman it seemed to me you ought to be—ought to be with that face and voice. I watched you; I was very severe in all I said; but all the time I loved you, it was stronger than I. I feel no shame in telling it; it has made me a better man—not so cold, not so sure of my own perfection. And now, if you will only tell me that you won't go back to Lanse, I will go. And I will stay away, I will not try to see you, I will not even write. And this shall last as long as you say, Margaret—for years; even always, if it must be so. What can I do or say more?"
She had stood still, looking at the ground, while he poured forth these urgent words; she might have been a statue.
"There's an icy stubbornness about you—" he began again. "What is it I ask? One promise, and for your own good too, and then I go out into the world again, bearing my pain as best I can, leaving you behind, and free. I don't believe you know what that pain is, because I don't believe you know, or can understand even, how much I love you. I am almost ashamed to put it into words—I am no longer a boy. I had no idea I could love in that way—an unreasoning, headlong feeling. There's no extravagant thing, Margaret—such as I have always laughed at—that I would not do at this moment; and to feel your cheek against mine—I would die to-morrow."
He had not moved towards her, but she shrank back even from his present distance; white-faced, with frightened eyes, she turned; she looked as if she were going to rush away.
"Don't go,—I will not say another word; I only wished you to know how it was with me, it is better that you should know."
He wished to help her, but she would not allow it, she pushed the close bushes aside with trembling hands, and made her way down alone. They reached the barren; the phaeton was approaching.
"I cannot bear to see you so frightened," he said.
"—I believe you are sorry for me," he went on—his voice was gentle now. "And that is why you are afraid to speak—lest you should show it."
She gave him one quick glance; her eyes were full of tears.
"That is it, you are sorry. I thank you for that; and I shall think from it that you have forgiven me those years when I made your life so much harder even than it was, than it need have been."
The phaeton was drawing near.
"I am going to trust you, Margaret, I believe that I can. You will not speak, you think I ought not to have spoken. But if I go away at once, and do not return, perhaps you will be influenced by what I have said, and by what is really the best course for you;—perhaps you will not go back to Lanse.At any rate I shall be showing you thatIam in earnest,—that I can, and will keep my promise."
The phaeton drew up before them.
"You must not come with me," she murmured.
"You are to drive, Telano," said Winthrop, as he helped her take her place. He stood there until the light carriage had disappeared.
Then he walked northward to Gracias.
"I said I would not write. And I will not, after I once know that your refusal has been sent. It does not seem to me that I am asking much, it cannot long be kept a secret in any case, and, in my opinion, should not be. Let Aunt Katrina write me what has happened; she won't doyouany too much justice—you can be sure of that! I left Gracias that same day, as I said I would. I have come back here and gone to work again; a man can always do that."
This letter of Winthrop's was from New York. He had been there two weeks, and there were now but ten days left of the month which Margaret had said her husband had allowed for her answer. He did not speak of this in his letter; but it engrossed all his thoughts.
On the day when he could have had a reply from East Angels, there was no letter from the South. He waited twenty-four hours to allow for delays or accident.
Still nothing.
Margaret did not then intend to reply; it was a case where she would have written immediately (or asked Aunt Katrina to write), if she had intended to reply at all.
"I am not worthy even to be spoken to, it seems; I am the mud under her feet. But it shall not be so easy as she thinks!"
He took the next train bound for Washington, Richmond, and the St. John's River. It was the third time he had made the long journey within the space of four weeks.
He was in such a fever now—fever of irritation and anxiety—that he did not any longer try to keep up his trust in her, to be certain, as he had endeavored to be during the intervening time, that she had been influenced by what he had said, or by her own more deliberate reflections, and that in any case, whether he was to be informed of it or kept in ignorance, she was not going back to Lanse. It now seemed to him possible that, in her strange self-sacrificing sense of duty, she might go. He ground his teeth at the thought.
The leisurely train was crossing the pine lands of North Carolina, making such long waits at grassy little stations to take on wood that those passengers who had a taste for botany had time to explore the surrounding country for flowers. A new thought came to him; it was that he need not have counted so carefully the days of the month, or depended upon that; perhaps she had not waited for the whole time to pass, perhaps she had gone to Fernandina, was already there. Meanwhile—the train crept.
"Oh, can you tell me—will I reach Fayetteville before dark?" said a girl behind him. He knew it was a girl by the voice. She was speaking, apparently, to some one who shared her seat.
This person, an older woman (again judging by the tone), was well informed as to the methods of reaching Fayetteville, the trains, and the hours. This matter settled, they went on talking.
"I have been up in the mountains teaching," the older woman presently remarked.
"Oh," said the girl, sympathetically (falling inflection).
"I have been there a year, and I trust when I came away I left light behind."
"Ohyes."
"At present I have no situation, though I have one in view. They are most anxious to have me, but I say to myself, 'WillI do the most good there? Is it a place where my influence will carry the most weight?' For we should all do the best we can with our talents, it is a duty; I do the best I can with mine."
"Ohyes, I reckon so. And you speak so beautifully too. Perhaps you've spoken?—I mean before people?"
"Never in public," answered the other voice, reprovingly;"to my pupils, but never in public. I think a woman should always keep her life secluded, she should be the comfort and the ornament of a purely private home.Wedo not exhibit our charms—which should be sacred to the privacy of the boudoir—in the glare of lecture-rooms;weprefer to be, and toremain, the low-voiced, retiring mothers of a race of giant sons whom the Muse of History will immortalize in the characters of soldier, statesman, and divine."
"Oh yes," said the girl's voice again, in good-natured, if inattentive, acquiescence.
Winthrop glanced back. The young girl was charmingly pretty, with a sweet indifference in her eyes. The older woman—she was over fifty—was of a martial aspect, broad-shouldered, large-boned, and tall; her upper lip was that of a warrior, her high cheek-bones had an air of resolute determination. Comfort and ornament of a purely private home, as she had just proclaimed herself, it seemed almost as if her powers would be wasted there; she was a woman to lead an army through a breach without flinching. The giant sons in her case were presumably imaginary, for she gave her name to her companion as they parted: "Miss Louisa Mearns—theycallme Lulette." Her voice was very soft and sweet.
"Southerner, of course, with those lovely tones," was Winthrop's mental comment as she passed, stepping rather delicately, and, tall as she was, without any stride. "But she's got a thorough soul of Maine, though she doesn't dream of it. There must have been transmigration somewhere among her ancestors." And then from sheer weariness and restlessness he went into another car.
His feeling was that this train would be in North Carolina a week. But it got on. It traversed South Carolina and Georgia, it passed through the cotton country, it crossed beautiful rivers rolling slowly towards the sea, then it made a wide detour round Okefinokee swamp, and at last brought him again to the margin of the broad St John's. It seemed to him that half a lifetime had passed since he left it.
He reached East Angels in the afternoon. Cindy appeared. Yes, Mrs. Rutherford and Mrs. Harold were both at home; they were in Mrs. Rutherford's sitting-room up-stairs.But when she had preceded him and opened the door of that apartment, only Aunt Katrina was there.
"Mercy, Evert! where did you come from?" she exclaimed, in a key rather higher than her usual calm tones. It seemed to him that she looked frightened.
"From New York, of course. You are alone? Where is Margaret?" He spoke abruptly.
"Oh, she'shere," responded Aunt Katrina, quickly, in a reassuring voice.
But her emphasis told him that it might not be "here" long, it might be some other word. Would that word be "Fernandina?"
At any rate, Margaret was not yet gone.
"What do you mean by 'here?' She's not in the room."
"She doesn't spend every moment with me; I wantsometime for my own reading and—and meditation. She's in the garden, or the drawing-room, I suppose—somewhere about."
"Aunt Katrina, tell me in so many words—is she going back to Lanse?"
"Why—er—why, yes, I believe so." Aunt Katrina's voice fairly faltered.
"You have had a hand in this: you have urged her."
"Well, Evert, she's Lanse's wife, you know."
"Where is she?"
"I have told you already that I don't know."
"Not gone?" he said, with quick-returning suspicion.
"Oh dear no! What are you thinking of?"
"I'm thinking that I cannot trust either of you! When is she going, then?"
"Well, there has been a good deal about that. Back and forth, you know; letters and—"
"When?" he repeated, imperatively.
"To-morrow," answered Aunt Katrina, in almost the same tone as his own. "How you do storm, Evert!"
But he had left the room before her words were finished.
Margaret was not in the drawing-room, she was not in the garden. He met Pablo. "Do you know where Mrs. Harold is?" he said.
"She's in der yorrange grove, sah. I ben dar myse'f looken' arter der place a little, as I has ter, en I see her dar." Pablo meant the old grove—his grove; the new grove was on the other side of the house, and was as ugly as a new grove always is. Down to this hour old Pablo had never become satiated with the delight of working in the old grove at his own pleasure and according to southern methods alone; poor little Melissa Whiting's voice had long been stilled, but Pablo was rioting yet.
The old grove was in bloom. It was not so productive now as it had been in Mrs. Thorne's day, but it was more beautiful; Pablo's rioting had not included steady labor of any sort, there had been no pruning, and very little digging; the aisles were green and luxuriant, the ground undisturbed. The perfume of the blossoms filled the air; on some of the trees blossoms and ripe fruit were hanging together.
Winthrop walked on under the bright foliage and bride-like bloom. But there was no sign of Margaret.
"Of course she would not be here," he thought, "or at least she would not stay; it's far too sweet."
At length he saw her light dress. She was not in the grove, as he had thought; she was in a glade beyond it. Here there was an old nondescript pillar, crowned by a clumsy vase. She was leaning against this ornament, with her back to the grove; one arm lay across the top. She wore no gloves, and he could see her pretty hand with its single ring, the band of plain gold. In front of her there was the low curb of an old well, overgrown with jessamine; she appeared to be looking at it.
His footsteps had made no sound on the soft earth, he came upon her before she discovered him.
"I don't think you can be much surprised to see me," he said; "you have waited here to the last hour of your allotted time. You might have gone days ago, and then I should not have seen you at all; but you have waited. It looks quite as if you expected me to come, as if you wished to give me one more final thrust before you joined your excellent husband. Of course I deserve nothing better."
"Yes, I have waited. But it was because I have been trying to—to arrange something," Margaret answered.
She had taken her hand from the old pillar, she stood erect now, with the white shawl she was wearing folded closely round her.
"Something nicely calculated to make me suffer more, I suppose; I haven't been punished enough for speaking as I did."
"It wasn't anything that concerned you."
"That everlasting self-possession of yours, Margaret! Here I come upon you suddenly; you're not a hard-hearted woman at all, and yet, thanks to that, you can receive me without a change of expression, you can see all my trouble and grief, and talk to me about 'arrangements!'"
"You asked me—you accused me—" Her calmness was not as perfect as he had represented it.
"What are the arrangements?" he said, abruptly.
"Do you think we had better discuss them?"
"We will discuss everything that concerns you. But don't be supposing I haven't heard; I have seen Aunt Katrina, and forced it out of her, I know you intend to go back to Lanse—intend to go to-morrow."
She did not reply.
"You don't deny it?"
"No, I don't deny it."
"And the arrangements?"
"I—I had thought of living here."
"Here, at East Angels, you mean? Oh, you wish to bringhimhere? An excellent idea; Aunt Katrina would not be separated longer from her dear boy, and Lanse and his retinue would fit in nicely among all the comforts and luxuries we have between us collected here. Yes; I see."
There was a quiver for an instant in Margaret's throat, though her face did not alter. "My only thought was thatperhaps it would be more of a home for me," she answered, looking off over the green open space and the thicket beyond it.
His hardness softened a little. "Of course it would. You surely cannot have had the idea of living at Fernandina?"
"That would be as Lanse says."
"You are determined to go back to him?"
"Yes."
He changed his position so that he could have a better view of her face. "Bring him here, then!" he exclaimed. "Anything is better than to have you wandering about the world, homeless!"
"You would let me come and see you now and then?" he said, beginning again. He spoke in what he himself would have called a reasonable tone. "I could help you in a good many ways; of course, in saying this, you understand that I agree to accept Lanse—as well as I can."
"You must never come."
"Do you mean that?"
"I mean it unalterably."
"It's because I spoke as I did—this is my punishment. But if I promise never to speak in that way again?"
"You must not come."
"Tell me just what it is you intend to do—we'll have it out now. Tell me the whole, you needn't spare."
"After to-day, I wish—I intend—never to see you again—that is, alone. It is hard that you should make me speak it out in this way."
"Oh—make; you are capable of saying whatever you please without being made; whatever will do me the most good and hurt me the most—the two are synonymous in your opinion—that is what you delight in."
She had turned away with bent head.
"You are not as strong as you thought you were; it does hurt you, Margaret, after all, to say such things to me."
There was an old stone seat, with a high back, near the pillar; she sank down upon it.
"What you wish is to have me leave you—tire you and vex you no more. But I cannot go quite yet. I tell youthat I will accept Lanse, as well as I can; I promise never again to open my lips as I did that last day; and still you are going to shut your door in my face, and keep it shut; and you assure me it is forever. This is unreasonable—a woman's unreason. Why shouldn't I come occasionally?—what are you afraid of? You will be surrounded by all your safeguards, your husband at the head. But your own will is a safeguard no human power could break; you are unassailable, taken quite by yourself, Mrs. Lansing Harold."
She did not look up.
"And you wouldn't be able, either, to carry it out—any such system of blockade," he went on. "Aunt Katrina would send for me; leaving that aside, Lanse himself would send; Lanse doesn't care a straw what my real opinion of him may be, so long as he can get some talk, some entertainment out of me, and it will be more than ever so now that he is permanently laid up. And if you should tell him of my avowal even, what would he say? 'Of course you know how to take rubbish of that sort'—that is what he would say! And he would laugh delightedly to think ofmybeing caught."
Still she did not move.
He walked off a few paces, then came back. "And here, again, Margaret, even if you should be able to influence both Aunt Katrina and Lanse against me, do you think that would prevent my seeing you—I don't mean constantly, of course, but occasionally? Do you suppose I should obey your rules—even your wishes? Not the least in the world! I should always see you, now and then, in some way. I shouldn't make myself a public annoyance; but—I give you warning—I shall never lose sight of you as long as I breathe, as long as I am alive."
She stirred at last, she looked up at him.
"Yes, I see you are frightened; you wish to go—escape, go back to the house and shut yourself up out of my reach, as you usually do. But this time I'm merciless, I feel that it's my last chance; you cannot go (you needn't try to pass me) until you have told me why it is that you wish not to see me again, never again, in spite of the safety, the absolute unapproachableness of your position."
She sat there, her eyes on his hard, insistent face.
"Why do you make me more wretched than I am?" she asked.
"Because I can't help it! There is a reason, then?"
"Yes." She had bent her head down again.
"I thought so. And I am prepared to hear it," he went on.
His voice had altered so as he brought this out that she looked up. "What is it you expect to hear?" she asked in a whisper.
"It's a new idea, I admit—something that has just come to me; but it explains everything—your whole course, conduct, which have been such a mystery to me. You love Lanse, you have always loved him; that is the solution! In spite of the insult of his long neglect of you, his second desertion, you are glad to go back to him; there have been such cases of miserable infatuation among women, yours is one of them. But you do not wishmeto see the process of your winning him over, or trying to; soIam to be sent away."
She got up. "And if I should say yes to this, acknowledge it, that would be the end? You would wish to see me no more?"
"Don't flatter yourself. Nothing of the kind. Recollect, if you please, that I love you; with me, unfortunately, it's for life. You may be weak enough—depraved enough, I might almost call it—to adore Lanse,—do you suppose that makes any difference in my adoring you? Do you think it's a matter of choice with me, my caring for you as I do? That I enjoy being mastered in this way by a feeling I can't overcome?"
"I am going to tell you my life," she said, abruptly.
"I know it already.—How beautiful you look!"
"I ought to look hideous." She walked about for a moment or two, and finally stopped, facing him, behind the old stone seat.
"It will make no difference what you say, I can tell you that now," he said, warningly.
"I think it will make a difference. You are not cruel."
"Yes, I am."
"I never loved Lanse," she began, hurriedly. "In one way it was not my fault; I was too young to appreciate what love meant, I was peculiarly immature in my feelings—I see that now.
"When the blow came, the blow of my discovering—what Lanse has already told you, I was crushed by it,—I had never known anything of actual evil.
"He told me to 'take it as a lady should.' I didn't know what he meant.
"I had no mother to go to. I felt even then that Aunt Katrina wouldn't be kind. In the overthrow of everything, the best I could think of to do was to hold on to one or two ideas that were left—that seemed to me right, and one of these was silence; I determined to tell nobody what had really happened; I would be loyal to my husband, as far as I could be, no matter what my husband was to me.
"So I went back to Aunt Katrina (as Lanse preferred). And I told nothing.
"I have no doubt I appeared cold enough. In the beginning therewasa good deal of coldness, though there was always suffering underneath; but later it wasn't coldness, it was the constant effort to hide—I had thought my life difficult. But I had yet to learn that there was something more difficult still. I had not loved Lanse—no; but now I was finding out what love meant, for—for I began to love—you."
Winthrop started, the color rushed up and covered his face in a flood; in his eyes shone the transforming light of a happiness which had never been there before. For this man, in spite of his successes, had never attained much positive happiness for himself in life; Lanse, Lucian, many another idler, attained more. Happiness is an inconsistent goddess, by no means has she always a crown for strenuous effort; very often she seems to dwell longest with those who do not think beyond the morrow; there she sits and basks. However, she had come to Winthrop now, and royally, bringing him that which he cared the most for. He thanked her by his glowing face, his ardent eyes.
"It's nothing to be glad about," Margaret had said, quickly, when she saw the change in his face. "I tell you because I cannot endure that you should believe of me what you thought—about Lanse. And also because I am weak—yes,I confess it. You said you intended to see me, follow me; but now that you know how it is with me, you won't do that."
Winthrop's face remained triumphant. "Odd reasoning, Margaret."
"The best reasoning. So long as it was only you, you could do as you pleased. But now that you know that—that others will suffer too—" She paused. "I am sure I have not trusted you in vain?" she said, appealingly.
But he shook his head, the triumph still animated him. "You can trust me in one way; I won't take advantage, that is, not now. But you needn't try to make me think, Margaret, that it's not something to be glad about—to know that you care for me." He laughed a little from his sheer satisfaction; then, in his old way, he put his hands compactly down in the pockets of his coat, and stood there looking at her.
"Is it anything to be glad about—my wretchedness?" she asked, strengthening herself for the contest.
"It makes you wretched? Strange!"
"I am so wretched—I have been wretched so long—that only my firm belief that my Creator knows best has enabled me to live on, has kept me from ending it."
"Why should you be more unhappy than I am? Nothing could makemeend my life now."
She looked at him in silence.
"If you look at me in that way—" Winthrop began.
She left her place. He stood where he was, watching her, but he was not paying much heed to what she was saying, now. He had the great fact, man-like, he was enjoying it; it was enough for the present—after all these years.
She seemed to see how little impression she had made. She came back to the old stone a second time to complete her story. "I tried so hard—I was so glad when I saw how you disliked me," she began.
"It wasn't dislike."
"I thought it was; and I was miserably glad. What did I take charge of Garda for but because I thought you loved her? That should be my penance, she should be like my own sister, and I would do everything that I possibly could for her, for her sake and yours. She was so very beautiful—"
He interposed here. "Yes, she was beautiful; but beautiful for everybody. Your beauty is dearer, because it is kept, in its fullest sweetness, for the man you love."
But no blush rose in her face, she was too unhappy for that; she was absorbed, too, in trying to reach him, to touch him, so that he would see what must be, as she saw it. "I did all I could for her," she went on, earnestly—"you know I did; I tried to influence her, I tried to love her; and I did love her. I was sure, too, that she cared for you—"
"It isn't everybody, you must remember, that has your opinion of me," interrupted her listener, delightedly.
"But she herself had told me—Garda had told me that she—— However, I begin to think that I have never comprehended Garda."
"Don't try."
"I love her all the same. That afternoon when she was on her way to Madam Giron's to see Lucian, and I took her place, it seemed to me that day that an opportunity had been given to me to complete my penance to the full, and crush out my own miserable folly. I could save her in your eyes, and I could lose myself; for, after that, you could have, of course, only contempt for me. I believed that you loved her, I didn't see how you could help it (I don't see very well even now). And I believed, too, that under all her fancies, her real affection was yours; or would come back to you."
"All wrong, Margaret, the whole of it. Overstrained, exaggerated."
"It may be so, I was very unhappy, I had brooded over everything so long. Next, Lanse came back. And that was a godsend."
"Godsend!" said Winthrop, his face darkening.
"Yes. It took me away from you."
"To him."
"You have never understood—I was only the house-keeper—he wished to be made comfortable, that was all. It was a great deal better for me there."
"Was it, indeed; you looked so well and happy all that time!" His joyousness was gone now; anger had come again into his eyes.
"I could not be happy, how could I be? But at least Iwas safe. Then he left me that second time. And you were there; that was the hardest of all."
"You bore it well! I remember I found it impossible to get a word with you. The truth is, Margaret, I have never known you to falter, you are not faltering in the least even now. I can't quite believe, therefore, that you care for me as you say you do; you certainly don't care as I care for you, perhaps you can't. But the little you do give me is precious; for even that, small as it is, will keep you from going back to Lanse Harold."
"Keep me from going back? What do you suppose I have told you this for? Don't you see that it is exactly this—my feeling foryou—that sends me, drives me back to him? On what plea, now, could I refuse to go? The pretense of unhappiness, of having been wronged?" She paused. Then rushed on again. "The law—of separation, I mean—is founded upon the idea that a wife is outraged, insulted, by her husband's desertion; but in my case Lanse's entire indifference to me, his estrangement—these have been the most precious possessions I have had! If at any time since almost the first moment I met you hehadcome back and asked for reconciliation, promised to be after that the most faithful of husbands, what would have become of me? what should I have said? But he did not ask—he does not now; I can only be profoundly grateful."
"Yes, compare yourself with a man of that sort—do; it's so just!"
"It is perfectly just. I am a woman, surrounded by all a woman's cowardice and nervousness and fear of being talked about; and he is a man, and not afraid; but at heart—atheart—how much better am I than he? You do not know—" She stopped. "I consider it a great part of my offense against my husband that I have never loved him," she added.
"The old story! Go on now and tell me that if you had loved him, he himself would have been better."
"No, that I cannot tell you; even if I had cared for him, I might have had no influence." She spoke with humility.
"Lanse knew perfectly that I did not love him, he knew it when I didn't," she went on. "And I really think—yes, I must say it—that if I had cared for him even slightly, hewould have been more guarded, would have concealed more, spared me more; in little things, Lanse is kind. But he knew that I shouldn't suffer, in that way at least. And it was quite true; my real suffering—the worst suffering—has not come from him at all; it has come from you. At first I had plans—I was too young to give up all hope of something brighter some time. But my plans soon came to an end; when I knew—discovered—that I was beginning to care for you, all my hope turned to keeping in the one straight track that lay before me. I did not think I should fail—"
"I can well believe that!" he interrupted.
"Oh, do not be harsh to me! you do not know—You think my will is strong. But oh! it isn't—it isn't. When Lanse left me that second time, and you were there with me, I knew then that there was nothing for it but to go as far away from you as possible, and to go instantly; anything less, no matter how I should disguise it, would be staying because I wished to stay. And I did try to go; I would not enter that hotel when I saw you on the shore—I went back to the empty house. I dared not stay then. Iwillnot now."
"You do well to change the terms," he answered, with unsparing bitterness, "it's nothing but will to-day, whatever it may once have been. I don't believe about your not daring; I don't, in fact, believe—that is, fully—anything you have said."
"Why, then, should I stay here talking longer?" She left the place and entered the orange grove, which she was obliged to pass through on her way to the house.
But he overtook her, he stepped in front and barred the way. "You have been remarkably skilful. I demanded an explanation, I was evidently going to make trouble. So you gave me this one: you said that you had, unfortunately for yourself, begun to love me, that was the explanation of everything; you threw me this to stop me, like a bone to a dog, so that you could get comfortably away. But I have this to tell you: if you had really loved me, you couldn't have argued quite so well! And you couldn't go now, either, so self-complacently, leaving me here in my pain."
"So be it," she said. She looked through the blossoming aisles to the right, to the left, as if in search of some rescuer, some one.
"But what does a woman like you know of love, after all—real love?" he went on, with angry scorn. "As a general thing, the better she is, the less she knows. And I have never denied that you were good, Margaret."
She moved to pass him.
"Not yet. You have reasoned the whole case out too well, there was rather too much reason; a lawyer couldn't have done it better."
"I have had time to think of the reasons. How often each day do you suppose I have gone over everything—over and over? And how many days have there been in these long years?"
"It isn't the time. It's your nature."
"Very well. It's my nature."
"But you needn't suppose that your having that nature will stop me," he said, with a certain violence of tone roused by her agreement with these accusations. "You have confessed to some sort of liking for me, I shall take advantage of it as far as it goes (not far, I fear); I shall make it serve as the foundation of all I shall constantly attempt to do."
Her arms dropped by her sides. "Constantly? I believe there is nothing in the world so cruel as a man when he pretends to care for you." She moved off a step or two. "I do not love you, you say? I adore you. From almost the first day I saw you—yes, even from then. It is the one love of my life, and remember I am not a girl, it's a woman who tells you this—to her misery. And it is everything about you that I love—that makes it harder; not only what you say and how you say it, what you think and do, but what youare—oh! what you are in everything. The way you look at me, the tone of your voice, the turn of your head, your eyes, your hands—I love them, I love them all. I suffer every moment, it has been so for years. I am so miserable away from you, so desperate and lonely! And yet when I am with you, that is harder. Whichever way I turn, there is nothing but pain, it is so torturing that I wonder how I can have lived! Yet would I give it up? Never."
The splendor of her eyes, as she poured forth these words, her rapt expression, the slight figure, erect and tense—he could no more have dared to touch her then than he could have touched a shining seraph that had lighted for an instant in his path.
Her eyes suddenly changed. "When I have hurt you," she went on, "it has beensohard to do it—so hard!" She was the woman now; a mist had suffused the blue.
He came towards her, he sank down at her feet. "I am not worthy," he murmured, in real self-abasement.
"No, you are not. But—I love you."
He sprang up. "Iwillbe worthy. You shall do all you think right, and I—will help you."
"Yes, help me by leaving me."
"For the present—I will go."
"For always."
"Margaret, do not be hard. And now, when I know—"
"Youdobelieve me, then?" she interrupted, with winning sweetness.
"Yes, I believe you! It makes me tremble to think what it would be if we were married; theysaypeople do not die of joy."
She came out of her trance. Her face changed, apprehension returned—the old fear and pain. She rallied her sinking courage. "We will not talk of things that do not concern us," she said, gently. "All my life—that is, the peace of it—is in your power, Evert, now that you know the truth about me. But I am sure I have not put faith in you in vain."
"Don't you remember saying to me 'Do you wish me to die without ever having been my full self once?' So now I say to you, Margaret, do you wish to die without ever having lived? You have never lived yet with anything like a full completeness. I am not a bad man, I declare it to you, and you are the most unselfish of women; you have a husband who has no claim upon you, either in right or law; Margaret, let us break that false tie. And then!—see, I do not move a step nearer. But I put it before you—I plead—"
"And do you think I have not felt the temptation too?" she murmured, looking at him. "When Lanse left me, overthere on the river, don't you remember that I went down on my knees? It was the beating of my heart at the thought of how easily after that I could be freed—freed, I mean, by law—that was what I was trying to pray down. To be free to think of you, though you should never know it, even that would have been like a new life to me."
"Take it now," said Winthrop. He grasped her hand.
But she drew it from him. "Surely you know what I believe, what all this means to me—that for such mistakes as a marriage like mine there is, on this earth at least, no remedy."
"We'llmakea remedy."
Again she strengthened herself against him. "Do you think that a separation—I will use plain words, a divorce—is right when it is obtained, no matter what the outside pretext, to enable two persons who have loved each other unlawfully to marry?"
"Unlawfully—you make me rage!Lanseis the unlawful one."
"That doesn't excuse me."
"Don't put the word excuse anywhere near yourself when you are talking of Lanse; I won't bear it. And nothing is wrong that we cannot possibly help, Margaret; any one would tell you that. If it is something beyond our wills, we are powerless."
"Against my love for you I may be powerless—I am. But not against the indulgence of it."
"You are too strong," he began, "Icouldn't pretend—" then he saw how she was trembling.
From head to foot a quiver had seized her, the lovely shoulders, the long lithe length of limb which gave her the step he had always admired so much, the little hands, though she had folded them closely as if endeavoring to stop it, even the lips with their sweet curves—the tremor had taken them all from her control; she stood there helpless before him.
"I can't reason, Margaret, and I won't; in this case reason's wrong, and you're wrong. You love me—that I know. And the power for good of such a love as yours—you magnificent woman, not afraid to tell it—that power shallnotbe wasted and lost. Have you I will!" It was more than a touch now; he held her white wrists with a grasp like iron,and drew her towards him. "I hold you so, but it won't be for long. In reality I am at your feet," he said.
She had not struggled, she made no effort to free herself. But her eyes met his, full of an indomitable refusal. "I shall never yield," she murmured.
Thus they stood for a moment, the two wills grappled in a mute contest.
Then he let her hands drop.
"Useless!" she said, triumphing sadly.
"Though you love me."
"Though I love you."
"It's enough to make a man curse goodness, Margaret; remember that."
"No, no."
"Oh, these good people!" He threw his arm out unconsciously with a force that would have laid prostrate any one within its reach. "You are an exception—you are going to suffer; but generally these good people, who are so hard in their judgment of such things,—they have never suffered themselves in the least from any of this pain; they have had all they wish—in the way of love and home, and yet they are always the hardest upon those who, like me, like you, have nothing—who are parched and lonely and starved. They would never do so—oh no! they are too good. All I can say is, let them try it! Margaret"—here he came back to her—"think of the dreariness of it; leaving everything else aside, just think of that. We are excited now; but, when this is over, think of the long days and years without anything to brighten them, anything we really care for. That breaks down the best courage at last, to have nothing one really cares for."
She did not answer.
"I could make you so happy!" he pleaded.
Her face remained unmoved.
"I long for you so!" he went on; "without you, I don't know where to turn or what to do." He said it as simply as a boy.
This overcame her; she left him, and hurried through the grove on her way to the house, he could hear her sob as she went.
Dr. Kirby's figure had appeared at the end of one of the orange aisles; when he saw Margaret hurrying onward, he hastened his steps. Winthrop had now overtaken her, her foot had slipped and he had caught her. Both her hands were over her face, her strength was gone.
The Doctor came panting up. "My dear Mrs. Harold—" he began.
But she seemed to hear nothing.
The Doctor put his hand on her pulse. "Will you go to the house for help to carry her in?" he whispered. "Or shall I?"
"I can carry her myself," said Winthrop. He lifted her. Unconsciousness had come upon her, her head with the closed eyes, her fair cheek, the soft mass of her hair lay against his shoulder.
The Doctor went on with them for some distance; he was not sure that Winthrop's strength would hold out.
But Winthrop's strength appeared to be perfect.
"I will hurry forward then, and warn them," said the Doctor. And he set off at a round pace.
Winthrop walked steadily; at last he reached the end of the white-blooming fragrant aisles, the path entered a thicket that lay beyond.
The fresher unperfumed air brought Margaret to herself. She stirred, then her eyes opened; they rested uncomprehendingly on his face.
Beyond this thicket lay the garden, where they would be in full view; he was human, and he stopped. "You fainted. The perfume of the grove, I suppose," he said, explaining.
Then everything came back to her, he could see remembrance dawn in her eyes, her fear return.
She tried to put her hand up. But it fell lifelessly back.
This sign of weakness struck him to the heart,—what if she should die! Women so slight in frame, and with that fair, pure whiteness like the inside of a sea-shell, were often strangely, inexplicably delicate.
Her eyes had closed again. He held her closely; but now, save for the holding, he would not touch her. For it seemed to him that if he should allow himself to yield to his longing wish and put his lips down upon hers, she might die there, after a moment, in his arms. It would be taking advantage;in her present state of physical weakness her will might not be able to help her as it had helped her before; she was powerless to resist, and she loved him,—oh yes, he knew it fully now, she loved him. But as soon as she should become conscious that she had yielded, then the reaction would come. Between her love and her sense of duty, this proud will of hers had held the balance. It seemed to him that if he should break down by force that balance, her life might go as well.
He went on therefore, he bore her through the garden towards the house. Her face in its stillness had now an expression that frightened him, it was like the lassitude of a person who has struggled to the utmost, and then given up.
The Doctor and Celestine were waiting at the lower door.
Winthrop refused their aid, he carried Margaret up the stairs to her own room, and laid her down upon the bed.
"I will wait below, Doctor. Come and tell me, please, what you make out."
The Doctor had divined a good deal during this last quarter of an hour, in this stricken woman, this abruptly speaking man, he felt the close presence of something he fully believed in, old though he was—overwhelming love; placed as they were, it could bring only unhappiness. He had no confidence whatever in Winthrop, simply because he was a man. In such situations men were selfish (he himself should have been no better); of course at the time they did not call it selfishness, they called it devotion. But in Margaret his confidence was absolute. And it was with a deep, tender pity for her, for all she had still to go through, that he now bent over her.
Winthrop had gone down-stairs; he paced to and fro in the stone-flagged hall below. The door stood open, the deep soft blue of the Florida sky filled the square frame. "If only she doesn't die!" This was the paralyzing dread that held him like a suffocation. He kept thinking how like a dead person she had looked as he laid her down. "If she comes to,—revives, I will go away, and stay away." In his fear, he could consent to anything.
The Doctor came down after a while. They were two men together, so their words were few; they were just enough to answer the purpose. "I think I can assure youthat she will come out of it safely," the Doctor said. "She seems unaccountably weak, she will have to keep her bed for a while; but I am almost positive that it is not going to be one of those long illnesses which sometimes follow attacks of this sort."
"But at best it's rather serious, isn't it?" Winthrop asked.
The Doctor looked at him. "Yes," he answered, gravely.
"If you would let me know from time to time? This is my New York address. It will be more satisfactory to hear directly from you. You can tell her I have gone."
"Gone?"
"Yes; back to New York."
"Oh," said Reginald Kirby. Then, "Ah," he added, this time with the accepting falling inflection.
Winthrop was behaving much better than he had thought he would. All the same, it was now the part of every one to speed him on his way. "I will write with great regularity," he said, extending his hand in good-by. "I will write three times a week," he added, with heartiness; he wanted to do something for the man, and this was all he could do.
He returned to his patient. Winthrop went out to order the horses.
He came back while the negroes were making ready. The lower door still stood open, the house was very quiet; he stole up-stairs and listened for a moment near Margaret's room. There was no sound within; he had the man's usual fear—non-comprehension—of a woman's illness. "Why are they so quiet in there?" he thought; "why don't they speak?Whatare they doing to her?"
But there was a very good reason for the stillness; the Doctor had given Margaret a powerful sedative, and he and Celestine were waiting for the full effect.
Winthrop at length left the door; he realized that this was not a good beginning in the carrying out of his promise to himself.
As he passed down the hall on his way to the stairs he happened to have a glimpse into a room whose door stood partly open; here, ranged in order, locked and ready, were Margaret's trunks, prepared for the journey to Fernandina.
Well, if he was to get away at all, he must go at once!
Two weeks passed before the Doctor would allow Margaret to begin her night without an opiate, which should numb her constant weariness into some semblance of rest. During this time he himself did not leave East Angels.
At the beginning of the third week the pale woman in the darkened room began to recover some vitality; she spoke to them, she asked to have the curtains drawn aside; she refused their opiates, even the mildest. The Doctor, relieved, went up to Gracias to see his other patients.
That night, about one o'clock, Margaret spoke. "Celestine?"
A tall figure appeared from a dark corner.
"I told you not to sit up to-night; I feel perfectly well."
"There's a lounge here, Miss Margaret. I can lay down nice as can be."
"No, you are not to stay; I do not wish it."
Celestine demurred; but as Margaret held to her point, she yielded finally, and went out. Some minutes after the door had closed, with a slow effort Margaret raised herself. Then she sat resting for a while on the edge of her bed. Her hair, braided by Celestine in two long plaits whose soft ends curled, gave her the look of a school-girl; but the face was very far from that of a school-girl, in the faint light of the night-lamp the large sad eyes and parted lips were those of a woman. She rose to her feet at last, feet fair on the dark carpet, her long white draperies, bordered with lace, clung about her. With a step that still betrayed her weakness, she crossed the room to a desk, unlocked it, and took something out,—a little picture in a slender gilt frame. She stood looking at this for a moment, then she sank down beside the lounge, resting her arm and head upon it, and holding her poor treasure to her heart. She held it closely, the sharp edge of the frame made a deep dent there. She was glad that it hurt her, that it bruised the white flesh and lefta pain. At first her eyes remained dry. Then her wretchedness overcame her, and she began to cry; being a woman, she must cry. Her life stretched out before her,—if only she were old! But she might live forty years more—forty years! "And I have sent him away from me. Oh, how can I bear it!"—this was what she was saying to herself again and again.
If the man whose picture she held upon her heart could have heard the words she spoke to him that night—the unspeakable tenderness of her love for him, the strength, the unconscious violence almost, of its sweet overwhelming tide—no bolts, no bars, no promises even, could have kept him from her.
But he could not hear. Only that Unseen Presence who knows all our secrets, our pitiful, aching secrets—only this Counsellor heard Margaret that night. This silent Friend of ours is always merciful, more merciful than man would ever be; for the unhappy wife, now prone on the couch, shaken with sobs; now lying for the moment forgetful of reality, her eyes full of adoring dreams; now starting up with the flush of exaltation, of self-sacrifice—only to fall back again in stubborn despair—for all these changes the Presence had no rebuke; the torturing longing love, the misery, the relapses into sullen rebellion, and then the slow, slow return towards self-control again, all these it beheld with pity the most tender. For it knew that this was a last struggle, it knew that this woman, though torn and crushed, would in the end come out on the side of right—that strange hard bitter right, which, were this world all, would be plain wrong. And Margaret herself knew it also, yes even now miserably knew (and rebelled against it), that she should come out on that hard side; and from that side go forward. It would be blindly, wretchedly; there could be for her no hope of happiness, no hope even of resignation; she scorned pretenses and substitutes, and lies were to her no better because they were pious lies. She could endure, and she must endure; and that would be all. She could see no farther before her now than the next step in her path, small and near and dreary; thus it would always be; no wide outlook but a succession of little steps, all near and all dreary. So itwould continue, and with always the same effort. And that would be her life.
She did not come fully to this now, her love still tortured her. And then at last the merciful Presence touched her hot eyes and despairing heart, and with the picture still held close, she sank into a dreamless lethargy.
When Celestine ventured to steal softly in before dawn, she found her charge like a figure of snow on the floor, the lamplight shining across the white throat, the only place where its ray touched her.
The New England woman bent over her noiselessly. Then she lifted her. As she did so the little picture dropped; she had no need to take it up to know whose face was there. "Poor child?"—this was the gaunt old maid's, mute cry. She had the pity of a woman for a woman.
She placed Margaret in bed; then lifting the picture with a delicate modesty which there was no one there to see, she put it hurriedly back in her hand without looking at it, and laid the hand where it had been, across the fair breast. "When she comes to, first thing she'll remember it and worry. And then she'll find it there, and think nobody knows. She'll think she went back to bed herself." Thus she guarded her.
Grim old Celestine believed ardently, like the Doctor, in love. But like the Doctor, too, she believed that marriage was indissoluble; the Carolina High-Churchman and the Vermont Calvinist were agreed in this. Mistakes were plenty, of course; but when once they had been made, there was no remedy in this life; of this she was sure. But how if one happened to be bound upon the rack meanwhile—a woman whom one loved?
The dress-maker, after looking at Margaret again, went off to a dark corner to "offer prayer." But for the first time in her life she found no words ready; what, indeed, should she pray for? That Margaret might die? She was too fond of her for that. That Lanse might be taken? That had a murderous sound, even if you called it "taken." That Margaret's love might cease? But she knew very well that it would not. So all she said was, "O Lord,helpher!" very fervently. Then she got up, and set about applying restoratives.
A week later, when Margaret had left her room for the first time, Celestine, at work there, restoring for her own satisfaction that speckless order in which her soul delighted, found upon the hearth, mixed with the ashes, some burned bent metal fragments that had once been gilded—the top of a little frame; she knew then that the last sacrifice had been accomplished. A small one, a detail; but to women the details are hardest.
The Doctor had kept Winthrop strictly informed of Mrs. Harold's health. At first the letters were all the same. But after a while he had written that he was glad to say that she was better. For a long time to come, however (he added), any over-pressure would be sure to exhaust her, and then, in case of a second attack, he should not be able to answer for the consequences. Later he wrote that Mrs. Harold's strength would not now be taxed by any more "untoward interruptions;" she had made her intended journey to Fernandina, he was glad to say, and had returned in safety, Mr. Harold having returned with her. Everything was now comfortably arranged at East Angels; Mr. Harold had the west rooms, and the men he had brought with him—he had three at present—seemed to understand their duties fairly well. Mr. Harold was carried every evening into Mrs. Rutherford's sitting-room, which was an agreeable change for all. Mrs. Rutherford herself had improved wonderfully since her nephew's arrival.
Concerning these letters of his to Evert Winthrop the Doctor felt such a deep sense of responsibility that, short as they were, he wrote them and rewrote them, inspecting each phrase from every possible point of view before his old-fashioned quill finally set it down.
This last result of his selection of the fittest, Winthrop received one morning at breakfast. He read it; then started out and went through his day as usual, having occupations and engagements to fill every hour. But days end; always that last ten minutes at night will come, no matter how one may put it off. Winthrop put off his until after midnight; but one o'clock found him caught at last; he was alone before his fire, he could no longer prevent himself from taking out that letter and brooding over it.
He imagined East Angels, he imagined Lanse; he imaginedhim in Aunt Katrina's pleasant room, with the bright little evening fire sparkling on the hearth, with Aunt Katrina herself beaming and happy, and Margaret near. Yes, Lanse had everything, he had always had everything. He had never worked an hour in his life; he had pleased himself invariably; he had given heed to no one and yielded to no one; and now when he was forced at last by sheer physical disability to return home, all comfort, all devotion awaited him there, bestowed, too, by the very persons he had most neglected and wronged. "Unjust! unjust!"—this was his bitter comment.
If it had not been for the fear that kept him fettered, he would have thrown everything to the winds and started again for Florida that night, he would have swept the woman he loved out of that house, and borne her away somewhere—anywhere—and he should have felt that he was justified in doing it. But Margaret—he had always to reckon with that determination of hers to do right, even in the face of her own despair. And as to what was right he had never been able in the least to confuse her, to change her, as a man can often change the woman who loves him; just the same she saw it now, and had seen it from the beginning, in spite of all his arguments and pleadings, in spite of all her own.
She loved him. But she would not yield. And these two forces, both so strong that they bent her and swayed her like torturers—if the strife should begin again between them, as it must if he should go to her entreating, was there not danger (as the Doctor, indeed, had written) that her slender strength would give way entirely? He had never forgotten the feeling in his arms of her inert form as he laid it down that day. He should never be able to overpower—he felt that he should not—that something, something stronger than herself, which he had seen looking from her eyes that day in the orange grove; this would remain unchanged, unconquered, though he should have carried her away from everybody, to the ends of the earth, and though—she loved him.
He buried his face in his hands. No, first of all she must not die. For there was always the chance that Lanse himself might die; this did not seem to him a murderous thought, as it had seemed to Celestine. It came across him suddenly that Lanse would probably be quite willing to discuss it withhim; he would say, "Well, you know, I perfectly appreciate how convenient it would be." Lanse had no fear of death. He called it "a natural change;" none but a fool, he said, could fear the natural.
Winthrop got up at last and went to the window. The brilliantly lighted street lay below him, but he was not thinking of New York. He was thinking of that old gray-white house in the South, the house he had been fond of, but whose door was now closed to him, perhaps forever. For, unexplainably, though he hoped for Lanse's death, he had not the slightest expectation of it in reality; both he and Margaret had the sense of a long life before them. There would be no change, no relief; only the slow flight of the long days and years, and that would be all. He came back to his hearth; the fire had died; he sat down and stared at the ashes.
"How will she appear?" said Mr. Moore. He sat in his arm-chair, his eyes were following the pattern of the red and white matting on the floor.
"'How,' Middleton?" said Penelope, looking up from her knitting reproachfully. "Why, broken-hearted, poor child!"
"Yes, broken-hearted, I fear; broken-hearted," answered Middleton.
Two years had passed since the burning of the house on the point. Mr. Moore was now quite well again, save that he would always be obliged to walk slowly and support himself with a cane. The rectory was more comfortable than it had been in former years, the rector's clerical coat was a better one; but the rector's wife, with that unconsciousness of her own lacks, which, when it is founded (as in this case) upon a husband's unswerving admiration, is not without its charm—the rector's wife was contentedly attired in the green delaine. Penelope indeed had many causes for contentment; it was so delightful to be able to give five-sixths of one's income to the poor.
At the present moment the Moores were listening for thesound of wheels; not the usual rattle, but the muffled grind through sand which came from the roadways of Gracias.
"Hark!" said Penelope, lifting a forefinger. "Yes—there they are!"
Seizing a little head-covering of green wools, the product of her own crochet-needle, she put it hastily on, and giving Middleton his hat and stick, went with him down the path towards the gate. A carriage had stopped, Dr. Kirby was helping some one to descend from the high, old-fashioned vehicle; the young figure in black, the bright hair under the veil, the overwhelming burst of sobs when she saw their familiar faces—yes, this was Garda who had come back to them, come back home, as they fondly called it; she had been widowed for more than a year, Lucian had died in Venice nineteen months before.
They brought her in, tenderly Mrs. Moore took off the crape bonnet; the girl cried bitterly, her head on Penelope's shoulder. There were tears in the eyes of the two men also; it seemed so strange that this bowed black figure should be their Garda, the beautiful, idle, young girl who had had such a genius for happiness that she had been able to extract full measure of it from even an old hammock and a crane.
Lucian had died suddenly of fever. Garda herself, prostrated by her grief, for months afterwards had scarcely raised her head. Dr. Kirby had started immediately, he had been with her through the worst of her illness. But she had not been alone; her devoted friends in Venice were two sisters and a brother, who, singularly enough, were cousins of Rosalie, Lucian's first wife, and of the same name, Bogardus. These staid, stout people had been fascinated with the Spensers from the first.
And when came the overwhelming blow of Lucian's death, the two ladies, Alicia and Gertrude, immediately took charge of the stricken young wife, and did it with a tenderness which even Dr. Kirby pronounced touching, when he himself arrived in Venice—as soon as was possible, but some weeks later. When Garda at last began to improve a little, her lassitude continued; it was evident that she would not be able to travel for some time to come. Meanwhile the poor Doctor's money was running out. Garda did not thinkof this; at present she thought only of her sorrow, and then, as had always been said of Garda, she never remembered money at all. Of course the Doctor would not confide to these strangers the embarrassments of his position. And no Bogardus, left to himself, would have been able to conceive the idea that a man, in his senses, could have started to come to Venice from the United States with so small a sum in his pocket as the Doctor had been able to provide. But the facts remained the same; Garda could not travel, the Doctor was obliged to say at last that he must go. In this emergency, Trude and Lish-er, as their brother called them, offered to remain with Mrs. Spenser for the present, to bring her by slow stages across Europe to England, and thence to New York, when she should be able to travel; while Dick Bogardus growled, "Much the best plan! much the best plan!" behind them.
The Doctor had never been able in the least to comprehend Dick, he considered him an extraordinary person; Dick was sixty, short in stature, gruff, and worth five millions. Dick, on his side, was sure that the Doctor was a little out of his mind. But Lish-er and Trude would be very kind to Garda, there could be no doubt of that; they showed an almost tyrannical fondness for her even now—the "thwarted maternal instinct" the Doctor in his own mind called it. And so at last it was arranged, and the anxious guardian started on his long journey homeward, with just enough money to carry him to Charleston (where he could borrow of Sally), and barely a cent to spare.
Lish-er and Trude took their time, they had not been so much interested in anything for years; they said to everybody that Garda was like their "own child." This, of course, was a great novelty. But in reality she was more like their doll—a very beautiful and precious one. Garda herself remained listless and passive. But her mere presence was enough for the two old maids; it was a sight to see them purchasing new mourning attire for her in Paris; to such friends as they met they announced that they were "so extremely occupied" that they hardly knew how they should "get through." But it could not last forever, even the buying of clothes in Paris, and at length they were forced tobring their charge over the ocean to New York—where all the other Bogarduses came to look at her, to see for themselves, if possible, what it could be which had roused such abnormal enthusiasm in "Dick and the girls."
"It's amazing how that Garda Thorne always contrives to make everybody serve her turn," was Aunt Katrina's comment, meanwhile, down in Gracias. "Here's a whole New York family—of our best people, too—waiting upon her slavishly, and bringing her across Europe like, like I don't know what;—like Cleopatra down the Nile!"
"I suppose you mean, then, that Dick Bogardus is Antony?" said Lanse, working away at his fish-net. He had learned to make his nets rapidly now, and was extremely proud of his handiwork; he gave away the results of his labors to "fishermen of good moral character;"—it was necessary that they should be moral.
At the moment when Garda was entering the rectory, Margaret, at East Angels, was coming down the stone stairway on her way to the lower door, where the phaeton and Telano were waiting; she was about to drive to Gracias. As she paused a moment on the bottom step to button her gloves, a long shadow darkened the flags at her feet; she looked up; Adolfo Torres was standing at the open portal. After making one of his formal bows he came towards her; a motion of his hand begged her to remain where she was. "I thought you would be going there," he said. "I have therefore brought these—will you take them for me?" Flowers were abundant in Gracias, but the roses he held towards her were extraordinarily beautiful; all crimson or pink, they glowed with color, and filled the hall with a rich cinnamon scent.