With the night dreams began to vanish and the prose of reality
gradually to take form and outline in Van Berg's mind. He was
compelled to admit that the plausible theories by which he had
hitherto satisfied himself scarcely accounted for his moods and
sensations the past few days, and memory quietly informed him that
it had never had any consciousness of such a friendship as he now
was forming. But like many another man in the process of conviction
against his will, he became irritable and angrily blind to a truth
that would place him in an intolerable dilemma. He went to his
studio, and worded with dogged obstinacy on the picture designed for
Ida, giving his time to those details which required only artistic
skill, for his perturbed mind was in no mood for any nice creative
work.
He had agreed to meet Ida and her father on the afternoon boat;
and his impatience, and the early hour he started to keep the
appointment, was another straw which he was compelled to see in
spite of himself; nor could he fail to note which way the current
was bearing him.
"Well," he muttered, with the fatuity common in all strong temptations,
"I'll spend a few more hours with this rare Undine, this genuine
woman, who--infinitely more beautiful than Venus--is rising out of
the dark waters of sorrow, shame, and despair, and then if I find
that it will be wiser and safer to be only a somewhat unobtrusive and
distant friend, showing my good-will more by deeds than by seeking
her society, I can gradually take this course without wounding
her feelings or exciting suspicion of the cause. She was right,
although she little imagines the reason; we could never have those
readings together, and I fear I must manage with far fewer visits
to my studio than I had hoped for. What an accursed chaotic old
world it is anyway! How grateful she is because I merely treat
her father politely! It would be impossible to do anything else,
now that he is himself again, and yet, by this simple, easy method,
I have won a friendlier regard than I could by any other means.
Like an idiot, I once thought she would have to withdraw from her
father to develop her new and beautiful life. If even in faintest
suggestion I had revealed that thought to her, I don't believe
she would have spoken to me again; and I foresee that I shall have
to be exceedingly polite to Mrs. Mayhew also, for my Undine is
developing a conscience that might become a man's implacable enemy.
But what am I thinking about! If I do not intend to see much of
the daughter, I shall not waste any time on the mother. I wonder
if Miss Mayhew meant anything by that odd little ballad last evening.
Could she have intended to remind me of blue-eyed Jennie Burton?
No, for she was singing it by herself, when she did not know I was
listening. The idiotic brook! If I had given my whole heart to
the effort I might have won Jennie Burton by this time. Ida Mayhew
was right; no woman that I wish to win will show a lover any favor
till he cannot help stopping and staying, too."
A moment later he stopped short in the street. "Great God!" muttered
he, "do I wish to win Jennie Burton? Whither am I drifting? Would
to heaven I had not made this appointment this afternoon. Well,
I'm in for it now," and he strode along as if he were going to
battle, resolving to be guarded to the last degree, lest Ida should
suspect his weakness.
He saw her come on the boat with her father at the last moment,
her cheeks flushed with the heat and her eyes aglow with the hurry
and excitement of the occasion. He saw one and another of her
young gentlemen acquaintances step eagerly forward to speak to her
and admiring eyes turning towards her on every side. "She won't
lack for friends and companions now, and I soon will be little
missed," he thought bitterly. One gentleman, in his impatience
for her society, sought to obtain her small travelling-bag, ad was
assuring her that he could obtain seats for herself and father on
the crowded boat, when, by her timid glance around, she showed that
she was expecting some one, and Van Berg hastened forward and said
quietly, "I have seats reserved in the pilot-house."
She gave him a glad smile of welcome; but almost instantly her face
became grave and questioning in its expression; and she looked at
him keenly as he cordially shook hands with her father. As they
went away with him, as if by a prearrangement several guests of the
Lake House looked at each other and nodded their heads significantly.
While on the way to the pilot-house, and during their conversation
after arriving there, Ida often turned a quick, questioning glance
towards Van Berg, and her expression reminded him of some children's
faces he had seen as they tried to read the thoughts or intentions
of those who had their interests in keeping. He tried his best
to be cordial and natural in manner--to be, in brief, the sincere
friend that he had professed himself--and Mr. Mayhew did not notice
anything amiss; but even at some inflection of his voice, or at a
pause in the conversation, Ida would turn towards him this sudden,
questioning, child-like look, which touched him deeply while it
puzzled him. But she gradually began to grow "distrait" and quiet,
and to look less and less often. Van Berg had a deep affection for
the noble river on which they were sailing, and had familiarized
himself with its history and legends. By means of these he sought
to entertain Ida and her father, and with the latter he succeeded
abundantly; but he often doubted whether Ida heard him, for her
eyes and thoughts seemed to be wandering beyond the blue Highlands
which they now were entering. At last Mr. Mayhew left them for a
while, and Van Berg turned and said gently:
"Miss Ida, you are not in good spirits this afternoon."
She did not answer for a moment, but averted her face still further
from him. At last she said, in a low tone: "Mr. Van Berg, did
you ever have a presentiment of evil?"
"I don't believe in such things," he replied promptly.
"Of course not; you are a man. But I have such a presentiment this
afternoon, and it will come true."
"What do you fear, Miss Ida?"
"What does a woman always fear? Earthquakes, political changes,
disturbances in the world at large, of course."
"I have heard that a woman's kingdom was her heart," Van Berg was
indiscreet enough to say.
"It is a pity," Ida replied with one of her reckless laughs, "for
it so often happens that she cannot keep it, and those who wrest
it from her do not care to keep it, and so it comes to be what the
geographies used to call one of the 'waste places of the earth.'
As the world goes, I think I had better retain my kingdom, small
as it is."
He turned very pale, and swift as light he thought: "Has she, by
the aid of her woman's intuition, read my thoughts? Has she seen
the beginnings of a regard for her far warmer than my professed
friendship, and, remembering my suit to Jennie Burton, is she learning
to despise me as fickle, or, worse, as a hypocritical specimen of
that meanest type of human vermin--a male flirt?" and his face grew
so white that Ida in her turn was not only perplexed, but alarmed.
But after a moment he said quietly: "It is not the size of the
kingdom that makes its value, but what it contains. I hope you will
keep treasures of yours till you find some one worthy to receive
them, and I can scarcely imagine that such an idiot exists that he
would not retain them if he could. That is Fort Montgomery yonder,"
and he resolutely continued the story of its defence and capture,
until her father returned saying it was time to come down ad prepare
to land.
Ida had scarcely heard a word. Her heart almost stood still with
dread and foreboding, and like a dreary refrain the words kept
repeating themselves, "Oh, I'm punished, I'm punished. I thought
to win him from Jennie Burton, and my reckless words will now make
him true to her at every cost to himself. He knows that I must
have seen how he won the kingdom of her heart, and he'll keep it
now in spite of my love and something I thought love that I saw in
his face. Oh, my punishment is greater than I can bear; but it is
deserved, well deserved. If he had won my love first, what would
I think of the woman who tried to win him from me? She would have
suffered what I now must suffer. My bright but guilty dream is
over forever."
Van Berg assisted her down to the gangway and out on the wharf with
a grave and scrupulous politeness, but she felt even more than she
saw that her words had stung his very soul. It was their apparent
truth which he could never explain away that gave them their power
to wound so deeply, and every moment brought to him a clearer
realization of the fact that he had tried to win, and was pledged
to win a woman whom to wrong even unwittingly would be an act for
which he could never forgive himself. And yet his heart sank at
the thought of meeting her; indeed, so guilty and embarrassed did
he become in his feelings that he decided he would not meet her
before others, and sprang out of the stage, saying to the driver
that he preferred walking the remainder of the way. Mr. Mayhew
looked at him in some surprise, for his manner had changed so now
as to attract his attention and excite disagreeable surmises.
To Ida's great relief Stanton had come down to meet her with his
light-wagon. He had seen Van Berg at her side again with surprise,
and, after his fast horses had whirled them well away by themselves,
he asked a little abruptly:
"Ida, have you seen Van this week?"
She hesitated a moment, and then said briefly: "Yes. We met at
the concert-garden again, and he dined with us last evening."
Stanton turned and looked at her earnestly, and her color rose
swiftly under his questioning eyes.
"My poor little Ida, we are in the same boat, I fear," he said
compassionately.
She hid her face on his shoulder. "Oh, Ik, spare me," she faltered.
"It's just as I feared," Stanton resumed, with a deep sigh.
"Maledictions on such a world as ours! The devil rules it, sure
enough."
"Oh, hush, hush," Ida sobbed.
"I see it all, now; indeed, I've thought it all out this past week.
You Sibley used only as a blind, poor child."
"Yes, Ik, I loathed and detested him almost from the first."
"And in the meantime the sagacious Van Berg and myself were
trampling on you like a couple of long-eared beasts. How did you
ever forgive us!"
"Oh, Ik, Ik, my heart is breaking. I've had such dreams the last
two weeks. I've dared to think I had learned a little of God's love,
and oh--was I blinded by my wishes, by my hopes, by the passionate
longing of my heart?--I thought I saw love in his eyes, and heard
it in his tones, last evening. Everything now is slipping from
me--happiness, hope, and even my faith. But I deserve it all," she
added in her heart. "I could almost curse the woman who tried to
win him from me."
Stanton turned his horses off into a shady and unfrequented side
road where they would not be apt to meet any one. "Good heavens!"
he thought; "this is just the condition of mind that Van warned me
to guard against, and, confound him, he is the cause of the evils
he feared, and in their worst form. I be hanged if I can understand
him. All through July he was Jennie Burton's open suitor--at least
he made no secret of it to me, although his cool head enabled him
to throw the people of the house off the scent--and now he follows
another lady to New York, and leaves his first love on very flimsy
pretexts. By Jove! I don't like it, even though it were possible
for me to profit by his folly."
"My poor little Ida," he said gently, putting his arms around her,
"you and I must stand by each other, for we are like to have rough
weather ahead for awhile. It's no kindness to you now to hide the
truth. I do not know that Van Berg has formally proposed to Miss
Burton, but, as an honorable man, he is committed to her, and
I believe he has won her affections, although I confess I don't
understand her very well. She has evidently had very deep sorrows
in the past, and I am satisfied that she has felt his absence keenly
this week."
"I deserve it all," Ida murmured again, but so low he could not
hear her, and she gave way to another outburst of grief.
"It will pain even your heart, Ida, to see how slight and pale
Miss Burton is becoming. She also appears strangely restless, and
takes long walks that are far beyond her strength."
"It's all plain," groaned Ida. "How can she act otherwise! Well,
she will be comforted now, no matter what becomes of me."
"You will be a brave woman, Ida, and pull through all right."
"No, Ik, I'm not brave. I could easily die for those I love; but
I can't just suffer and be patient, at least I don't see how I can;
but I suppose I must."
His arm tightened about her waist, and she felt it trembling.
"Ida," he said, in a low solemn tone, "promise me before God that
whatever happens you will never---"
"Hush!" she gasped, shuddering, "I will die in God's own way. I
will endure as best I can."
He stooped down and kissed her tenderly as he said: "Ida, dear,
from this hour I'm no longer your cousin merely, but a brother, and
your companion in misfortune. I'm going to stand by you and see
you through this trouble. Just count on me to shield you in every
possible way. I don't care what the world thinks of me, but never
a tongue shall wag against you again, or there will be a heavy score
to settle with me. Van and I have been good friends, but he's on
ticklish ground now. He'll find he can't play fast and loose with
two such women as you and Jennie Burton. Curse it all! it isn't
like him to do it either. But the world is topsy-turvey, anyhow."
"Ik, I plead with you, say nothing, do nothing. Be blind and deaf
to everything of which we have spoken. Only help me hide my secret
and get away from this place to some other where I am not known."
"Has your father any idea of all this?"
Ida explained in part her father's knowledge.
"We can easily manage it then," he said. "I had decided to leave
next week. Miss Burton leaves for her college duties very soon
also. The idea of that fragile flower being trampled on nine months
of the year by a crowd of thoughtless, heedless girls! And so our
disastrous summer comes to an end. And yet I'm wrong in applying
that term to my own experience. I wish you felt as I do, Ida. I
haven't a particle of hope, and yet I would not give up my love for
Jennie Burton for all the world; and I don't believe I ever shall
give it up. I think she is beginning to understand me a little
better now, although she does not give me much thought. One day,
while you have been gone, I met her returning from one of her walks,
and she looked so faint and sad that I could not endure it, and I
went straight to her and took her hand as I said: 'Miss Burton,
is there anything Ik Stanton can do to make you happier? It's
none of my business, I suppose, but it's breaking my heart to see
you becoming so sad and pale. I may seem to you very foolish and
Quixotic, but there is no earthly think I would not do or suffer for
you.' She did not withdraw her hand as she replied, very gently:
'Mr. Stanton, please do me the kindness to be happy yourself, and
forget me.' I could only say, in honesty: 'You have asked just
the two things which are utterly impossible.' Tears came into
her eyes as she replied, with emphasis: 'Then, my FRIEND, you can
understand me. There is one whom I can never forget.' She was
kind enough to say some words about my having been generous and
considerate of her feelings, etc., but no matter about them. We
parted, and it's all over as far as she is concerned. When I left
town last June I thought I'd be a bachelor always, because I loved
my jolly ease. I've a better reason now, Ida. Of course Van must
be the one referred to by Miss Burton. You have seen how she looks
at him at times when thinking herself unobserved!"
"Yes," sighed Ida, "it's all right. God is just, and there is no
use of trying to thwart his will."
"Well, Ida, I don't know. It's all a snarl to me. Sometimes
I think the world goes on the toss-up-a-penny plan, and again it
seems almost as if Old Nick himself was behind the scenes.
"Dear Brother Ik, don't talk to me that way. If I do lose ALL my
faith now, I don't know what will happen."
"Forgive me, Ida, I will try to do better by you though I fear I
shall prove one of Job's comforters. We'll stop in the village,
get some supper there, and, thus you won't have to face anybody
to-night, and by to-morrow you will be your own brave self."
"Oh," moaned Ida, "I am almost as sorry for father's sake as for
my own. How can I keep him up when I am sinking myself?"
Mr. Mayhew stood on the piazza, waiting for Ida and wondering why
she did not come, as Van Berg mounted the steps. The majority of
the people had gone in to supper, but Miss Burton, who was a little
late, recognized him from the hallway, and she came swiftly out to
greet him. Her very cordiality was another stab, and he exerted
the whole power of his manhood to meet her in like spirit.
"I did not know I should miss you so much," she said, her eyes
growing a little moist from her strong feeling. "I suppose we
never value our friends as we ought till taught their worth to us
by absence. But if you have been successful in your work I shall
be well content."
"Yes, Miss Jennie," he replied, "I think I have been successful.
The picture is far from being complete, but I've been able to obtain
a much better likeness of Mr. Eltinge than I even hoped to catch."
"Mr. Van Berg, you have been working too hard. You look exceedingly
weary. What possessed you to walk all these miles? Leave us women
to do the unreasonable things, and least of all are they becoming
in you; come at once and get a good supper."
He could not disguise the pain and humiliation that her words caused
him, and said hurriedly, "I will join you in a few moments," and
then hastened to his room.
Mr. Mayhew, with the delicacy of a gentleman, had withdrawn out of
earshot as they conversed, but the warmth of Miss Burton's greeting
had suggested a thought that was exceedingly disquieting. As if
from a sudden impulse he went directly to the supper table, and
his quiet courtesy masked the closest observation.
Van Berg stood in his room a moment and fairly trembled with shame
and rage at himself. Then, with a bitter imprecation, he made the
brief toilet the dust of his walk required, and his face was so
stern and white one might think he was about to face an executioner
instead of Jennie Burton's blue eyes beaming with friendship at
least. The thought of discovering anything warmer in their expression
sent a mortal chill to her former wooer's heart. He expected to
meet Ida at the table, and the ordeal of meeting the woman to whom
he was pledged in the presence of the woman he loved was like the
ancient Trial by Fire.
"Curse it all," he muttered, "they both can read one's thoughts as
if they were printed on sign-boards. I was scarcely conscious of
what my ardent friendship for Miss Mayhew meant before she looked
me in the face and saw the whole truth, and she almost the same
as charged me with winning Jennie Burton's heart then throwing it
away, while in the same breath she hinted that I need not attempt
any such folly and meanness in her case. If ever a man's pride
and self-respect received a mortal wound mine has to-day. And now
I feel with instinctive certainty, that Miss Burton will see the
truth just as clearly, and then my burden for life will be the
contempt of the two women whom I honor as I do my mother's name.
Well, there is no help for it now, my ship is on the rocks already."
He was greatly relieved to find that Ida was not at the table, but,
in spite of his best efforts, Miss Burton soon saw that something
was amiss, and that it was difficult for him to sustain his part of
the conversation. With her graceful tact, however, she was blind
to all she imagined he would not have her notice, and tried to
enliven both Mr. Mayhew and himself with her cheery talk--a vain
effort in each instance now.
"How slight and spirit-like she is becoming!" groaned Van Berg,
inwardly. "Great God! if I have wronged her, how awful will be my
punishment!"
"She loves him," was Mr. Mayhew's conclusion, "and from his manner
I fear he has given her reason. At any rate, for some cause, he
is in great perplexity and trouble."
After supper Van Berg stood near the main stairway, still conversing
with Miss Burton, when a light, quick step caused him to look up
and he saw Ida who had entered by a side door. He knew she must
have seen him and Miss Burton also, but she passed him with veiled
and downcast face, and went swiftly up the stairway to her room. It
seemed to him a cut direct. "she and Stanton have been comparing
notes," he said to himself, and he crimsoned at the thought of what
he must now appear to her. Miss Burton had been standing with her
back towards the stairway and had not seen Ida at first, but Van
Berg's hot flush caused her to glance around and see the cause, and
then she understood his manner better. But it was her creed that
people manage such things best without interference, even from
the kindliest motives, and she therefore made no allusion to Miss
Mayhew that evening.
"Miss Jennie," said Van Berg, yielding to what he now felt had
become a necessity, "I may seem more of a heathen to you to-morrow
than ever. There is a distant mountain and lake that I wish to
visit before I return to town, and I shall start early to-morrow.
So if I do not come back very early you need not think that the
earth has swallowed me up or that I have fallen a prey to wild
beasts. Good night," and he pressed her hand warmly.
She looked at him wistfully and seemed about to speak, for she was
vaguely conscious of his deep trouble. She checked the impulse,
however, and parted from him with a kindly smile that suggested
sympathy rather than reproach.
Stanton called Mr. Mayhew aside and the two gentleman spoke very
frankly together.
"Ida seems even more concerned about you than herself," said Stanton
in conclusion, "and it would kill her, as she now feels, if you
should give way to your old weakness again. She fears that she
won't be able to sustain and cheer you as she intended, but I told
her that we would both stand by her and see her through her trouble."
"I understand you, Ik," said Mr. Mayhew, quietly. "From my heart
I thank you for your kindness to Ida. But you don't understand
me. I had a deeper thirst than that for brandy, and when my child
gave me her love, my real thirst was quenched, and the other is
gone."
"That's noble; we'll pull through yet!" Stanton resumed, heartily.
"Ida and I got our supper at a village inn--at least, we went through
the motions--for I was bound no one should have a chance to stare
at her to-night."
"No matter," said her father, decisively. "I have had prepared as
nice a supper as Mr. Burleigh could furnish, and I shall take it
to her room. She shall see that she is not forgotten."
Ida tried to eat a little to please him, but she soon came and sat
beside him on her sofa, saying, as she buried her face against his
shoulder, "Father, I shall have to lean very hard on you now."
"I won't fail you, Ida," was the gentle and simple reply, but they
understood each other without further words. With unspoken sympathy
and tenderness he tried to fill the place her mother could not,
for if Mrs. Mayhew had gained any knowledge of Ida's feelings, she
would have had a great deal to say on the subject with the best
and kindest intentions. With heavy touch she would try to examine
and heal the wound twenty times a day.
Mr. Mayhew was right when he said the Van Bergs were a proud race,
and this trait had found its culmination, perhaps, in the hero of
this tale. He was justly proud of his old and unstained name; he
was proud of those who bore it with him, and he honored his father
and mother, not in obedience to a command, but because every one
honored them; and if his sister was a little cold and stately, she
embodied his ideas of refinement and cultivation; he was proud of
his social position, of his talent--for he knew he had that much,
at least--and of the recognition he had already won in the republic
of art. But chief of all had he been proud of his unstained manhood,
of the honor, which he believed had been kept unsullied until
this miserable day. But now, as he strode away in the moonlight,
he found himself confronting certain facts which he felt he could
never explain to any one's satisfaction, not even his own. He had
openly professed to love a poor and orphaned girl, and had pledged
himself to win her if he could--to be her friend till he could
become far more. Even granting that she still looked on him merely
as a friend, that did not release him. It was while possessing
the distinct knowledge that she cherished no warmer feeling that
he had made the pledge, and though she might not be able or willing
to-day or to-morrow, or for years to come, to give up a past love
for his sake, his promise required that he should patiently woo and
wait till she could bury the past with her old lover, and receive,
at his hands, the future that he was in honor bound to keep within
her reach. Of course, if, after the lapse of years, she assured
him she could not and would not accept of his hand in marriage, he
would be free, but he had scarcely waited weeks before giving his
love to another. For aught he knew, the hope of happier days, which
he had urged upon her, might be already stealing into her heart.
It gave him but little comfort now to recognize the fact that he
had never loved Jennie Burton--that he had never known what the
word meant until swept away by the irresistible tide of a passion,
the power of which already appalled him. To say that he did not
feel like keeping his promise now, or that his feelings had changed,
he knew would be regarded as an excuse beneath contempt, and a week
since he himself would have pronounced the most merciless judgment
against a man in his present position.
Before the vigil of that night was over, he decided that he could
not meet either Ida Mayhew or Jennie Burton again. He believed
that Ida Mayhew understood him only too well now, and that she
thoroughly despised him. Indeed, from her manner of passing him,
he doubted whether she willingly would speak to him again, for her
veil had prevented him from seeing the pallor and traces of grief
which she was so anxious to hide. In his morbidly sensitive state,
it seemed a deliberate but just withdrawal of even her acquaintance.
He felt that the brief dream of Ida Mayhew was over forever, and
that she would indeed keep the priceless kingdom of her heart from
him above all others. He believed that now, after her conversation
with Stanton, she clearly saw that the absurdly ardent friendship
he had urged upon her was only the incipient stage of a new passion
in a fickle wretch who had dared to trifle with a girl like Jennie
Burton--a maiden that, of all others in the world, a man of honor
would shield.
As for Miss Burton herself, now that he realized his situation,
he felt that he could never look her in the face again. To try to
resume his old relations seemed to be impossible. He never had and
never could say to her a word that he knew was insincere. Besides,
he was sure that such an effort would be futile, for she would
detect his hollowness at once, and he feared a glance of scorn from
her blue eyes more than the lightning of heaven. He resolved to
leave the Lake House on Monday, and from New York write to Miss
Burton the unvarnished truth, assuring her that he knew himself to
be unworthy even to speak to her again. Then, as soon as he could
complete his preparations, he would go abroad and give himself
wholly to his art.
Having come to these conclusions, he stole by a side entrance like
a guilty shadow to his room and tried to obtain such rest as is
possible to those who are in the hell of mental torment. After an
early breakfast the following morning, he started for the mountains,
and no wild beast that ever roamed them would have torn him more
pitilessly than did his own outraged sense of honor and manhood.
He returned late in the evening, weary and faint, and with the
furtiveness of an outlaw, again reached his room without meeting
those whom he so wished to avoid. After the heavy, unrefreshing
sleep of utter exhaustion he once more left the house early, with
his sketch-book in hand to disguise his purpose, for it was his
intention to visit the old garden before he finally left the scenes
to which he had been led by following a mere freak of fancy. He
learned from one of Mr. Eltinge's workman that the old gentleman
would be absent from home the entire day, and thus feeling secure
from interruption, he entered the quite, shady place in which had
begun the symphony which was now ending in such harsh discord.
Seeing that he was alone he threw himself into the rustic seat,
and burying his face in his hands, soon became unconscious of the
lapse of time in his painful revery.