BY THE BROAD.
After that scene in the pony-carriage Leam began to take it to heart
that little Fina did not love her. Hitherto, solicitous only to do
her duty unrelated to sentiment, she had not cared to win the child's
rootless and unmeaning affection: now she longed to hear her say to
Major Harrowby, "I love Leam." She did not care about her saying it to
any one else, but she thought it would be pleasant to see Edgar smile
on her as he had smiled at Josephine when Fina had crawled on to her
lap that day of Maya, and said, "You are far nicer, Missy Joseph."
She would like to have Edgar's good opinion. Indeed, that was only
proper gratitude to a friend, not unwomanly submission to the great
young man of the place. He was invariably kind to her, and he had done
much to make her cheerless life less dreary. He had lent her books to
read, and had shown her pretty places in the district which she would
never have seen but for him: he talked to her as if he liked talking
to her, and he had defended her when Adelaide was rude. It was
right, then, that she should wish to please him and show him that she
deserved his respect.
Hence she put out her strength to win Fina's love that she might hear
her say, when next Major Harrowby asked her, "Yes, I love Leam."
But who ever gained by conscious endeavor the love that was not given
by the free sympathies of Nature? Hearts have been broken and lives
ruined before now for the want of a spell strong enough to turn
the natural course of feeling; and Leam's success with Fina was no
exception to the common experience. The more she sought to please her
the less she succeeded; and, save that the child grew disobedient in
proportion to the new indulgences granted, no change was effected.
How should there be a change? Leam could not romp, was not fond
of kissing, knew no childish games, could not enter into childish
nonsense, was entirely incapable of making believe, never seemed to
be thinking of what she was about, and had big serious eyes that
oppressed the little one with a sense of awe not conducive to love,
and of which she dreamed with terrifying adjuncts when she had had too
much cake too late at night. What there was of sterling in Leam had
no charm for, because no point of contact with, Fina. Thus, all her
efforts went astray, and the child loved her no better for being
coaxed by methods that did not amuse her. At the end of all she still
said with her pretty pout that Leam was cross--she would not talk to
her about mamma.
One day Learn took Fina for a walk to the Broad. It was the
most unselfish thing she could do, for her solitary rambles, her
unaccompanied rides, were her greatest pleasures; save, indeed, when
the solitude of these last was interrupted by Major Harrowby. This,
however, had not been nearly so often since the return of the families
as before; for Adelaide's pony-carriage was wellnigh ubiquitous, and
Edgar did not care that the rector's sarcastic daughter should see him
escorting Leam in lonely places three or four times a week. Thus, the
girl had fallen back into her old habits of solitude, and to take
the child with her was a sacrifice of which she herself only knew the
extent.
But, if blindly and with uncertain feet, stumbling often and straying
wide, Leam did desire to find the narrow way and walk in it--to know
the better thing and do it. At the present moment she knew nothing
better than to give nurse a holiday and burden herself with an
uncongenial little girl as her charge and companion when she would
rather have been alone. So this was how it came about that on this
special day the two set out for the Broad, where Fina had a fancy to
go.
The walk was pleasant enough, Leam was not called on to rack her
brains--those non-inventive brains of hers, which could not imagine
things that never happened--for stories wherewith to while away the
time, as Fina ran alone, happy in picking the spring flowers growing
thick on the banks and hedgerows. Thus the one was amused and the
other was left to herself undisturbed; which was an arrangement that
kept Leam's good intentions intact, but prevented the penance which
they included from becoming too burdensome. Indeed, her penance was so
light that she thought it not so great a hardship, after all, to make
little Fina her companion in her rambles if she would but run on alone
and content herself with picking flowers that neither scratched nor
stung, and where therefore neither the surgery of needles nor the
dressing of dock-leaves was required, nor yet the supplementary
soothing of kisses and caresses for her tearful, sobbing, angry pain.
The Broad, always one of the prettiest points in the landscape, was
to-day in one of its most interesting phases. The sloping banks were
golden with globe-flowers and marsh "mary-buds," and round the margin,
was a broad belt of silver where the starry white ranunculus grew. All
sorts of the beautiful aquatic plants of spring were flowering--some
near the edges, apparently just within reach, tempting and perilous,
and some farther off and manifestly hopeless: the leaves of the
water-lilies, which later would be set like bosses of silver and gold
on the shimmering blue, had risen to the surface in broad, green,
shining platters, and the low-lying branches of the trees at the edge
dipped in the water and swayed with the running stream.
It was the loveliest bit of death and danger to be found for miles
round--so lovely that it might well have tempted the sorrowful to take
their rest for ever in a grave so sweet, so eloquent of eternal peace.
Even Leam, with all the unspoken yearnings, the formless hopes, of
youth stirring in her heart, thought how pleasant it would be to go to
sleep among the flowers and wake up only when she had found mamma in
heaven; while Fina, dazzled by the rank luxuriance before her, ran
forward to the water's edge with a shrill cry of delight.
Leam called to her to stand back, to come away from the water and the
bank, which, shelving abruptly, was a dangerous place for a child. The
footing was insecure and the soil treacherous--by no means a proper
playground for the rash, uncertain feet of six. Twice or thrice Leam
called, but Fina would not hear, and began gathering the flowers with
the bold haste of a child disobeying orders and resolved to make
the most of her opportunity before the time came of her inevitable
capture.
Thus Leam, walking fast, came up to her and took her by the arm in
high displeasure. "Fina, did you not hear me? You must not stand
here," she said,
"Don't, Leam, you hurt me--you are cross: leave me alone," screamed
Fina, twisting her little body to free herself from her step-sister's
hand.
"Be quiet. You will fall into the river and be drowned if you go on
like this," said Leam, tightening her hold; and those small nervous
hands of hers had an iron grasp when she chose to put out her
strength.
"Leave me alone. You hurt me--oh, you hurt me so much!" screamed Fina,
still struggling.
"Come with me, then. Do as you are bid and come away," returned Leam,
slightly relaxing her grasp. Though she was angry with the child, she
did not want to hurt her.
"I shan't. Leave me alone. You are a cross, ugly thing, and I hate
you," was Fina's sobbing reply.
With a sudden wrench she tore herself from the girl's hands, slipped,
staggered, shrieked, and the next moment was in the water, floating
downward with the current and struggling vainly to get out; while
Leam, scarcely understanding what she saw, stood paralyzed and
motionless on the bank.
Fortunately, at this instant Josephine drove up. She was alone,
driving her gray ponies in the basket phaeton, and saw the child
struggling in the stream, with Learn standing silent, helpless, struck
to stone as it seemed, watching her without making an effort to save
her. "Leam! Fina! save her! save her!" cried Josephine, who herself
had enough to do to hold her ponies, in their turn startled by her own
sudden cries. "Leam, save her!" she repeated; and then breaking down
into helpless dismay she began to sob and scream with short, sharp
hysterical shrieks as her contribution to the misery of the moment.
Poor Josephine! it was all that she could do, frightened as she was
at her own prancing ponies, distracted at the sight of Fina's danger,
horrified at Leam's apparent apathy.
As things turned out, it was the best that she could have done, for
her voice roused Leam's faculties into active life again, and broke
the spell of torpor into which horror had thrown them. "Holy St. Jago,
help me!" she said, instinctively turning back to first traditions and
making the sign of the cross, which she did not often make now, and
only when surprised out of conscious into automatic action.
Running down and along the bank, with one hand she seized the branch
of an oak that swept into the water, then plunged in up to her
shoulders to catch the child drifting down among the white ranunculus.
Fortunately, Fina was still near enough to the shore to be caught as
she drifted by without absolute danger of drowning to Leam, who waded
back to land, drawing the child with her, not much the worse for her
dangerous moment save for the fright which she had suffered and the
cold of her dripping clothes; in both of which conditions Leam was her
companion.
So soon as she was safe on shore the child began to scream and cry
piteously, as was perhaps but natural, and when she saw Josephine she
tore herself away from Leam and ran up to her as if for protection.
"Take me home to nurse," she sobbed, climbing into the little low
phaeton and clinging to Josephine, who was also weeping and trembling
hysterically. "Leam pushed me in: take me away from her."
"You say what is not true, Fina," said Leam gravely, trembling as much
as Josephine, though her eyes were dry and she did not sob. "You fell
in because you would not let me hold you."
"You pushed me in, and I hate you," reiterated Fina, cowering close to
the bosom of her warm, soft friend.
"Do you believe this?" asked Leam, turning to Josephine and speaking
with all her old pride of voice and bearing. Nevertheless, she was as
white as those flowers on the water. It was madame's child who accused
her of attempting to kill her, and it was the child whom she had so
earnestly desired to win who now said, "I hate her," to the sister of
the man to whom she longed to hear her say, "I love Leam."
"Believe that you pushed her in--that you wanted to drown dear little
Fina? No!" cried Josephine in broken sentences through her tears.
"She mistakes.--You must not say such dreadful things, my darling,"
to Fina. "Dear sister Leam would not hurt a hair of your head, I am
sure."
"She did: she pushed me in on purpose," persisted the shivering child,
beginning to cry afresh.
On which, a little common sense dawning on Josephine's distracted
mind, she did her best to stop her own hysterical sympathy,
remembering that to go home, change their wet clothes, have something
warm to drink and be put to bed would be more to the purpose for
both at this moment than to stand there crying, shivering and
recriminating, with herself as the weak and loving judge, inclining to
both equally, to settle the vexed question of accident or malice.
"Good gracious! why are we waiting here?" she cried, drying her eyes
quickly and ceasing to sob. "You will both get your deaths from cold
if you stand here in your wet clothes.--Come in, dear Leam, and I will
drive you home at once.--Fina, my darling, leave off crying, that's
my little angel. I will take you to papa, and you will be all right
directly. I cannot bear to see you cry so much, dear Fina: don't, my
pet."
Which only made the little one weep I and sob the more, children,
like women, liking nothing better than to be commiserated because of
distress which they could; control without difficulty if they would.
Seating the child at the bottom of the carriage and covering her with
the rug, Josephine flicked her ponies, which were glad enough to
be off and doing something to which they were accustomed, and soon
brought her dripping charge to Ford House, where they found Mr. Dundas
in the porch drawing on his gloves, his horse standing at the door.
"Good heavens! what is all this about?" he cried, rushing forward to
receive the disconsolate cargo, unloading one by one the whole group
dank and dismal--Josephine's scared face swollen with tears, white
and red in the wrong places; Leam's set like a mask, blanched, rigid,
tragic; Fina's now flushed and angry, now pale and frightened, with
a child's swift-varying emotions; and the garments of the last two
clinging like cerements and dripping small pools on the gravel.
"Learn pushed me into the river," said Fina, beginning to cry afresh,
and holding on by Josephine, who now kissed and coaxed her, and said,
"Fina, my darling, don't say such a wicked thing of poor Leam: it is
so naughty, so very naughty," and then took to hugging her again, as
the mood of the instant swayed her toward the child or the girl,
but always full of womanly weakness and kindness to each, and only
troubled that she had to make distinctions, as it were, between them.
"What is it you say, Fina?" asked Mr. Dundas slowly--"Leam pushed you
into the river?"
"Yes," sobbed Fina.
"I did not, papa. And I went in myself to save her," said Leam,
holding her head very straight and high.
Mr. Dundas looked at her keenly, sternly. "Well, no, Leam," he
answered, with, as it seemed to her, marked coldness and in a strange
voice: "with all your unpleasant temper I do not like to suppose you
could be guilty of the crime of murder."
The girl shuddered visibly. Her proud little head drooped, her fixed
and fearless eyes sank shamed to the ground. "I have always taken care
of Fina," she said in a humbled voice, as if it was a plea for pardon
that she was putting forward.
"You pushed me in, and you did it on purpose," repeated Fina; and Mr.
Dundas was shocked at himself to find that he speculated for a moment
on the amount of truth there might be in the child's statement.
Cold, trembling, distressed, Leam turned away. Would that sin of hers
always thus meet her face to face? Should she never be free from
its shadow? Go where she would, it followed her, ineffaceable,
irreparable--the shame of it never suffered to die out, its remorse
never quenched, the sword always above her head, to fall she knew not
when, but to fall some day: yes, that she did know.
"But you must go up stairs now," said Josephine with a creditable
effort after practicality: "we shall have you both seriously ill
unless you get your clothes changed at once."
Mr. Dundas looked at her kindly. "How wise and good you are!" he said
with almost enthusiasm; and Josephine, her eyes humid with glad tears,
her cheeks flushed with palpitating joy, sank in soul to him again,
as so often before, and offered the petition of her humble love, which
wanted only his royal signature to make an eternal bond.
"I love little Fina," she said tremulously. It was as if she had said,
"I love you."
Then she turned into the house and indulged her maternal instinct by
watching nurse as she undressed the child, put her in a warm bath,
gave her some hot elderberry wine and water, laid her in her little
bed, and with many kisses bade her go to sleep and forget all about
everything till tea-time. And the keen relish with which she
followed all these nursery details marked her fitness for the post
of pro-mother so distinctly that it made nurse look at her more than
once, and think--also made her say, as a feeler--"Law, miss! what a
pity you've not had one of your own!"
Her tenderness of voice and action with the child when soothing her at
the door had also made Sebastian think, and the child's fondness for
this soft-faced, weak and kindly woman was setting a mark on the man's
mind, well into middle age as she was. He began to ask himself whether
the blighted tree could ever put forth leaves again? whether there was
balm in Gilead yet for him, and nepenthe for the past in the happiness
of the future. He thought there might be, and that he had sat long
enough now by the open grave of his dead love. It was time to close
it, and leave what it held to the keeping of a dormant memory only--a
memory that would never die, but that was serene, passive and at rest.
So he pondered as he rode, and told Josephine's virtues as golden
beads between his fingers, to which his acceptance would give their
due value, wanting until now--their due value, merited if not won. And
for himself, would she make him happy? On the whole he thought that
she would. She worshiped him, perhaps, as he had worshiped that other,
and it was pleasant to Sebastian Dundas to be worshiped. He might do
worse, if also he might do better; but at least in taking Josephine he
knew what he was about, and Fina would not be made unhappy. He forgot
Leam. Yes, he would take Josephine for his wife by and by, when the
fitting moment came, and in doing so he would begin life anew and be
once more made free of joy.
He was one of those men resilient if shallow, and resilient perhaps
because shallow, who, persecuted by an evil fortune, are practically
unconquerable--men who, after they have been prostrated by a blow
severe enough to shatter the strongest heart, come back to their old
mental place after a time smiling, in nowise crushed or mutilated, and
as ready to hope and love and believe and plan as before--men who are
never ennobled by sorrow, never made more serious in their thoughts,
more earnest in their aims, though, as Sebastian had been, they may
be fretful enough while the sore is open--men who seem to be the
unresisting sport of the unseen powers, buffeted, tortured as we see
helpless things on earth--dogs beaten and horses lashed--for the mere
pleasure of the stronger in inflicting pain, and for no ultimate good
to be attained by the chastening. The souls of such men are like
those weighted tumblers of pith: knocked down twenty times, on
the twenty-first they stand upright, and nothing short of absolute
destruction robs them of their elasticity. As now when Sebastian
planned the base-lines of his new home with Josephine, and built
thereon a pretty little temple of friendship armed like love.
His heart was broken, he said to himself, but Josephine held the
fragments, and he would make himself tolerably content with the rivet.
Still, it was broken all the same; which simply meant that of the two
he loved madame the better, and would have chosen her before the other
could she have come back; but that failing, this other would do, even
Josephine's love being better than no love at all. Besides, she
had her own charms, if of a sober kind. She was a sweet-tempered,
soft-hearted creature, with the aroma of remembrance round her
when she was young and pretty and unattainable: consequently, being
unattainable, held as the moral pot of gold under the rainbow,
which, could it have been caught, would have made all life glad. The
sentimental rest which she and her people had afforded during the
turbulent times of that volcanic Pepita had also its sweet savor of
association that did not make her less delightful in the present;
and when he looked at her now, faded as she was, he used to try and
conjure back her image, such as it had been when she was a pretty,
blushing, affectionate young girl, who loved him as flowers love the
sun, innocently, unconsciously, and without the power of repulsion.
Also, she had the aroma of remembrance about her from another
side--remembrance when she had been madame's chosen friend and
favorite, and the unconscious chaperon, poor dear! who had made his
daily visits to Lionnet possible and respectable. He pitied her a
little now when he thought of how he had used her as Virginie's hood
and his own mask then; and he pitied her so much that he took it on
his conscience, as a duty which he owed her and the right, to make
her happy at last. Yes, it was manifestly his duty--unquestionably the
right thing to do. The petition must be signed, the suppliant raised;
Ahasuerus must exalt his Esther, his loving, faithful, humble Esther;
and when inclination models itself as duty the decision is not far
off.