She was returning with Margaret from her drive, and looked very
comfortable; with a cushion behind her and a light rug over her lap, she
sat leaning back under her lace-trimmed parasol.
"I enjoy these drives _so_ much," she said to her nephew in her
agreeable voice. "The barrens themselves, to be sure, cannot be called
beautiful, though I believe Margaret maintains that they have a
fascination; but the air is delicious."
"Do you really find them fascinating?" said Winthrop to Margaret.
"Extremely so; I drive over them for miles every day, yet never want to
come in; I always long to go farther."
"Oh, well, there's an end to them somewhere, I suppose," remarked Mrs.
Rutherford; "the whole State isn't so very broad, you know; you would
come out at the Gulf of Mexico."
"I don't want to come out," said Margaret, "I want to stay in; I want to
drive here forever."
"We shall wake some fine morning, and find you gone," said Mrs.
Rutherford, "like the girl in the 'Dismal Swamp,' you know:
"'Away to the Dismal Swamp she speeds--'
I've forgotten the rest."
"'Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds,
And many a fen where the serpent feeds,
And man never trod before,'"
said Winthrop, finishing the quotation. "The last isn't true of the
barrens, however, for man has trod here pretty extensively."
"You mean Indians?" said Mrs. Rutherford, rather as though they were not
men, as indeed she did not think they were. She yawned, tapping her lips
two or three times during the process with her delicately gloved hand,
as people will, under the impression, apparently, that they are
concealing the sign of fatigue. Mrs. Rutherford's yawn, however, was not
a sign of fatigue, it was an indication of sheer bodily content; the
soft air and the lazy motion of the phaeton were so agreeable to her
that, if she had been imaginative, she would have declared that the
Lotus-eaters must have yawned perpetually, and that Florida was
evidently the land of their abode.
"You look too comfortable to talk, Aunt Katrina," said Winthrop, amused
by the drowsy tones of her voice; "I think you would rather be rid of
me. I will go off and have one more gallop, and be home before you."
Mrs. Rutherford smiled an indolent good-by; Margaret Harold looked
straight before her. Winthrop turned off to the right, and was soon lost
to view.
He pulled up after a while, and let his horse walk slowly along the
trail; he was thinking of Margaret Harold. He was always seeing her now,
it could not be otherwise so long as she continued to live with his
aunt. But he said to himself that he should never really like her, and
what he was thinking of at present was whether or not she had perceived
this.
She was not easy to read. Just now, for instance, when she had begun to
speak of the pine barrens, and to speak with (for her) a good deal of
warmth, had he not perhaps had something to do with her falling into
complete silence immediately afterwards? He had answered, of course; he
had done what was necessary to keep up the conversation; still, perhaps
she had seen--perhaps---- Well, he could not help it if she had, or
rather he did not care to help it. Whatever she might be besides, quiet,
well-bred, devoted to the welfare of his aunt, she was still in his
opinion so completely, so essentially wrong in some of her ideas, and
these in a woman the most important, that his feeling towards her at
heart was one of sternest disapproval; it could not be otherwise. And
she held so obstinately to her mistakes! That was the worst of her--her
obstinacy; it was so tranquil. It was founded, of course, upon her
immovable self-esteem--a very usual foundation for tranquillity! No
doubt Lanse had required forgiveness, and even a great deal of
forgiveness; there had, indeed, been no period of Lanse's life when he
had not made large demands on this quality from those who were nearest
him. But was it not a wife's part to forgive? Lanse could have been led
by his affections, probably, his better side; it had always been so with
Lanse. But instead of trying to influence him in that way, this wife had
set herself up in opposition to him--the very last thing he would stand.
She had probably been narrow from the beginning, narrow and punctilious.
Later she had been shocked; then had hardened in it. She was evidently a
cold woman; in addition, she was self-righteous, self-complacent; such
women were always perfectly satisfied with themselves, they had
excellent reasons for everything. Of course she had never loved her
husband; if she had loved him she could not have left him so easily,
within a few months--less than a year--after their marriage. And though
seven years had now passed since that separation, she had never once, so
far as Winthrop knew, sought to return to him, or asked him to return to
her.
The marriage of Lansing Harold and Margaret Cruger had taken place while
Winthrop was abroad. When he came home soon afterwards, at the breaking
out of the war, he found that the young wife of nineteen had left her
husband, had returned to live with Mrs. Rutherford, with whom she had
lived for a short time before her marriage. She had come to Mrs.
Rutherford upon the death of her grandmother, Mrs. Cruger; this aunt by
marriage was now her nearest relative, and this aunt's house was to be
her home. To this home she had now returned, and here it was that Evert
first made her acquaintance. Lanse, meanwhile, had gone to Italy.
There had been no legal separation, Mrs. Rutherford told him; probably
there never would be one, for Margaret did not approve of them. Lanse,
too, would probably disapprove; they were well matched in their
disapprovals! It was not known by society at large, Mrs. Rutherford
continued, that there had been any irrevocable disagreement between the
two; society at large probably supposed it to be one of those cases, so
common nowadays, where husband and wife, being both fond of travelling,
have discovered that they enjoy their travels more when separated than
when together, as (unless there happens to be a really princely fortune)
individual tastes are so apt to be sacrificed in travelling, on one side
or the other. Take the one item of trains, Mrs. Rutherford went on; some
persons liked to get over the ground by night, and were bored to death
by a long journey by day; others became so exhausted by one night of
travel that the whole of the next day was spent recovering from it. Then
there were people who preferred to reach the station at the last minute,
people who liked to run and rush; and others whose day was completely
spoiled by any such frantic haste at the beginning. The most amiable of
men sometimes developed a curious obstinacy, when travelling, concerning
the small matter of which seat in a railway-carriage the wife should
take. Yes, on the whole, Mrs. Rutherford thought it natural that
husbands and wives, if possessed of strong wills, should travel
separately; the small differences, which made the trouble, did not come
up in the regular life at home. It was very common for American wives to
be in Europe without their husbands; in the case of the Harolds, it was
simply that the husband had gone; this at least was probably what
society supposed.
Mrs. Rutherford further added that her listener, Winthrop, was not to
suppose that Margaret herself had ever discussed these subjects with
her, or had ever discussed Lanse; his name was never mentioned by his
wife, and when she, the aunt, mentioned it, her words were received in
silence; there was no reply.
"I consider," continued Mrs. Rutherford, warming with her subject--"I
consider Margaret's complete silence the most extraordinary thing I have
ever known in my life. Living with me as she has done all these years,
shouldn't you suppose, wouldn't any one suppose, that at some time or
other she would have talked it over with me, given me some explanation,
no matter how one-sided--would have tried to justify herself? Very well,
then, she _never_ has. From first to last, in answer to my inquiries
(for of course I have made them), she has only said that she would
rather not talk about it, that the subject was painful to her. Painful!
I wonder what she thinks it is to me! She makes me perfectly miserable,
Evert--perfectly miserable."
"Yet you keep her with you," answered Winthrop, not taking Mrs. Harold's
side exactly, but the side of justice, perhaps; for he had seen how much
his aunt's comfort depended upon Margaret's attention, though he was not
prepared to admit that it depended upon that entirely, as Garda Thorne
had declared.
"Yes," responded Mrs. Rutherford, "I keep her with me, as you say. But
my house was really her home, you know, before her marriage, and of
course it is quite the best place for her now, as things are; if she
will not remain with her husband, at least her continuing to live always
with her husband's aunt, his almost mother, is the next best thing that
could be arranged for her. Appearances are preserved, you know; and
Margaret has a great regard for appearances."
"Possibly too great," Winthrop answered. But his sarcasm was not
intended to apply to the wife's regard for appearances--he also had a
regard for appearances--it was intended to apply to the wife herself.
His idea of her was that she had argued it all out carefully in her own
mind (she was not a person who acted on impulse), and had taken her
stand upon what she considered irrefragable grounds. In other words, she
had sat apart and judged her husband. Instead of trying to win him or to
keep him, she had made little rules for him probably, and no doubt very
good little rules of their kind; but Lanse had of course broken them, he
wasn't a man for rules; a man of his age, too, would hardly keep the
rules made by a girl of nineteen. After repeated breakage of all her
well-regulated little canons, she had withdrawn herself, and kept aloof;
she had held herself superior to him, and had let him see that she did.
Winthrop could imagine the effect of all this upon Lanse!
But no matter what Lanse had done that annoyed her (and it was highly
probable that he had done a good deal), her duty as a wife, in
Winthrop's opinion, clearly was, and would to the end of time continue,
to remain with her husband--not to leave him, unless her life or the
welfare of her children should be in actual danger; that was what
marriage meant. The welfare of children included a great deal, of
course; he held that a wife was justified in separating them from a
father whose influence was injurious. But in this case there had been no
questions of the sort, Lanse was not violent, and there were no children
to think of. There was, indeed, nothing very wrong about Lanse save that
he was self-willed, and did quite as he pleased on all occasions. But
what he did was, after all, nothing very terrible; he was willing that
other people should do as they pleased, also; he was not a petty tyrant.
But this state of things had not satisfied his wife, who wished other
people, her husband first of all, to do as _she_ pleased. Why? Because
she was always sure that she was right! This slender, graceful woman
with the dark blue eyes and clear low voice had a will as strong as her
husband's. She had found, probably, that her tranquillity and what she
called her dignity--both inexpressibly dear to her--were constantly
endangered by this unmanageable husband, who paid not the slightest heed
to her axioms as to what was "right" and "not right," what was "usual"
(Lanse was never usual) and "not usual," but strode through and over
them all as though they did not exist. His course, indeed, made it
impossible for her to preserve unbroken that serenity of temper which
was her highest aspiration; for she was exactly the woman to have an
ideal of that sort, and to endeavor to live up to it; it was not
improbable that she offered her prayers to that effect every night.
All this was a very harsh estimate. But Winthrop's beliefs on these
subjects were rooted in the deepest convictions he possessed. Such a
character as the one he attributed to Margaret Harold was to him
insufferable; he could endure easily a narrow mind, if with it there
was a warm heart and unselfish disposition, but a narrow mind combined
with a cold, unmoved nature and impregnable self-conceit--this seemed to
him a combination that made a woman (it was always a woman) simply
odious.
These things all passed through his thoughts again as he rode over the
barrens. He recalled Lanse's handsome face as he used to see it in
childhood. Lanse was five years older than the little Evert, tall,
strong, full of life, a hero to the lad from New England, who was brave
enough in his way but who had not been encouraged in boldness, nor
praised when he had been lawless and daring. Mrs. Rutherford had a
phrase about Lanse--that he was "just like all the Harolds." The
Harolds, in truth, were a handsome race; they all resembled each other,
though some of them were not so handsome as the rest. A good many of
them had married their cousins. They were tall and broad-shouldered,
well made, but inclined to portliness towards middle-age; they had good
features, the kind of very well-cut outline, with short upper lip and
full lower one, whose fault, if it has a fault, is a tendency to
blankness of expression after youth is past. Their hair was very dark,
almost black, and they had thick brown beards of rather a lighter
hue--beards which they kept short; their eyes were beautiful, dark brown
in hue, animated, with yellow lights in them; their complexions had a
rich darkness, with strong ivory tints beneath. They had an appearance
of looking over the heads of everybody else, which, among many
noticeable things about them, was the most noticeable--it was so
entirely natural. Because it was so natural nobody had tried to analyze
it, to find out of what it consisted. The Harolds were tall; but it was
not their height. They were broad-shouldered; but there were men of the
same mould everywhere. It was not that they expanded their chests and
threw their heads back, so that their eyes, when cast down, rested upon
a projecting expanse of shirt front, with the watch-chain far in
advance; the Harolds had no such airs of inflated frog. They stood
straight on their feet, but nothing more; their well-moulded chins were
rather drawn in than thrust out; they never posed; there was never any
trace of attitude. Yet, in any large assemblage, if there were any of
them present, they were sure to have this appearance of looking over
other people's heads. It was accompanied by a careless, good-humored,
unpretending ease, which was almost benevolent, and which was strikingly
different from the self-assertive importance of more nervous (and
smaller) men.
As a family the Harolds had not been loved; they were too self-willed
for that. But they were witty, they could be agreeable; in houses where
it pleased them to be witty and agreeable, they were the most welcome of
guests. The small things of life, what they called the "details," the
tiresome little cares and responsibilities, annoyances, engagements, and
complications, these they shed from themselves as a shaggy dog sheds
water from his coat--they shook them off. People who did not love them
(and these were many) remarked that this was all very pretty, but that
it was also very selfish. The Harolds, if their attention had been
called to it, would have considered the adjective as another of the
"details," and would have shaken that off also.
Mrs. Rutherford in her youth never could help admiring the Harolds
(there were a good many of them, almost all men; there was but seldom a
daughter); when, therefore, her sister Hilda married Lansing of the
name, she had an odd sort of pride in it, although everybody said that
Hilda would not be happy; the Harolds seldom made good husbands. It was
not that they were harassing or brutal; they were simply supremely
inattentive. In this case, however, there had been little opportunity to
verify or prove false the expectation, as both Lansing Harold and his
wife had died within two years after their marriage, the wife last,
leaving (as her sister, Mrs. Winthrop, did later) a son but a few days
old. The small Lansing was adopted by his aunt. Through childhood he was
a noble-looking little fellow, never governed or taught to govern
himself; he grew rapidly into a large, manly lad, active and strong,
fond of out-of-door sports and excelling in them, having the quick wit
of his family, which, however (like them), he was not inclined to bestow
upon all comers for their entertainment; he preferred to keep it for his
own.
Evert remembered with a smile the immense admiration he had felt for
his big cousin, the excited anticipation with which he had looked
forward to meeting him when he went, twice a year, to see his aunt. The
splendid physical strength of the elder boy, his liberty, his dogs and
his gun, his horse and boat--all these filled the sparingly indulged
little New England child with the greatest wonder and delight. Most of
all did he admire the calm absolutism of Lanse's will, combined as it
was with good-nature, manliness, and even to a certain degree, or rather
in a certain way, with generosity--generosity as he had thought it then,
careless liberality as he knew it now. When Evert was ten and Lanse
fifteen, Lanse had decided that his cousin must learn to shoot, that he
was quite old enough for that accomplishment. Evert recalled the mixture
of fear and pride which had filled his small heart to suffocation when
Lanse put the gun into his hands in the remote field behind Mrs.
Rutherford's country-house which he had selected for the important
lesson. His fear was not occasioned so much by the gun as by the keen
realization that if his father should question him, upon his return
home, he should certainly feel himself obliged to tell of his new
knowledge, and the revelation might put an end to these happy visits.
Fortunately his father did not question him; he seldom spoke to the boy
of anything that had happened during these absences, which he seemed to
consider necessary evils--so much waste time. On this occasion how kind
Lanse had been, how he had encouraged and helped him--yes, and scolded
him a little too; and how he had comforted him when the force of the
discharge had knocked the little sportsman over on the ground rather
heavily. A strong affection for Lanse had grown up with the younger boy;
and it remained with him still, though now not so blind a liking; he
knew Lanse better. They had been widely separated, and for a long time;
they had led such different lives! Evert had worked steadily for ten
long, secluded years; later he had worked still harder, but in another
way, being now his own master, and engaged in guiding the enterprises he
had undertaken through many obstacles and hazards towards success. These
years of unbroken toil for Evert had been spent by Lanse in his own
amusement, though one could not say spent in idleness exactly, as he
was one of the most active of men. He had been much of the time in
Europe. But he came home for brief visits now and then, when his aunt
besought him; she adored him--she had always adored him; she was never
tired of admiring his proportions, what seemed to her his good-nature,
his Harold wit, his poise of head; she was never so happy as when she
had him staying with her in her own house. True, he had his own way of
living; but it was such a simple way! He was not in the least a
gourmand--none of the Harolds were that; he liked only the simplest
dishes, and always demanded them; he wanted the windows open at all
seasons when the snow was not actually on the ground; he could not
endure questioning, in fact, he never answered questions at all.
Returning for one of these visits at home, Lanse had found with his aunt
a young girl, Margaret Cruger, a niece of her husband's. Evert smiled
now as he recalled certain expressions of the letter which his aunt had
written to him, the other nephew, announcing Lanse's engagement to Miss
Cruger; in the light of retrospect they had rather a sarcastic sound.
Mrs. Rutherford had written that Margaret was very young, to be
sure--not quite eighteen--but that she was very gentle and sweet. That
it was time Lanse should marry, he was thirty-two--though in her opinion
that was exactly the right age, for a man knew then what he really
wanted, and was not apt to make a mistake. That she hoped the girl would
make him the sort of wife he needed; for one thing, she was so young
that she would not set up her opinion in opposition to his, probably,
and with Lanse that would be important. Mrs. Rutherford furthermore
thought that the girl in a certain way understood him; she (Mrs.
Rutherford) had had the greatest fear of Lanse's falling into the hands
of some woman who wouldn't have the sense to appreciate him, some woman
who would try to change him; one of those dreadful Pharisaic women, for
instance, who are always trying to "improve" their husbands. There was
nothing easier than to get on with Lanse, and even to lead him a little,
as she herself (Mrs. Rutherford) had always done; one had only to take
him on the right side--his good warm heart. Margaret was almost too
simple, too yielding; but Lanse had wit and will enough for two. There
was another reason why this marriage would be a good thing for Lanse: he
had run through almost all his money (he had never had a very great
deal, as Evert would remember), and Margaret had a handsome fortune,
which would come in now very well. She was rather pretty--Margaret--in a
delicate sort of way. Mrs. Rutherford _hoped_ she appreciated her
good-luck; if she didn't now, she would soon, when she had seen a little
more of the world. And here one of his aunt's sentences came, word for
word, into Winthrop's memory: "But it's curious, isn't it, Evert? that
such an inexperienced child as she is, a girl brought up in such
complete seclusion, should begin life by marrying Lansing Harold! For
you know as well as I do how he has been sought after, what his career
has been." This was true. Allowance, of course, had to be made for Mrs.
Rutherford's partiality; still, Evert knew that even with allowance
there was enough to verify her words, at least in part. Lansing Harold
had never been in the least what is called popular; he was not a man who
was liked by many persons, he took pains not to be; he preferred to
please only a few. Whether or not there had been women among those he
had tried to please, it was at least well known that women had tried to
please him. More than one had followed him about, with due regard, of
course, for the proprieties (it is not necessary to include those--who
also existed--who had violated them), finding themselves, for instance,
in Venice, when he happened to be there, or choosing his times for
visiting Rome. Now Lanse had had a way of declaring that June was the
best month for Rome; it had been interesting to observe, for a long
period, that each year there was some new person who had made the same
discovery.
"We were home long before you," said Mrs. Rutherford, when Winthrop,
having brought his reflections to a close, and enjoyed another gallop,
returned to the eyrie. "Mrs. Thorne has been here," she added; "she came
up from East Angels after Garda, and took the opportunity--she generally
_does_ take the opportunity, I notice--to pay me a visit. She never
stopped talking, with that precise pronunciation, you know, one single
minute, and I believe that's what makes her so tired all the time; I
know _I_ should be tired if I had to hiss all my s's as she does! She
had ever so many things to say; one was that when her life was sad and
painful she was able to rise out of her body--out of the flesh, she
called it (there isn't much to rise from), and float, unclothed, far
above in the air, in the realm of pure thought, I think she said. And
when I asked her if it wasn't rather unpleasant--for I assure you it
struck me so--she wasn't at all pleased, not at all. She's such an
observer of nature,--I suppose that's because she has always lived where
there was nothing but nature to observe; well, I do believe she had seen
an allegorical meaning in every single tree on the shore as she came up
the river!"
"I rather think she saw her meanings more than her trees," said
Winthrop; "I venture to say she couldn't have told you whether they were
cypresses or myrtles, palmettoes or gums; such people never can. Tired?
Of course she's tired; her imagination travels miles a minute, her poor
little body can't begin to keep up with it."
"So foolish," commented Mrs. Rutherford, tranquilly--Mrs. Rutherford,
who had never imagined anything in her life. "And do you know she
admires Margaret beyond words--if she's ever beyond them! Isn't it odd?
She says Margaret _answers_ one so delightfully. And when I remarked,
'Why, we think Margaret rather silent,' she said, 'That is what I mean,
it is her silence that is so sympathetic; she answers you with it far
more effectually than most persons do with their talkativeness.'"
"I'm afraid you talked, Aunt Katrina," said Winthrop, laughing.
"I never do," replied Mrs. Rutherford, with dignity. "And she told me,
also," she went on, resuming her gossip in her calm, handsomely dressed
tone (for even Mrs. Rutherford's tone seemed clothed in rich attire),
"that that young Torres had asked her permission to 'address' Garda, as
she expressed it."
"To address Garda? Confound his impudence! what does he mean?" said
Winthrop, in a disgusted voice. "Garda's a child."
"Oh, well," replied Mrs. Rutherford, "she's half Spanish, and that
makes a difference; they're older. But I don't think the mother favors
the Cuban's suit, she prefers something 'more Saxon,' she said so. And,
by-the-way, she asked me if you were not 'more recently English' than
the rest of us. What do you suppose she could have meant?--I never quite
know what she is driving at."
Winthrop burst into a laugh. "More recently English! Poor little woman,
with her small New England throat, she has swallowed the British Isles!
You don't think the Cuban has a chance, then?"
"Oh, I don't know," replied Mrs. Rutherford, comfortably; "it doesn't
concern us, does it? It will depend upon what Garda thinks, and Garda
will think what she pleases; she isn't a girl to be guided."
"She hasn't been difficult to guide so far, I fancy," said Winthrop,
after a moment's silence.
"She will be, then," responded his aunt, nodding her head with an
assured air. "You'll see."