"I am not partial to it myself," said the Rev. Mr. Moore--"this
confection of oranges called marmalade. I am told, however, that the
English are accustomed to make their breakfast principally of similar
saccharine preparations; in time, therefore, we may hope to establish an
export trade."
A fresh breeze astern was blowing the _Emperadora_ down the lagoon in a
course straight enough to please even Mrs. Carew, if that lady could
have been pleased by anything aquatic. She was present, in spite of
fears, sitting with the soles of her prunella gaiters pressed tightly
against the little yacht's side under the seat (the peculiarity of the
attitude being concealed by her long skirt), with the intention,
probably, of acting as a species of brake upon too great a speed.
The position was a difficult one. But she kept her balance by means of
her umbrella, firmly inserted in a crack of the planking before her, and
did not swerve.
The broad sails were set wing and wing; the morning was divinely fair.
Down in the south the tall trees looming against the sky seemed like a
line of hills; owing to the lowness of the shores, on a level with the
water, and the smoothness of the sea stretching eastward beyond
Patricio, the comparative effect was the same. Above, the soft sky
bending down all round them, touching here the even land and there the
even water, conveyed nothing of that sense of vastness, of
impersonality, which belongs so often to the American sky further north.
This seemed a particular sky belonging to this especial neighborhood,
made for it, intimate with it; and the yacht, with those on board did
not appear like a floating atom, lost in immensity; on the contrary, it
was important, interesting; one could not rid one's self of the idea
that its little voyage was watched with friendly curiosity by this
bending personal sky, and these near low shores.
The Rev. Mr. Moore had been sent upon this pleasure-party by his wife.
Mrs. Penelope Moore was sure that a pleasure-party would do him good;
the Reverend Middleton therefore endeavored to think the same, though it
was not exactly his idea of pleasure. He was not fond of sailing; there
was generally a breeze, and a breeze he did not enjoy. There was,
indeed, something in his appearance, when exposed to a fresh wind, which
suggested the idea that a portion of it was blowing through him, finding
an exit at his shoulder-blades behind; his lank vest somehow had that
air; and the sensation (so the spectator thought) could hardly have been
an agreeable one to so thin a man, even on the warmest day.
Mrs. Penelope Moore was a brave woman. And she knew that she was brave.
Not being able, on account of her delicate health, to take part
personally in the social entertainments of Gracias, she sent her husband
in her place. And this was her bravery; for he was without doubt the
most agreeable as well as the handsomest of men, and anybody with sense
could foretell what must follow: given certain conditions, and the
results all the world over were the same. Other people might say that
quiet little Gracias was safe, Mrs. Penelope Moore knew better. Other
people, again, might be blind; but Mrs. Penelope Moore was never blind.
She knew that such a man as her Middleton passed, must pass, daily
through temptations of the most incandescent nature, all the more
dangerous because merged inextricably with his priest's office; but he
passed unscathed, he came out always, as she once wrote triumphantly to
her mother, "without so much as a singe upon the hem of his uttermost
garment." And if, on the other hand, it might have seemed that so little
(blessedly) that was inflammable had been included in this good man's
composition that he might have passed safely through any amount of
incandescence, even all that his wife imagined, here again, then, others
were most decidedly mistaken; Mrs. Moore was convinced that her
Middleton was of the fieriest temperament. Only he kept it down.
Gracias-a-Dios was certainly quiet enough. But Mistress Penelope, like
many good women before her, could believe with ease in a degree of
depravity which would have startled the most hardened of actual
participants. Having no standards by which to gauge evil, no personal
experience of its nature, she was quite at sea about it. As Dr. Kirby
once said of her (when vexed by some of her small rulings), "If people
don't come to Friday morning service, sir, she thinks it but a small
step further that they should have poisoned their fathers and beaten
their wives."
On the present occasion this lady set her husband's hat straight upon
his amiable forehead, and gave him his butterfly net; then from her
Gothic windows (the rectory of St. Philip and St. James' was of the same
uncertain Gothic as the church), she watched him down the path and
through the gate, across the plaza out of sight, going back to her sofa
with the secure thought in her heart, "I can trust him--_anywhere_!"
The party on the yacht was composed of the same persons who had taken
part in most of the entertainments given for the northern ladies, save
that Manuel and Torres were absent. Torres had not been allowed to
"address" Garda, after all, Mrs. Thorne having withheld her permission.
The young Cuban was far too punctilious an observer of etiquette to
advance further without that permission; he had therefore left society's
circle, and secluded himself at home, where, according to Manuel, he was
engaged in "consuming his soul."
"His cigars," Winthrop suggested.
Whereupon Manuel, who was not fond of the northerner, warmly took up
the cause of the absent Adolfo (though ordinarily he declared himself
tired to death of him), and with his superbest air remarked, "It is
possible that Mr. Wintup does not understand us."
"Quite possible," Winthrop answered.
Mrs. Thorne had consulted him about the request of Torres. Not formally,
not (at least it did not appear so) premeditatedly; she alluded to it
one afternoon when he had found her alone at East Angels. Winthrop was
very severe upon what he called the young Cuban's "presumption."
"Presumption--yes; that is what I have been inclined to consider it,"
said Mrs. Thorne, with her little preliminary cough. But she spoke
hesitatingly, or rather there seemed to be hesitation in her mind behind
her words, for her words themselves were carefully clear.
Winthrop looked at her, and saw, or fancied he saw, a throng of
conflicting possibilities, contingencies, and alternatives in the back
part of her small bright eyes. "Your daughter is too young to be made
the subject of any such request at present," he said, curtly. For it
seemed to him a moment when a little masculine brevity and masculine
decision were needed in this exclusively feminine atmosphere.
Mrs. Thorne accepted his suggestion. "Yes, Garda _is_ young," she
murmured, emerging a little from her hesitations. "Quite too young," she
repeated, more emphatically. Winthrop had given her a formula, and
formulas are sometimes as valuable as a life-raft.
Torres, therefore, being engaged in the consumption of his soul, and
Manuel having haughtily declined the northerner's invitation, the party
on the yacht consisted, besides Winthrop, of Mrs. Rutherford and
Margaret Harold, Mrs. Carew, Garda, Dr. Kirby, and the Rev. Mr. Moore,
Mrs. Thorne having been detained at home by the "pressing domestic
engagements" which Winthrop had been certain would lift their heads as
soon as the day for the _Emperadora's_ little voyage had been decided
upon. Wind and tide were both in their favor; they had a swift run down
the Espiritu, and landed on Patricio a number of miles below Gracias,
where there was a path which led across to the ocean beach. This path
was narrow, and the gallant Dr. Kirby walked in the bushes all the way,
suffering the twigs to flagellate his plump person, in order to hold a
white umbrella over Mrs. Rutherford, who, arm in arm with her Betty,
took up the entire track. Patricio, which had first been a reef, and
then an outlying island, was now a long peninsula, joining the main land
some forty miles below Gracias in an isthmus of sand; it came northward
in a waving line, slender and green, lying like a ribbon in the water,
the Espiritu on one side, the ocean on the other. When the ocean beach
of the ribbon was reached, Mrs. Rutherford admired the view; she admired
it so much that she thought she would sit down and admire it more. Dr.
Kirby therefore bestirred himself in arranging the cushions and rugs
which Winthrop's men had brought across from the yacht, to form an
out-of-door sofa for the ladies; for Betty, of course, decided to remain
with Katrina. The Doctor said that he should himself bear them company,
leaving the "younger men" to "fume and fluster and explore."
The Rev. Mr. Moore was, in actual years, not far from Dr. Reginald's own
age. But the Rev. Mr. Moore was perennially young; slender and light,
juvenile in figure, especially when seen from behind, his appearance was
not that of an elderly man so much as of a young man in whom the
progress of age has been in some way arrested, like the young peaches,
withered and wrinkled and yet with the bloom of youth about them still,
which have dropped to the ground before their prime. He now stood
waiting on the beach, armed with his butterfly net; as his butterfly net
was attached to a long green pole, one end of which rested on the
ground, he had the air of a sort of marine shepherd with a crook.
The Rev. Mr. Moore always carried this entomological apparatus with him
when he went upon pleasure excursions; his wife encouraged him in the
amusement, she said it was a distraction for his mind; the butterflies
also found it a distraction, they were in the habit of laughing (so some
persons declared) all down the coast whenever the parson and his net
appeared in sight.
"You are going to explore, aren't you?" said Garda to Margaret Harold;
"it's lovely, and we shall not fume or fluster in the least, in spite of
the Doctor; we shall only pick up shells. Over these shells we shall
exclaim; Mr. Winthrop will find charming ones, and present them to us,
and then we shall exclaim more; we shall dote upon the ones he gives us,
we shall hoard them away carefully in our handkerchiefs and pockets; and
then, to-morrow morning, when the sun comes up, he will shine upon two
dear little heaps of them outside our bedroom windows, where, of course,
we shall have thrown them as soon as we reached home."
Mr. Moore listened to these remarks with surprise. Upon the various
occasions when he had visited Patricio he had always, and with great
interest, picked up shells for the ladies present, knowing how much they
would value them. He now meditated a little upon the back windows
alluded to by Garda; it was a new idea.
"Oh, how _delightful_ it is to go marooning!" said Mrs. Carew, who,
beginning to recover from the terrors of the voyage, had found her voice
again. Her feet were still somewhat cramped from their use as brakes;
she furtively extended them for a moment, and then, unable to resist the
comfort of the position, left them extended. Her boots were the
old-fashioned thin-soled all-cloth gaiters without heels, laced at the
side, dear to the comfort-loving ladies of that day; her ankles came
down into their loose interiors without any diminishing curves, as in
the case of the elephant.
"Are you going, Margaret?" said Mrs. Rutherford, in her amiably
patronizing voice. "Don't you think you will find it rather warm?" Mrs.
Rutherford inhabited the serene country of non-effort, she could
therefore maintain without trouble the satisfactory position of
criticising the actions of others; for whether they succeeded or whether
they failed, success or failure equally indicated an attempt, and
anything like attempt she was above. "People who _try_" was one of her
phrases; she would not have cared to discover America, for undoubtedly
Columbus had tried.
"I like this Florida warmth," Margaret had answered. "It's not heat;
it's only softness."
"It's lax, I think," suggested Mrs. Rutherford, still amiably.
No one disputed this point. It was lax.
"Doesn't he look like a tree?" murmured Garda to Margaret, indicating by
a glance the Rev. Mr. Moore, as he stood at a little distance, gazing
at the sea--"a tall slim one, you know, that hasn't many leaves; his
arms are like the branches, and his fingers like the twigs; and his
voice is so innocent and--and vegetable."
Margaret shook her head.
"You don't like it?" said the girl; "you think I am disrespectful? I am
not disrespectful at all, I adore Mr. Moore. But you must acknowledge
that he's a mild herby sort of man; he's like lettuce--before it's
dressed. All the same, you know, he's an angel."
Dr. Kirby meanwhile was entertaining Betty and Katrina, now seated
together on the out-of-door sofa he had made. He was arranging at the
same time a seat for himself near them by piling together with careful
adjustment the scattered fragments of drift-wood which he had found in
the vicinity, in a sort of cairn; his intention was to crown this cairn,
when finished, with one of the boat cushions, which he had reserved for
the purpose. "No," he said, pursuing his theme and the dovetailing of
the drift-wood with energy, "I cannot say that I admire these frivolous
new fashions which have crept into literature. The other day, happening
to turn over the pages of one of these modern novels, I came upon a
scene in which the hero and heroine are supposed to be shaken, tortured
by the violence of their emotions, stirred to their utmost depths; and
yet the author takes _that_ opportunity to leave them there, leave them
in the midst of their agonies--and the reader's as well--to remark that
a butterfly flew in through the open window and hovered for a moment
over their heads; now he poised here, now he poised there, now he did
this, and now that, and so on through a quarter of a page. I ask
you--what if he did?" (Here he finished his cairn, and sat down to try
it.) "Who cares? Why should the whole action of the tale pause, and at
such a critical moment, in order that the flight and movements of an
insignificant insect should be minutely chronicled?"
"But the butterfly," said the Rev. Mr. Moore, who had drawn near, "can
hardly, I think, be described as an 'insignificant insect.'"
"Have you read these modern novels?" demanded the Doctor, facing him
from his cairn.
"Certainly," replied Mr. Moore; "I am familiar with 'Bracebridge Hall,'
'Swallow Barn,' and several other works of fiction of that type." And he
stood there looking at the Doctor with the peculiar mild obstinacy which
belongs to light-blue eyes, whose under-lids come up high at the outer
corners.
"But, Doctor, you are attacking there one of our most cherished modern
novelties," said Winthrop, who had now joined them, "namely, the new
copartnership between Nature and Literature. Nature is now a very
literary personage and a butterfly can mean a great deal."
"Nature has nothing to do with literature, I mean the literature we call
polite," Dr. Kirby protested, still fierily (while Mrs. Rutherford
admired his ardor). But the clergyman had nodded his head in approval, a
butterfly could certainly mean a great deal; he himself had long been of
the opinion that they possessed reasoning powers--he had so seldom been
able to capture one.
The explorers now left the sofa and cairn, and started down the beach,
Garda and Winthrop first, Mr. Moore and Margaret following. It seemed
natural to everybody that Winthrop should be with Garda, he had been
with her so much; his manner, however, had in it so little of admiration
(as admiration was understood in Gracias) that this had occasioned no
remark. Manuel (whose admiration had the local hues) cherished
resentment against this northerner, but it was not the resentment of
jealousy; Manuel, indeed, did not dream that he had occasion for
jealousy. He was sure that Mrs. Thorne yearned for him, that her highest
aspirations regarding a son-in-law could go no further; but there need
be no haste, he must see something of the world first. He had made a
beginning (so he flattered himself) by seeing something of it in that
charming though rather silent Mrs. Harold. As for Torres, that dark
youth could never have conceived the possibility of admitting any one to
a serious rivalry with himself--any one, at least, outside of Spain. Who
was this Wintup? Only an American; even Manuel was but an
American-Spaniard, as any one could see. But Garda was all Duero,
Spanish to the finger-tips; Garda understood him. And this in itself was
no small matter--to understand a Torres; many persons, even when thrown
with them daily, had lived all their lives without accomplishing that.
Garda understood herself also; she might delay, have little freaks; but
in the end it was impossible that she should be content with anything
less than a Torres, if there were one in attendance upon her graceful
steps,--as there certainly would be.
For a time the four pedestrians kept together. "See the pelicans on the
bar," said Garda. "The wish of my life has been to go out there and
chase them with a stick."
"Why should you wish to do that, my child?" said the clergyman. "Surely
there are many occupations more interesting, as well as more
instructive."
"Shouldn't you love to be a curlew?" said the girl, going to him and
putting her arm in his. "The sickle-bill, you know; he hasn't the least
realization of the faults of his profile, and that must be such a
comfort."
"Profiles," responded Mr. Moore, with a little wave of his hand, "are
quite unimportant; what is a profile, in most cases, but the chance
outline of a nose? Handsome is as handsome does, Garda; that is the best
view to take."
Winthrop listened to this little dialogue with entertainment, evidently
the good rector had no more realization of Garda's beauty than he had of
the new short length for sermons; his standard in profiles was probably
the long thin nose and small straight mouth of his excellent Penelope.
"The Bermudoes lie off in that direction," continued the clergyman,
looking over the blue water. Garda had now left him and gone back to
Winthrop. "I mean the Barbagoes," he added, correcting himself. He was
silent for a moment. "No, no, not Barbagoes; I am thinking, of course,
of the Bahamoes." Again he paused, his face began to wear a bewildered
expression; slackening his pace a little, he repeated over to himself
softly, as if trying them, "Bahamoes--Bergudas; then there is Tor--no,
_Tobaga_, isn't it? Certainly I cannot be wrong in thinking one of the
groups to be the Dry Tortugoes?" And yet it did not seem quite certain,
after all.
"A butterfly, a splendid one," called Garda.
And then the reverend gentleman, forgetting the tangled islands,
brandished his net and leaped forward in pursuit.
Garda was now with Margaret; Winthrop walked on beside them, and they
went southward at a leisurely pace, down the broad beach. To the
ordinary observer Winthrop and Margaret appeared to be on the usual
friendly terms; the only lack which could have been detected was the
absence between them of little discussions, and references to past
discussions, brief allusions where one word is made to do the work of
twenty, which are natural when people have formed part of the same
family for some time. Margaret and Winthrop talked to each other, and
talked familiarly; but this was always when other persons were present.
Garda, though she seldom troubled herself to observe closely, had
remarked these little signs. "I think you are horrid to Margaret," she
had once said to Winthrop with warmth. "And Margaret is far too good and
too gentle to you."
"Yes, Mrs. Harold has always a very gentle manner," he had answered,
assentingly.
"That is more horrid still! Of course she has. But I wish she hadn't--at
least with you; I wish she would be sharp with you--as I am."
"Are you sharp?" Winthrop had asked, smiling indulgently at the contrast
between her allegation and the voice in which it was uttered.
Garda, with her hand on Margaret's arm, was now walking onward, humming
lightly to herself as she walked. Her humming was vague, as she had no
ear for music. It was a complete lack, however; she was not one of those
persons who are haunted by tunes half caught, who afflictingly sing a
song all through a semi-note flat, and never know it.
Margaret's eyes were following the sands. "What lovely sea-weeds," she
said, as little-branching fibres, like crimson frost-work, began to dot
the silver here and there.
"Now how feminine that is!" said Winthrop, argumentatively, as he
strolled on beside them. "Instead of looking at the ocean, or this grand
beach as a whole, what does Mrs. Harold do? She spends her time admiring
an infinitesimal pink fragment at her feet. Fragments!--I am tired of
the fragmentary taste. In a picture, even the greatest, you fragmentary
people are always admiring what you call the side touches; you talk
about some little thing that has been put in merely as a decorative
feature, or if for a wonder you do select a figure, it is sure to be
one of minor importance; the effect of the whole as a whole, the central
idea to which the artist has given his best genius and power, this you
don't care for, hardly see. It is the same way with a book; it is always
some fragment of outside talk or description, some subordinate
character, to which you give your praise; never--no matter how fine it
is--the leading motive and its development. In an old cathedral, too,
you women go putting your pretty noses close to all the little things,
the bits of old carving, an old inscription--in short, the details; the
effect of the grand mass of the whole, rising against the sky, this you
know nothing whatever about."
"I am glad at least that the noses are pretty," interpolated Garda, amid
her humming.
"I think I have met a few men also who admire details," observed
Margaret.
"A few? Plenty of them. They are the men of the feminine turn of mind.
But don't imagine that I don't care for details; details in their proper
place may be admirable, exquisite. What I am objecting to is their being
pushed into a place which is not theirs by you fragmentary people, who
simply shirk (I don't know whether it is from indolence or want of
mental grasp) any consideration of a whole."
"Never mind," said Garda to Margaret; "let's be fragmentary. We'll even
pick up the sea-weeds if you like (though generally I hate to pick up
things); we'll fill your basket, and make Mr. Winthrop carry it."
"No," said Margaret. "On the contrary, let us abhor the sea-weeds; let
us give ourselves to the consideration of a whole." And, pausing, she
looked over the sea, then up at the sky and down the beach, with a slow
musing sweep of the head which became her well.
"You're not enough in earnest," said Garda; "we can see the edge of a
smile at the corners of your lips. Wait--I'll do it better." She stepped
apart from them, clasped her hands, and turned her eyes towards the sea,
where they rested with a soft, absorbed earnestness that was remarkable.
"Is this wide enough?" she asked, without change of expression. "Is it
free from details--unfragmentary? In short, is it--a Whole?"
"Yes," said Winthrop; "far too much of one! You are as universal as a
Universal Geography. Come back to us--in as many details and fragments
as you please; only come back."
"By no means; I have still the beach to do, and the sky." And slowly she
turned the same wide, absorbed gaze from the sea to the white shore.
The beach was worth looking at; broad, smooth, gleaming, it stretched
southward as far as eye could follow it; even there it did not end, it
became a silver haze which mixed softly with the sea. On the land side
it was bounded by the sand-cliff which formed the edge of Patricio; this
little cliff, though but twelve or fourteen feet in height, was
perpendicular; it cut off, therefore, the view of the flat ground above
as completely as though it had been five hundred. Great pink-mouthed
shells dotted the beach's white floor; at its edge myriads of minute
disks of rose and pearl lay heaped amid little stones, smooth and white,
all of them wet and glistening. Heaps of bleached drift-wood lay where
high tides had left them. Little beach-birds ran along at the water's
edge with their peculiar gait--many pauses, intermixed with half a dozen
light fleet steps as though running away--the gait, if ever there was
one, of invitation to pursue. There were no ships on the sea; the tracks
of vessels bound for Cuba, the Windward and Leeward islands, lay out of
sight from this low strand. And gentle as the water was, and soft the
air, the silence and the absence of all signs of human life made it a
very wild scene; wild but not savage, the soft wildness of an
uninhabited southern shore. For no one lived on Patricio, save where,
opposite East Angels, the old Ruiz house stood on its lapsed
land--lapsed from the better tilling of the century before.
The Rev. Mr. Moore had come gambolling back, striking actively hither
and thither with his net, still pursuing the same butterfly. The
butterfly--at his leisure--flew inland; and then Mr. Moore gave up the
chase, and joined Mrs. Harold calmly, seeming not in the least out of
breath, his face, indeed, so serious that she received the impression
that while his legs might have been gambolling, his thoughts had perhaps
been employed with his next Sunday's sermon; he had had an
introspective, mildly controversial air as he leaped.
Garcia and Winthrop walked on in advance. The beach waved in and out in
long scallops, and when they had entered the second they found
themselves alone, the point behind intervening between them and their
companions.
"What a dreadfully lonely place this beach is, after all!" said Garda,
pausing and looking southward with a half-appreciative, half-disturbed
little shudder.
"Not lonely; primeval," answered Winthrop. "Don't you like it? I am sure
you do; take time to think."
"Oh, I don't want any time. Yes, I like it in one way, in one way it's
beautiful. One could be perfectly lazy here forever, and I should like
that. As for the loneliness, I suppose we should not mind it after a
while--so long as we could be together."
Before Winthrop could reply to this, "Suppose we race," she went on,
looking at him with sudden animation. And she began to sway herself
slightly to and fro as she walked, as though keeping time to music.
"I think you mean suppose we dance," he answered. She had soon deserted
the mood that chimed in with his own; still, he had not misjudged her,
she had it in her to comprehend the charm of an existence which should
be primitive, far from the world, that simple free life towards which
the thoughts of imaginative men turn sometimes with such inexpressible
longing, but to whose attractions feminine minds in general are said to
be closed. The men of imagination seldom carry, are seldom able to
carry, their aspirations to a practical reality; that makes no
difference in their appreciation of the woman who can comprehend the
beauty of the dream. Here was a girl who, under the proper influences,
would be able to take up such a life and enjoy it; the vast majority of
educated women, no matter what influences they should be subjected to,
would never be able to do this in the least; they would long for--silk
lamp-shades and rugs.
"Racing or dancing," Garda had replied, "_you_ would never win a prize
in either; you are far too slow."
"And you too indolent," he rejoined.
He had scarcely spoken the words when she was off. Down the beach she
sped, and with such unexpected swiftness that he stood gazing instead of
following; the line of her flight was as straight as that of an arrow.
He was surprised; he had not thought that she would take the trouble to
run, he had not thought her fond of any kind of exertion. But this did
not seem like exertion, she ran as easily as a slim lad runs; her figure
looked very light and slender, outlined against the beach and sky. As he
still stood watching her, she reached the end of the scallop, passed
round its point, and disappeared.
He looked back, there was no one in sight; if he had a mind to revive
his school-boy feats, he could do so without being observed. It was a
beautiful day; but running might make it warmer. At thirty-five one does
not run for the pure pleasure of it, as at sixteen; if one is not an
acrobat, it seems a useless waste of energy. Garda was probably waiting
for him beyond the next point, even her desire to surprise him would not
take her farther than that; he walked onward at a good pace, but he did
not run; he reached the point, turned it, and entered the next scallop.
She was not there.
It was not a very long scallop, she had crossed it, probably, while he
was crossing the last; he went on and entered the next. Again she was
not there. But this scallop was a mile long, she had certainly not had
time to cross it; where, then, could she be? There was nothing moving on
the white beach, the perpendicular sand-cliff afforded no footing; he
walked on, thinking that there must be some niche which he could not see
from where he stood. But though he went farther than she could possibly
have gone in the time she had had, he found nothing, and retraced his
steps, puzzled; the firm white sand showed no trace of her little feet,
even his own heavier tread was barely visible.
Not far from the entrance of the scallop across which he was now
returning, there was a pile of drift-wood higher than the other chance
heaps, its base having been more solidly formed by portions of an old
wreck which had been washed ashore there. Upon this foundation of
water-logged timbers, branches and nondescript fragments, the flotsam
and jetsam of a Southern ocean, had been flung by high tides, and had
caught there one upon the other, until now the jagged summit was on a
level with the top of the sand cliff, though an open space, several feet
in width, lay between. Could it be that Garda had climbed up this
insecure heap, and then sprung across to the firm ground of Patricio
beyond? It seemed impossible; and yet, unless she had an enchanted
chariot to come at her call, she must have done so, for there was no
other way by which she could have escaped. Winthrop now essayed to
follow her. But it was not without difficulty that he succeeded in
reaching the top; for it was not so much a question of strength (of
which he had an abundance) as of lightness; it was not so much a
question of a good hold, as of no hold at all; the very place, he said
to himself, for feminine climbing, which is generally hap-hazard
clutches diversified by screams. At length, not without much fear of
bringing the whole pile toppling down upon himself, he reached the
summit, and from an insecure foothold looked across to the firm land.
Patricio at this point was covered, at a short distance back from the
edge, by a grove of wild-myrtle trees. There was no path, but the grove
was not dense, Garda could have passed through it anywhere; there was no
sign of her visible, but he could not see far. He sprang across, and
went inland through the myrtles, his course defined in a measure by the
thick chaparral which bordered the grove on each side. Suddenly he heard
the sound of voices, he pushed on, and came to a little open space,
thickly dotted with large bright flowers. On the farther side of this
space an easel had been set up, and a young man was at work sketching;
behind this young man, looking over his shoulder, stood Garda.
As Winthrop came out from the myrtles, "How long you have been!" she
said. Then, "Come and see this sketch," she went on immediately, her
eyes returning to the picture. "I've never seen anything so pretty in my
life."
As Winthrop, after a moment's survey of the scene, came towards her over
the flowers, "Oh," she said, "I forget that you don't know each other.
Mr. Winthrop, Mr. Lucian Spenser, civil engineer, from Washington, the
District of Columbia. Mr. Spenser, Mr. Evert Winthrop--he is nothing in
particular now, I believe--from the city of New York."
"It's an occupation in itself, isn't it? to be from New York," said the
artist, going on with his sketching, after the little motion, half nod,
half wave of the hand, with which he had acknowledged Garda's
introduction. Winthrop in the mean while had neither spoken nor bowed;
he had only, as slightly as possible, raised his hat.
"Why do you stop there?" said Garda. She came to him, took his arm, and
led him behind the easel. "The picture--the picture's the thing to look
at!"
The sketch--it was in water-colors--represented the little arena, which
was in itself a brilliant picture, done by Nature's hand. It was an open
oval space about fifteen feet in diameter, entirely bare of trees or
bushes, and covered with low green, through which rose lightly slender
leafless stalks, each holding up, several inches above the herbage, a
single large bright-faced flower; the flowers did not touch each other,
they were innumerable spots of gold and bright lavender, which did not
blend; on three sides the thick dark chaparral, on the fourth the dark
myrtles, enclosed this gayly decked nook, and seemed to have kept it
safely from all the world until now. The artist was making a very good
sketch, good, that is, in the manner of the new foreign school.
"Isn't it beautiful--wonderful?" insisted Garda.
"Very clever," Winthrop answered.
The artist laughed. "You hate the manner," he said. "Many people do; I
think I hate it a little myself, now and then." And he began to sing
softly to himself as he worked:
"'Oh, de sun shines bright in my ole Kentucky home,
'Tis summah, de darkies are gay--'"
"'Twas his singing, you know, that attracted my attention," said Garda
to Winthrop, under cover of the song. She did not seem to be explaining
so much as repeating a narrative that pleased herself. "I had climbed up
here to hide myself from you, when I heard singing; I followed the
sound, and--here he was!"
"You have met him before, of course?" was Winthrop's reply.
"Never in the world--that is the beauty of it; it's so delightful to
meet people you have never met before. And then to find him here in the
woods, where I didn't expect to see anybody, save perhaps you, later,
coming slowly along. And isn't it nice, too, that we shall have a new
person to add to our excursions, and parties! For they were getting to
be a little dull,--don't you think so? always the same people. He is a
cousin of Mr. Moore's," she added, "or rather his mother was; he has
just been telling me about it." She did not bring out this last fact as
though it were the most important. Important?--the only important point
was that she should be pleased. She had kept Winthrop's arm during this
time; now she relinquished it, and turned back to the easel.
"'De corn-tops ripe, an' de meddars all abloom,
In my ole Kentucky home far away,'"
sang the stranger; and this time he let out his voice, and sang aloud.
It was a very good voice. But Winthrop did not admire it.
"The others have probably no idea what has become of us," he said to
Garda; "shall we go and look for them?"
"Yes," answered Garda; "of course they must be wondering. You go; I will
wait here; go and bring Mr. Moore to see his cousin."
"It will be quite easy for Mr.---- for this gentleman--"
"Spenser," said the artist, good-humoredly, as he painted on.
"--to see Mr. Moore at any time in Gracias," continued Winthrop, without
accepting the name. For the life of him he could not put full confidence
in this impromptu relationship which Garda had discovered, any more than
he could in this, as one might say, impromptu man, whom she had also
unearthed, miles from any inhabited point, on a wild shore. If the
stranger were indeed a cousin of the Rev. Mr. Moore's, why had he not
made himself known to him before this? He must have come through
Gracias; Gracias was not so large a place that there could have been any
difficulty in finding the rector of St. Philip and St. James'; nor was
it so busy a place that one could have been pressed for time there.
"The truth is," answered Spenser, after he had completed a bit of work
which seemed much to his mind--"the truth is," he repeated, looking at
it critically, with his head on one side, "that I have, so far at least,
rather shirked my good cousin; I am ashamed to say it, but it is true.
You see, I only faintly remember him; but he will very clearly remember
me, he will have reminiscences; he will be sure to tell me that he knew
me when I was a dear little baby! Now I maintain that no man can really
welcome that statement, it betokens recollections into which he cannot
possibly enter; all he can do is to smirk inanely, and say that he fears
he must have been a bad little boy."
"I know Mr. Moore will say it," said Garda, gleefully; "I know he will!
Do go and call him," she said to Winthrop; "he will walk down to Jupiter
Inlet if you don't stop him."
But Winthrop stood his ground; Mr. Moore's cousin or not Mr. Moore's
cousin, he did not intend to leave Garda Thorne alone again with this
chance, this particularly chance acquaintance. True, this was a very
remote place, to which city rules did not apply; but the very seclusion
had been like a wall, probably the girl had never made a chance
acquaintance in all her life before.
"I will go myself, then," said Garda, seeing that he did not move. She
did not seem annoyed, she was, in truth, very seldom ill-tempered. On
the present occasion Winthrop might have been better pleased if she had
showed some little signs of irritation; for she was simply not thinking
of him at all, she was thinking only of Mr. Moore's cousin.
She crossed the flower-decked space quickly, and entered the myrtle
grove; Winthrop followed her. When they reached the verge, "There they
are," she said, looking southward.
"I don't know how I am to get you down," said Winthrop. "You could jump
across from the drift-wood, but you cannot jump back upon it; it's not
steady."
"I don't want to go down," said Garda. "They must come up." And she
called, in a long note, "Mar--garet!" "Mar--garet!"
Mrs. Harold heard her and turned.
"There! I've called her Margaret to her face!" exclaimed the girl.
"To her back, you mean."
"I never did it before. But I was sure to do it some time; we always
call her Margaret when we talk about her, mamma and I; and we talk about
her by the hour."
"Mr. Moore and I together can perhaps get you down," said Winthrop,
trying the edge of the sand-cliff to see if a niche could be trodden
out.
"How odd you are--when I tell you I'm not going down! The others are to
come up. Mr. Moore will be enchanted to see his cousin; I am sure _I_
was--though he isn't mine."
Winthrop asked himself whether he should take this opportunity to give
this beautiful Florida girl a first lesson in worldly wisdom. Then he
reflected that what he had admired the most in her had been her frank
naturalness, the freedom with which she had followed her impulses,
without pausing to think whither they might lead her. So far, her
impulses had all been child-like, charming. As regarded this present
one, though it was child-like also, he would have liked, with it, a
little more discrimination; but discrimination is eminently a trait
developed by time, and time, of course, had not yet had a chance to do
much for Edgarda Thorne.
He decided to leave her to herself, and to return for the moment to his
old position (from which he had rather departed of late), the position
of looking on, without comment, to see what she would do or say next.
What she did was simple enough. She directed, with much merriment, the
efforts of the Rev. Mr. Moore, as in response to her request he climbed
up the jagged pile of drift-wood first, in order to show Mrs. Harold the
best footholds, his butterfly pole much in his way, but not
relinquished; for had not that butterfly flown inland? When he was
safely landed on Patricio, Margaret Harold followed him. Winthrop, in
spite of the difficulties of descent, wished to come down and assist
her; but this she would not allow, and assistance, indeed, was plainly
worse than useless in such a place. Nor did she betray any need of it;
she climbed with an ease which showed a light foot and accurate balance,
and was soon standing by Garda's side.
When they reached the little flower cove it immediately became apparent
that the mother of this singing, painting stranger had really been (she
had been dead many years) a cousin of Middleton Moore's, Winthrop
himself, unless he was prepared to believe in an amount of plotting for
which there seemed no sufficient motive, being forced to acknowledge the
truth of the story. The conversation between the clergyman and Spenser
went on with much animation. Mr. Moore was greatly interested, he was
even excited; and they talked of many things. At last he said, with
feeling, "I remember you _so_ well, Lucian, as a baby; I was in the same
house with you once for a whole week when you were just able to walk
alone."
"Ah, yes! I am afraid I was rather a bad little boy," Spenser answered.
"You _were_ rather--rather animated," the clergyman admitted, mildly.
Garda, who, as usual, had her arm in Margaret's, leaned her head on
Margaret's shoulder and gave way to soft laughter.
Middleton Moore talked, enjoying his adventure greatly. But though he
talked, he did not question, he was too complete a southerner for that;
he leaned on his butterfly pole, and regarded Lucian with the utmost
friendliness, not thinking, apparently, of the fact that he had come
upon this interesting young relative quite by chance, and that this same
young relative must have passed through Gracias (if indeed he were not
staying there) without paying him a visit, though he knew that his
cousin was rector of St. Philip and St. James'; he had confessed as
much. Lucian, who had left his easel, now moved towards it again, and
stood scanning his work with the painter's suddenly absorbed gaze--as
though he had forgotten, for the moment, everything else in the world
but that; then he sat down, as if unable to resist it, and began to add
a touch or two, while (with his disengaged faculties) he was good enough
to give to his cousin, of his own accord, a brief account of himself in
the present, as well as the past. It seemed that he was by profession a
civil engineer (as he had already told Garda), and that the party of
which he was chief were engaged in surveying for a proposed railway,
which would reach Gracias-a-Dios (he thought) in about seventy-five
years. However, that was nothing to him; there was undoubtedly a company
(they had got an English lord in it), and he, Lucian, was willing to
survey for them, if it amused them to have surveying done; that part of
the scheme, at least, was paid for. His party were now some distance
north of Gracias, they had reached one of the swamps; it had occurred to
him that it was a good time to take a day or two, and come down and see
the little old town on the coast; and as he was a dabbler in
water-colors, he had not been able to resist doing some of the little
"bits" he had found under his hand. "I was coming to see you, sir,
to-morrow," he concluded. "The truth is, I had only these rough clothes
with me; I have sent back for more."
"To the swamp?" said Garda.
"To the swamp--precisely; I keep them there very carefully in a dry
canoe."
"You must not only come and see us, Lucian, you must come and stay with
us," said the clergyman, cordially; "Penelope will hear of nothing
else," he added, bending in his near-sighted way to look at the picture,
and putting his nose close to Lucian's pinks and blues. "Isn't it
rather--rather bright?" he asked, blinking a little as he drew back. Mr.
Moore's idea of a picture was a landscape with a hill in the background,
a brook and willows in front, a church spire peeping out somewhere in
the middle distance, and a cow or two at the brook's edge, all painted
in a dark, melancholy--what he himself would have called a
chaste--green, even the cow partaking in some degree of that decorous
hue.
"It's not brighter than the reality, is it?" said Lucian.
"I--don't--know," answered Mr. Moore, straightening himself, and looking
about him as if to observe the reality, which he evidently was now
noting for the first time. "You have put in a butterfly," he added,
returning to his inspection; "that is--if it isn't a bird? There are no
butterflies here now; has there been one here?"
"There should have been; it's the very place for them," Lucian declared.
"I don't think, Lucian, that there's any certainty about that; I myself
have often searched for them in places where it seemed to me they
_should_ be; they are never there."
Garda again gave way to merriment, hiding it and her face on Margaret's
shoulder.
"Hasn't your sky rather too vivid a blue, Lucian?" Mr. Moore went on,
his face again close to the picture.
"Well, sir, that's as we see it; _I_ see that color in the sky, you
know."
"How can you see it if it is not there?" demanded his relative, with his
temperate dwelling upon his point. And he transferred his gaze from the
sketch to the young man.
"But it _is_ there for me. It's the old question of the two kinds of
truth."
"There are not two kinds, I think, Lucian," responded the clergyman, and
this time he spoke with decision.
"There are two ways of seeing it, then. We state or believe a thing as
we see it, and we do not all see alike; you see the hues of a sunset in
one way, Turner saw them in another; he painted certain skies, and
people said there were no such skies; but Turner saw them."
"The fault was still there, Lucian; it was in his vision."
"Or take another instance," continued Spenser. "A man has a wife whom he
loves. She has grown old and faded, there is no trace of beauty left;
but he still sees her as she was; to him she does not merely seem
beautiful, she is beautiful."
The eyes of Garda and Margaret met, one of those rapid exchanges of a
mutual comprehension which are always passing between women unless they
happen to be open enemies; even then they are sometimes forced to
suspend hostilities long enough for one of these quick passwords of
intelligence;--men are so slow! The mutual thought of the two women now
was--Mrs. Penelope. Certainly she was old and faded, and very certainly
also her husband regarded her as much of a Venus as it was proper for a
clerical household to possess. Their entertainment continued as they saw
that the clergyman made no personal application of Spenser's comparison,
but merely considered the illustration rather an immoral one.
As if to change the subject, this good man now demanded, in his equable,
unresonant voice, "How do you return to Gracias, Lucian?"
"There's a contraband with a dug-out waiting for me over on the Espiritu
side," answered Spenser; "I walked across."
"Ah! _we_ are sailing," remarked the clergyman, in a gently superior
tone; little as he himself enjoyed maritime excursions, he felt that
this was the proper tone to take in the presence of his host, the owner
of the _Emperadora_. "We shall reach home, probably, much earlier than
you will," he went on, looking off at the chaparral with an abstracted
air.
Winthrop, smiling at this innocent little manoeuvre, invited Spenser to
return to Gracias with them; he could send one of his men across to tell
the contraband of the change of plan. Spenser accepted the offer
promptly. He packed his scattered belongings into small compass, and
slung them across his shoulder; his easel, under his manipulation,
became a stout walking-stick.
"That is a very convenient arrangement," said the clergyman.
"Yes; I am rather proud of it. I invented it myself."
"Ah, that's your father in you," said Mr. Moore, unconsciously betraying
something that was almost disapproval; "your father was a northern man.
But your mother, Lucian, was a thorough southerner; _she_ had no taste
for invention."
"She wouldn't have had it even if she had been a northern woman, I
fancy," responded Spenser; "women are not inventors. I don't mind saying
it before Mrs. Harold and Miss Thorne, because they haven't the air of
wishing to be; it's a particular sort of air, you know."
"Is your invention strong?" asked Winthrop. "I don't know how we are
going to get the ladies down to the beach, unless we make a perch for
them by driving that stick of yours and Mr. Moore's butterfly pole into
the sand-drift half-way down. From there, with our help, they might
perhaps jump the rest of the distance; we should have to tread out some
sort of footing for ourselves."
Mr. Moore involuntarily glanced at his green pole, and then at Margaret
and Garda, as if estimating their weight.
"We shall certainly snap it in two," exclaimed Garda, gayly. "Snip,
snap, gone!"
"But there's a descent not so very far above here," said Spenser; "I've
found it once, and I think, if you will trust me, I can find it again."
He led the way into the chaparral, and the others followed.
The chaparral, a thicket of little evergreen oaks, rose, round the
flower cove, to a height of ten feet. But soon it grew lower, and they
came out upon a broad stretch of it not much over four or four and a
half feet in height, very even on the top, extending unbroken to the
south as far as they could see, and rising gently on the west, in the
same even sweep, over the small ridge that formed Patricio's backbone;
their heads were now well above the surface of this leafy sea.
"There's my track," said Spenser.
It was a line which had been made across the foliage by his passage
through it; the leaves had been rippled back a little, so that there was
a trail visible on the green surface like that left by a boat which has
passed over a smooth pond; they made their way towards this trail.
The little oaks were not thorny, but their small stubborn branches grew
as closely at the bottom as at the top, so that it was necessary to push
with the ankles as well as with the shoulders in order to get through.
"Deep wading," said Lucian, who led the way.
"Wading?" said Garda. "Drowning! These leaves are like _waves_. And I'm
sure that fishes are biting my ankles. Or else snakes! I shall sink
soon; you'll hear a gurgle, and I shall have gone."
Spenser, laughing, turned and made his way back to her from the front at
the same moment that Winthrop, who was last, pushed his way forward from
behind; they reached her at the same moment, and placed themselves, one
on each side, so that they could make her progress easier.
The Rev. Mr. Moore, who had been calling back a careful explanation that
the Florida snakes, that is, the dangerous ones, were not found in
chaparral, was now left at the head of the party, to keep the course for
them by the line of rippled leaves. This duty he performed with much
circumspection, lifting the long butterfly pole high in the air every
now and then, and stretching it forward as far as he could to tap the
line of rippled leaves, as much as to say, "There you are; _quite_
safe." He had the air of a magician with his wand.
"I shall have to stop for a moment," said Margaret Harold, after a
while, speaking for the first time since their entrance into the
chaparral; she was next to Mr. Moore in their little procession, but a
distance of ten or fifteen feet separated them, while Garda, with
Spenser and Winthrop, was at a still greater distance behind. Winthrop
waited only an instant after she had spoken (long enough, however, to
give Spenser and the clergyman the opportunity, in case they should
desire it); he then made his way forward and joined her.
"Here--lean on me," he said, quickly, as soon as he saw her face; he
thought she was going to faint.
Margaret, though she was pale, smiled, and declined his help; she only
wished to rest for a moment, she said; the chaparral had tired her. She
stood still, embosomed in the foliage, her eyes closed, the long dark
lashes lying on her checks. Winthrop could see now more clearly how
delicate her face was; he remembered, too, that though she was tall, she
was a slender woman, with slender little hands and feet; her grace of
step, though remarkable, had probably not been of much use in forcing a
way through chaparral. But her cheeks were growing whiter, he was afraid
she would fall forward among the bristling little branches; he pushed
his way nearer and supported her with his arm. Garda meanwhile, her
fatigue forgotten, had started to come to her friend, Spenser helping
her, while Mr. Moore, his pole carefully held out over the trail (as
though otherwise it would disappear), watched them with anxiety from the
front.
But now Margaret was recovering, the color had come back to her face in
a flood; she opened her eyes, and immediately began to push her way
forward again, as if she wished to show Winthrop that he need have no
further fears. He stayed to aid her, nevertheless.
"Why didn't you go to her?" said Garda to Lucian Spenser, as they
resumed their former pace after Margaret's recovery. "I mean why didn't
you start before Mr. Winthrop did? There was time."
"He had the better right; he knows her."
"It wasn't a question of knowing, but of helping. As to knowing--you
don't know me."
"Oh yes, I do!" answered Spenser.
"But you have never seen me until to-day. Now please don't tell me that
I am so much like some one else that you feel as if you had known me for
ages."
"You are like no one else, your type exists only in dreams--the dreams
of artists mad on color. It's in my dreams that I have seen you," he
went on, surveying her with the frankest, the most enjoying admiration.
"Aren't you glad you're so beautiful?"
"Yes," responded Garda, with serene gravity. "I am very glad indeed."
They came before long to the descent of which he had spoken; it was a
miniature gorge, which led down to the beach in the scallop where Garda
had begun her race. As soon as they reached the lower level, Garda went
to Margaret and took her hands. "Do you really feel better!" she said.
"We'll stay here a while and rest."
Margaret refused, saying that the feeling of fatigue had passed away.
"You _have_ got more color than usual," said Garda, scanning her face.
"A sure sign that I am perfectly well again," answered Margaret,
smiling.
"A sure sign that you are very tired," said Evert Winthrop.
Margaret made no reply, she began to walk northward, with Garda, up the
beach; Lucian Spenser kept his place on the other side of Garda; but
Winthrop joined the Rev. Mr. Moore, who was alone.
Mr. Moore improved the occasion, he related the entire history of the
Spenser, or rather the Byrd family, the family of Lucian's mother
(connections of the celebrated Colonel Byrd). That is, their history in
the past; as to the present and its representative, he seemed quite
without information.
The present representative spent several days at the rectory; and
probably imparted the information which was lacking. During his visit he
formed one, as Garda had anticipated, of the various little parties
which Betty still continued to arrange and carry out for the
entertainment of her dearest Katrina; then he took leave of the rector
and his wife, and returned to the camp in the swamp.
Three days later he came back to remain some time; he took a room at the
Seminole, saying that his hours were quite too uncertain for a
well-regulated household like that of the Moores.
His hours proved to be uncertain indeed, save that a certain number of
them were sure to be spent with Garda Thorne. A few also were spent in
bringing Torres out of his seclusion. For Lucian took a fancy to the
young Cuban; "I don't think you half appreciate him," he said, in his
easy, unattached way--unattached to any local view. "He's a perfect mine
of gold in the way of peculiarities and precious oddities; he repays you
every time."
"I was not aware that oddities had so much value in the market,"
remarked Dr. Kirby, dryly.
"My dear sir, the greatest!" said Lucian, still in his detached tone.
The Doctor was not very fond of Lucian. The truth was, the Doctor did
not like to be called "my dear sir;" the possessive pronoun and the
adjective made a different thing of it from his own Johnsonian mode of
address.
"_I_ appreciate Mr. Torres," Garda remarked, "I always have appreciated
him. He's like a thunder-cloud on the edge of the sky; you feel that he
could give out some tremendous flashes if he pleased; some day he will
please."
"I'll tell him that," said Spenser, who, among his other
accomplishments, had that of speaking Spanish.
Whether he told or not, the young Cuban at any rate appeared among them
again. He was tired, possibly, of the consumption of his soul. But there
was this advantage about Torres, that though he might consume his own,
he had no desire to consume the soul (or body either) of any one else;
whereas Manuel appeared to cherish this wish to an absolutely sanguinary
degree. The dislike he had had for Evert Winthrop was nothing compared
with the rage with which he now regarded Lucian Spenser. To tell the
truth, Lucian trespassed upon his own ground: if Manuel was handsome,
Lucian was handsomer still. "A finer-looking young man than Lucian
Spenser," Mrs. Rutherford had more than once remarked, "is _very_ seldom
seen." And Kate Rutherford was a judge.
Lucian having no horse, as Winthrop had, could not, as Garda expressed
it, ride over the pine barrens in every direction and stop at East
Angels; but he had a fisherman's black boat, with ragged sail, and
though it was not an _Emperadora_, it could still float down the
Espiritu with sufficient swiftness, giving its occupant an opportunity
to stop at the same old Spanish residence, where there was a convenient
water-landing as well as an entrance from the barrens. The occupant
stopped so often, and his manner when he did stop was so different from
that of their other visitors, that Mrs. Thorne felt at last that duty
demanded that she should "make inquiries." This duty had never been
esteemed one of the principal ones of life at Gracias-a-Dios; Mrs.
Thorne's determination, therefore, showed that her original New England
maxims were alive somewhere down in her composition still (as Betty
Carew had always declared that they were), in spite of the layer upon
layer of Thorne and Duero traditions with which she had carefully
overlaid them. She was aware that it was a great inconsistency on her
part to revert, at this late day, to the methods of her youth. But what
could she do? The Thornes and Dueros were dead, and had left no
precedents for a case like this; and Lucian Spenser was alive
(particularly so), and with Garda almost all the time.
"She asked me," said the Rev. Mr. Moore to his wife, "what I knew, that
was 'definite,' about Lucian, which seemed to me, Penelope, a very
singular question, Lucian being so near and dear a relative of ours. I
did not, however, comment upon this; I simply gave her a full account of
the Spenser family, or rather of the Byrds, his mother's side of the
house, going back (in order to be explicit) through three generations.
Strange to say, this did not appear to satisfy her; I will not say that
she interrupted me, for she did not; but she had nevertheless, in some
ways, an appearance of--of being perhaps somewhat impatient."
"Oh, _I_ know!" said Mrs. Moore, nodding her head. "She coughed behind
her hand; and she shook out her handkerchief, holding it by the exact
middle between her forefinger and thumb; and she tapped on the floor
with the point of her slipper; and she settled her cuffs; and then she
coughed again."
"That is exactly what she did! You have a wonderful insight, Penelope,"
said her husband, admiringly.
"Give me a _woman_, and I'll unravel her for you in no time--in no time
at all," answered Penelope. "But men are different--_so_ much deeper;
you yourself are very deep, Middleton."
The clergyman stroked his chin meditatively; his eyes wandered, and
after a while rested peacefully on the floor.
"There! I know just what you're thinking of now," resumed his wife from
her sofa; "I can tell you every word!"
Her husband, who at that moment was thinking of nothing at all, unless
it might be of a worn place which he had detected in the red and white
matting at his feet, raised his eyes and looked at her with amiable
expectancy. He had long ago learned to acquiesce in all the discoveries
respecting himself made by his clever Penelope; he even believed in them
after a vague fashion, and was much interested in hearing the latest.
But he was so unmitigatedly modest, he took such impersonal views of
everything, including himself, that he could listen to her eulogistic
divinations by the hour without the least real appropriation of them, as
though they had been spoken of some one else. He thought them very
wonderful, and he thought her almost a sibyl as she brought them forth;
but no glow of self-appreciation followed, this frugal man was not
easily made to glow. At present, when his wife had unrolled before him
the interesting thoughts which she knew he was thinking (and the rector
himself was always of the opinion that he must be thinking them
somewhere, in some remote part of his mind which for the moment he had
forgotten), she concluded, triumphantly, as follows: "I can always tell
what you are thinking of from the expression of your face, Middleton;
it's not in the _least_ necessary for you to speak." Which was on the
whole, perhaps, fortunate for Middleton.
Mrs. Thorne, not having succeeded in obtaining "definite" information
from the Rev. Mr. Moore, addressed herself, at length, to Evert
Winthrop. Something that was almost a friendship had established itself
between these two; Mrs. Thorne found Winthrop very "satisfying," she
mentioned that she found him so; she mentioned it to Margaret Harold,
with whom, also, she now had an acquaintance which was almost intimate,
though in this case the intimacy had been formed and kept up principally
by herself. "Yes, extremely satisfying," she repeated; "on every subject
of importance he has definite information, or a definite opinion, and
these he gives you--when you ask for them--with the utmost clearness.
Touch him anywhere," continued the lady, tapping her delicately starched
handkerchief (which she held up for the purpose) with her little
knuckle, "anywhere, I say," she went on, still tapping, "and--he
_resounds_."
"Dear me, mamma! is he hollow?" said Garda, while Margaret gave way to
laughter. But Mrs. Thorne liked even Margaret's laughs; Margaret too she
found "very satisfying," she said.
When she spoke to Winthrop about Lucian Spenser, however, she found him
perhaps not so satisfying as usual.
"I know nothing whatever about Mr. Spenser," he answered.
"We are seeing a good deal of him at present," remarked the little
mother, in a conversational tone, ignoring his reply. "It's rather
better--don't you think so?--to know something--_definite_--of those one
is seeing a good deal of?"
"That is the way to learn, isn't it--seeing a good deal of them?"
Winthrop answered.
Mrs. Thorne coughed in her most discreet manner, and looked about the
room for a moment or two. Then, "Do _you_ like him, Mr. Winthrop?" she
said, her eyes on the opposite wall.
"My dear lady, what has that got to do with it?"
"Much," responded Mrs. Thorne, modestly dropping her eyes to the carpet.
"A man's opinion of a man, you know, may be quite different from a
woman's."
"There is his cousin, Mr. Moore."
"I have already asked Mr. Moore; he knows only Mr. Spenser's
grandfathers," replied Mrs. Thorne, dismissing the clergyman, as
informant, with a wave of her dry little hand.
"Dr. Kirby, then."
"Dr. _Kirby_" said the lady, with an especial emphasis on the name, as
though there were a dozen other doctors in Gracias--"Dr. _Kirby_ speaks
well of Mr. Spenser. But we should not count too much upon that, for
Dr. _Kirby_ looks upon him, as I may say, medically."
"Good heavens! does he want to dissect him?" said Winthrop.
Mrs. Thorne gave her guarded little laugh. "No; but he says that he is
such a perfect specimen, physically, of the Anglo-Saxon at his best. He
may be; I am sure I am willing. But we are not all ethnologists, I
suppose, and something more definite in the way of a background than
ancient Saxony, or even Anglia, would be, I think, desirable, when, as I
remarked before, one is seeing so much of a person."
There was a short silence, which Winthrop did not break. Then he rose,
and took up his hat and whip; he had been paying one of his afternoon
visits at the old house. "Don't be uneasy," he said, in the
half-protecting tone which he often adopted now when speaking to the
little mistress of East Angels; "if you are seeing much of this Mr.
Spenser, you and your daughter, you must remember that you are also
seeing much of others as well; of Manuel Ruiz, of young Torres, even of
myself; there's safety in numbers."
"Mr. Spenser is not in the least like any of you; that is my trouble,"
Mrs. Thorne declared, with emphasis. "I do not mean," she added, with
her anxious particularity, "that _you_ are in the least like Manuel or
Adolfo, Mr. Winthrop; of course not."
Winthrop did not reply to this beyond a smile. He took leave, and went
towards the door.
Mrs. Thorne's gaze followed him; then with her quick step she crossed
the room, and stopped him on the threshold. "Mr. Winthrop, do _you_ like
to see my little girl showing such an interest in this Lucian Spenser?"
Her voice was almost a whisper, but her bright eyes met his bravely.
For a moment he returned her gaze. Then, "I like it immensely," he said,
and went down the stairs.
Soon after this, however, there was what Mrs. Thorne called "definite"
information about Lucian Spenser in circulation in Gracias; it was even
very definite. He might have the background of honorable grandfathers
which Mr. Moore attributed to him, but for the foreground there was only
himself, himself without any of the adjuncts of wealth, or a fixed
income of any kind, even the smallest. He was a civil engineer
(apparently not a very industrious one); he had whatever emoluments that
profession could bring in to a man who painted a good many pictures in
water-colors; and he had nothing more. This he told himself, with the
utmost frankness.
"Nothing more?" commented Mrs. Rutherford, with appreciative emphasis.
"But he has always his wonderful good looks; that in itself is a
handsome fortune."
"His good looks, I confess, _I_ have never seen," answered Mrs. Thorne,
who was paying a morning visit at the eyrie. Garda was at that moment on
the eyrie's east piazza with Lucian, and the mother knew it; true,
Margaret Harold, Dr. Kirby, and Adolfo Torres were there also; but Mrs.
Thorne had no difficulty in picturing to herself the success with which
Lucian was engrossing Garda's attention.
"You've never seen them? You must be a little blind, I should think,"
said Mrs. Rutherford, pleasantly. Mrs. Rutherford was not fond of Mrs.
Thorne.
"I am blind to the mere sensuous delights of the eye," responded the
little mother, the old Puritan fire sparkling for a moment in her own
blue ones. Then she controlled herself. "I cannot admire his
expression," she explained. "His nature is a very superficial one; I am
surprised that Mrs. Harold should listen to him as she does."
"Oh, as to that," remarked Mrs. Rutherford, "he amuses her, you know;
Margaret and I are both very fond of being amused. However, we do not
complain; we find a vast deal of amusement in Gracias; it's a very funny
little place," added the northern lady, with much tranquil entertainment
in her tone, paying back with her "funny" her visitor's "sensuous."
(Mrs. Rutherford could always be trusted to pay back.)
That evening she announced to her niece, "Little Madam Thorne has
designs upon Evert."
Margaret looked up from her book. "Isn't she rather old for that sort of
thing?"
"_That_ sort of thing? Do you mean designs? Or attractions? Attraction
is not in the least a matter of age," answered Mrs. Rutherford, with
dignity. She disposed her statuesque hands upon her well-rounded arms,
and looked about the room as though Margaret were not there.
"I meant her feelings," replied Margaret, smiling. "There's such a thing
as age in feelings, isn't there?"
"Yes; and in manner and dress," said Mrs. Rutherford, accepting this
compromise. "Certainly Mrs. Thorne is a marked example of all three. I
don't think any one of _our_ family _ever_ looked so old as she does,
even at ninety! But how could you suppose I meant that she had designs
upon Evert for herself? For Garda, of course."
"Garda is very young."
"Why don't you say she's a child! That is what they all say here, I
think they say it too much. To be sure, she is only sixteen, barely
that, I believe, and with us, girls of that age are immature; but Garda
Thorne isn't immature, she talks as maturely as I do."
"She does--in some ways," admitted Margaret.
"She talks remarkably _well_, if you mean that," responded Mrs.
Rutherford, who always felt called upon to differ from her niece. "And
she is certainly quite pretty."
"She is more than pretty; she is strikingly beautiful."
"Oh no, she isn't," replied Mrs. Rutherford, veering again; "you
exaggerate. It's only because you see her here in this dull little
place."
"I think it would be the same anywhere, Aunt Katrina."
"Well, we shall not have to compare, fortunately. She will stay here, of
course, where she belongs, she will probably marry that young Torres.
But that little ill-bred mother's designs upon Evert--that is too
amusing. Evert, indeed! Evert has more coolness and discrimination than
any man I have ever known."
The man of discrimination was at that moment strolling slowly through
the St. Luz quarter, on his way to the Benito; he reached it, and walked
out its silver floor. The tide was coming in. On that low coast there
were no rocks, the waves reached the shore in long, low, unbroken
swells, like quiet breathing; they had come evenly in from deep water
outside, and now flowed softly up the beach a little way and then back
again, with a rippling murmurous sound that was peace itself. Warm as
was the land, still dreaming of the sun, the ocean was warmer still;
the Gulf Stream flowed by not far from shore, and the air that came from
the water was soft on the cheek like a caress. From the many orange
groves of the town dense perfume was wafted towards him, he walked
through belts of it. At last, at the point's end, he found himself
bathed in it; he threw the light overcoat he had been carrying down upon
the sand, and stretched himself upon it, with his back against an old
boat; lying there, he could look down the harbor and out to sea.
He was thinking a little of the scene before him, but more of Garda--her
liking for the new-comer. For she had confessed it to him herself;
confessed, however, was hardly the term, she had no wish apparently to
conceal anything; she had simply told him, in so many words, that she
had never met or known any one so delightful as Lucian Spenser. This was
innocent enough, Garda was, in truth, very childlike. True, she was not
shy, she was very sure of herself; she talked to him and to everybody
with untroubled ease. Her frankness, indeed, was the great thing; it had
an endless attraction for Evert Winthrop. His idea had been (and a very
fixed belief it had grown to be) that no girl was frank after the age of
long clothes; that the pretty little creatures, while still toddling
about, developed the instinct to be "good" rather than outspoken; and
that the "better" they were, the more obedient and docile, the less
outspoken they became. He could not say that he did not admire
obedience. But the flower of frankness had come to seem to him the most
fragrant of the whole bouquet of feminine virtues, as it certainly was
the rarest. He had told Mrs. Thorne that he liked to see Garda show her
preference for Spenser, and this had been true, to a certain extent; he
knew that he had felt a distinct pleasure in the swiftness with which
she had turned from him to the younger man as soon as she found that the
younger man pleased her more. For it showed that she was not touched by
the attractions of a large fortune, that they were not attractions to
her; and Winthrop held (he knew that many persons would not agree with
him) that young girls are more apt to be influenced by wealth, more apt
to be dazzled by it, to covet it, than older women are. The older women
know that it does not bring happiness in its train, that it may bring
great unhappiness; the young girls do not know, and, from their very
ignorance, they do not care, because they have not learned as yet what a
cruel, torturing pain unhappiness may be. Garda Thorne was poor, and
even very poor; she had a strong natural taste for luxury. Yet her
passing amusement was evidently far more to her than anything else; she
simply did not give a thought to the fortune that lay near. And even her
amusement was founded upon nothing stable; Lucian, though she considered
him so delightful, was by no means devoted to her. He openly admired her
beauty (Winthrop thought too openly), he preferred her society to that
of any one in Gracias; but all could see that Gracias was probably the
limit, that in other and larger places he would find others to admire;
that he was, in short, a votary of variety. In spite of this, Garda
found him supremely entertaining, and that was enough for her; she
followed him about, always, however, in her indolent way, in which there
was no trace of eagerness. But if she were not eager, she seemed to
consider him her own property; she always wished to be near him, so that
she could hear all he was saying, she laughed far oftener when with him
than she did when with any one else.
Winthrop was always attracted by Garda's laugh; he seemed to hear it
again as he lay there in the moonlight, breathing the dense perfume from
the groves, and looking at the warm, low, glittering sea. "There isn't a
particle of worldliness about her," he said to himself. "What a contrast
to Margaret!"
He did not leave the perfumed point until it was midnight and high tide.