Lucian Spenser's good looks were of the kind that is conspicuously
attractive while the youth, which accompanies them, lasts, his face and
figure being a personification of radiant young manhood at its best; the
same features, the same height and bearing, would have had quite a
different aspect if robbed of the color, the sunniness--if one may so
express it--which was now the most striking attribute of the whole. He
was tall and broad-shouldered, but slender still, he had a bearing which
was graceful as well as manly; his hair of a bright golden color had a
burnished look, which came from its thick mass being kept so short that
the light could find only an expanse of crisped ends to shine across.
His eyes were blue, the deep blue which is distinguishable as blue, and
not gray or green, across a room; this clear bright color was their
principal beauty, as they were not large. They were charming eyes, which
could turn to tenderness in an instant; but though they could be tender,
their usual expression was that of easy indifference--an expression
which, when accompanied by a becoming modesty and frankness, sits well
upon a strong, handsome young man. He had a well-cut profile, white
teeth gleaming under a golden mustache, a pleasant voice, and a
frequent, equally pleasant laugh. No one could resist a certain amount
of admiration when he appeared; and the feeling was not dimmed by
anything in his manner, for he was good-humored and witty, and if, as
has been said, he was rather indifferent, he was also quite without
egotism, and quite without, too, that tendency to underrate others which
many excellent persons possess--a tendency which comes oftenest from
jealousy, but often, too, from a real incapacity to comprehend that
people may be agreeable, and happy, and much admired, and even good,
with tastes and opinions, appearance and habits, which differ totally
from their own. Lucian Spenser underrated nobody; on the contrary, he
was apt to see the pleasant side of the people with whom he was thrown.
He took no trouble to penetrate, it was not a deep view; probably it was
a superficial one. But it was a question--so some of his friends had
thought--whether this was not better than the strict watch, the sadly
satisfactory search for faults in the circle of their own families and
acquaintances, which many conscientious people keep up all their lives.
A day or two after his midnight musings on the beach, Evert Winthrop was
coming down Pacheco Lane towards the eyrie when he heard, in a long,
sweet, distant note, "Good-by." It came from the water. But at first he
could not place it; there were two or three fishermen's boats passing,
but the fishermen of Gracias were not in the habit of calling "good-by"
in clear English accents to each other; their English was by no means
clear, it was mixed with Spanish and West Indian, with words borrowed
from the not remote African of the Florida negro, and even with some
from the native Indian tongues; it was a very patchwork of languages.
Again came the note, and Winthrop, going forward to the edge of the low
bank, looked over the water. The course of one of the boats, the
smallest, had brought it nearer, and he now recognized Lucian Spenser in
the stern, holding the sail-rope and steering, and Garda Thorne, facing
him, seated in the bottom of the boat. Garda waved her hand, and called
again "Good-by." They glided past him, and he raised his hat, but did
not attempt conversation across the water; in a few minutes more Lucian
had tacked, and the boat turned eastward down the harbor, the sail,
which had swung round, now hiding their figures from his view. Winthrop
left the bank, crossed the green-carpeted lane, and went up the outside
stairway to the eyrie's drawing-room. It was inhabited at present by
tea-leaves. Celestine, loathing, as Minerva Poindexter, the desultory
methods of Cindy, the colored girl who was supposed to act as
parlor-maid, was in the habit of banishing her at intervals from the
scene, and engaging personally in an encounter with the dust according
to her own system. The system of Celestine was deep and complicated,
beginning with the pinning of a towel tightly over her entire head in a
compact cap-like fashion of much austerity, followed, as second stage,
by an elaborate arrangement of tea-leaves upon the carpet, and
ending--but no one knew where it ended, no one had ever gone far enough.
It was at the tea-leaf stage that Winthrop found her.
"She's gone out with Mrs. Carew," Celestine replied, in answer to his
inquiry for Mrs. Rutherford. "You see she got her feet all sozzled last
night coming home across the plazzer from _church_ with that there Dr.
Kirby, and so she took cold, _of course_. And there's nothin' so good
for a cold as half an hour outside in this bakin' sun, and so I told
her."
"You don't speak as though you altogether approved of evening service,
Minerva?" Winthrop answered, amused by her emphasis.
"Well, I don't, and that's a fact, Mr. Evert. In the _mornin_' it's all
very well; but in the _evenin_', I've noticed, the motive's apt to be
mixed, it's pretty generally who you come home with. My mother used to
say to Lovina (that was my sister) and me, 'Girls, in the evenin's I
_don't_ like to have you go loblolloping down to meetin' and straddlin'
up the aisle. It ain't real godliness; it's just purtense, and everybody
knows it.' And she was quite right, Mr. Evert--quite." And having thus
expressed herself at much greater length than was usual with her,
Celestine resumed her labors, and raised such a dust that the man (whom
she still considered quite a young lad) was glad to beat a retreat.
He went to the east piazza, and seated himself with a book in his hand;
but his eyes followed the sail which was moving slowly down the harbor
towards Patricio. Fifteen minutes later Margaret Harold, coming through
the long window, found him there. By this time the sail was gone, only
the bare mast could be seen; Lucian and his companion had landed on
Patricio.
"They are going to see Madam Ruiz," said Margaret.
"No," replied Winthrop; "if they had been going there, they would have
stopped this side, at the landing."
"It would amuse Garda more to stop on the ocean side. It's the only
thing she plans for--amusement."
"I can see no especial entertainment in it; it will simply be that he
will have hard work to get the boat off."
"That is what will amuse her--to see him work hard."
"He won't enjoy it!"
"But she will."
"You knew they were going?" said Winthrop, taking up his book again.
"I was passing the plaza landing, and happened to see them start."
"Did they tell you they were going to see Madam Ruiz?"
"They were too far off to speak to me, they were just passing the end of
the pier. No; but when I saw they had landed (I have been watching them
from my window) I knew of course that they were going there."
"There's no 'of course' with Lucian Spenser!" answered Winthrop. He got
up, took the glass which was hanging on a nail behind him, and turned it
towards the point of Patricio. "They're not going towards the Ruiz
plantation at all," he said; "they're walking southward, down the
beach." He put the glass back in its case, closed it, replaced it on the
nail, and sat down again.
"I am surprised that Mrs. Carew should have allowed Garda to go," he
went on, after a moment. "She's staying with Mrs. Carew, isn't
she?--she's always staying with some one now."
"She is staying with Mrs. Carew till to-morrow only. Mrs. Carew likes
Lucian Spenser immensely, she tells every one how much she likes him."
"I don't think that has anything to do with it--Mrs. Carew's
admirations," responded Winthrop. "He's an irresponsible sort of
fellow," he added, speaking with moderation. He was not moderate, but he
often spoke with moderation. On the present occasion he felt that he
might have said much more.
"Yes, I think he is rather irresponsible," assented Margaret. "I suppose
he would say why shouldn't he be, if it pleases him."
"No reason in the world, I don't imagine any one cares. But they ought
not to permit Edgarda Thorne to go about with him as she does; she has
never been in the habit of walking or sailing with Manuel Ruiz, or that
young Cuban--I mean walking or sailing with them alone."
"Probably they have never asked her."
"That is very likely, I suppose they wouldn't dream of it. And that is
what I am referring to; she has been brought up here under such a
curious mixture of freedom and strictness that she is not at all fitted
to understand a person like Spenser."
"Shall I speak to Mrs. Thorne?" said Margaret. She was standing by the
piazza's parapet, her hand resting on its top, her eyes fixed on
Patricio, though the two figures were no longer in sight. Winthrop's
chair being behind her and on one side, he could see only her profile,
outlined against the light.
"Mrs. Thorne is already awakened to it," he answered; "she has spoken to
me on the subject."
"There was your opportunity. What did you say?"
"I told her--I told her not to be uneasy," he replied, breaking into a
laugh over his own inconsistencies. "But it isn't Mrs. Thorne who is to
blame--I mean Mrs. Thorne alone; it is Mrs. Carew, the Kirbys, the
Moores, and all the rest of them."
"In other words, the whole society of Gracias. Do you think we ought to
corrupt them with our worldly cautions?"
"We're not corrupting, it's Spenser who's corrupting; we should never
corrupt them though we should stay here forever. They're idyllic, of
course, it's an idyllic society; but we can be idyllic too."
Margaret shook her head. "I'm afraid we can only be appreciative."
"It's the same thing. If we can appreciate little Gracias, with its
remoteness and simplicity and stateliness, its pine barrens and beaches
and roses, I maintain that we're very idyllic; what can be more so?"
Margaret did not reply. After a while she said, "If you will take Aunt
Katrina to drive to-morrow afternoon, I will have Telano row me down to
East Angels."
"You think you will speak in any case? I suppose you know with what
enthusiastic approval Mrs. Thorne honors all you say and do?"
"Yes, something of it."
"But you don't care for her approvals," he said, half interrogatively.
"Yes, I care," Margaret answered. "In this case I care a great deal, as
it may give me some influence over her."
"What shall you say to her?--not that I have any right to ask."
"I am very willing to tell. I had thought of asking whether she would
let Garda go back with me when we go home--back to New York; I had
thought of having her go to school there for six months."
"I can't imagine her in a school! But it's very kind in you to think of
it, all the same."
"She could stay with Madame Martel, and take lessons; it wouldn't be
quite like a school."
"That might do. Still--I can hardly imagine her away from Gracias, when
it comes to the point."
"Neither can I. But, as you say, irresponsible people have made their
way in here, they will do so again; we shall not be able to keep the
place, and Garda, idyllic simply to please ourselves."
"Well, then, I wish we could!" responded Winthrop. "But I don't believe
the little mother could stand the separation," he went on.
"I shouldn't ask her to, at least not for long; I should ask her to come
herself, later. New York might amuse her."
"Never in the world, she wouldn't in the least approve of it," said
Winthrop, laughing. "It wouldn't be Thorne and Duero; it wouldn't even
be New Bristol, where she spent her youth. She would feel that she ought
to reform it, yet she wouldn't know how; she would be dreadfully
perplexed. She has a genius for perplexity, poor little soul. But I
can't express how good I think it is of you to be willing to give them
such a delightful change as that," he went on--"to take a whole family
on your shoulders for six long months."
"A family of two. And it would be a pleasure."
"I suppose you know that people don't often do such things, except for
their relatives. Not very often for them."
"I know it perfectly; I have always wondered why they did not--provided,
of course, that they had the ability," answered Margaret.
Winthrop in his heart had been much astonished by her plan. He looked at
her as if in search of some expression that should throw a gleam of
light upon her motives. But she had not moved, and he could still see
only her profile. After a while she lifted her eyes, which had been
resting with abstracted gaze upon the water, and, for the first time,
turned them towards him. A faint smile crossed her face as she met his
inquiring look, but her expression under the smile seemed to him sad;
she bent her head slightly without speaking, as if to say good-by, and
then she went back through the long window into the house. Winthrop,
left behind, said to himself that while he had no desire as a general
thing for long conversations with Margaret Harold, he wished this time
that she had not gone away so soon. Then it came to him that she almost
always went away, that it was almost always she who rose, and on some
pretext or other left him to himself; she left him--he did not leave
her; on this occasion she had gone without the pretext; she had not
taken the trouble to invent one, she had simply walked off. Of course
she was quite free to come and go as she pleased. But he should have
liked to hear more about her plan for Garda.
The next day she did not go down to East Angels. Her proposed visit had
had to do with Lucian Spenser, and Lucian Spenser had taken his
departure from Gracias that morning--a final departure, as it was
understood; at least he had no present intention of returning. It was
very sudden. He had had time to say good-by only to his cousin, Mr.
Moore. To Mr. Moore he had intrusted a little note of farewell for
Edgarda Thorne, who had returned to East Angels at an earlier hour,
without seeing Lucian or knowing his intention. Mr. Moore said that
Lucian had not known his intention himself until that morning; he had
received a letter, which was probably the cause of his departure (this
"probably" was very characteristic of the clergyman). He, Lucian,
intended to go directly north to Washington, and from there to New York;
and then, possibly, abroad.
"Dear me!--and his surveying camp, and the swamp, and those interesting
young bears he had there?" said Mrs. Rutherford, who, having once
arranged this very handsome young man's background definitely in her
mind, was loath to change it, "even," as she remarked, with an unusual
flight of imagination,--"even for the White House!"
"It would hardly be the Executive Mansion in any case, I fancy,"
explained Mr. Moore, mildly, "Lucian has, I think, no acquaintance with
the President. But Washington is in reality his home; though it is
perhaps apparent that he has not been there very often of late years."
These rather vague deductions regarding his young cousin's movements
were satisfactory to Middleton Moore; he had evidently asked no more
questions of Lucian on the occasion of his unexpected departure than he
had upon the occasion of his equally unexpected arrival; his interest in
him (which was great) had no connection with the interrogation point.
"What shall you do now?" said Winthrop to Margaret, after the clergyman
had taken leave. They were alone in the little drawing-room, Mrs.
Rutherford having gone to put herself in the hands of Celestine for the
elaborate change of dress required before her daily drive.
Margaret had risen; but she stopped long enough to answer: "Of course
now I need not speak to Mrs. Thorne about Mr. Spenser."
"No. But about Garda's going north? Do you still think of that?"
"Yes; that is, I should like very much to take her. But I don't think I
shall speak of it immediately, there need be no hurry now." She paused.
"I should like first to talk it over more clearly with you," she said,
as if with an effort.
"Whenever you please; I am always at your service," replied Winthrop,
with a return of his formal manner.
That afternoon he rode down to East Angels. Mrs. Thorne received him;
there was excitement visible in her face and manner--an excitement which
she held in careful control; but it manifested itself, in spite of the
control, in the increased brightness of her eyes, which now fairly
shone, in the round spot of red on each little cheek-bone, and in the
more accentuated distinctness of her speech, which now came as nearly as
possible to a pronunciation of every letter. She asked him how he was;
she inquired after the health of Mrs. Rutherford, after the health of
Mrs. Harold; she even included Celestine. She spoke of her own health,
and at some length. She then branched off upon the weather. All her T's
were so preternaturally acute that they snapped like a drop of rain
falling into a fire; when she said "we" or "week," she brought out the
vowel-sound so distinctly that her thin lips widened themselves flatly
over her small teeth, and her mouth became the centre of a sharp
triangle whose apex was the base of the nose, and the sides two deep
lines that extended outward diagonally to the edge of the jaws. So far,
she was displaying unusual formality with the friend she had found so
satisfying. The friend betrayed no consciousness of any change, he saw
that she wished to keep the direction of the conversation in her own
hands, and he did not interfere with her desire; he was sure that she
had something to say, and that in her own good time she would bring it
forth. And she did. After treating him to twenty minutes of
pronunciations, she folded her hands closely and with the same crisp
utterance remarked: "My daughter is in the rose garden, I should like to
have you see her before you go. I shall not accompany you, I shall ask
you to do me the favor of seeing her alone."
He could not help smiling a little, in spite of the repressed tragedy of
the tone. "Favor?" he repeated.
"Yes, favor," responded Mrs. Thorne, in a slightly higher key, though
her voice remained musical, as it always was. "Favor, indeed! Wait till
you see her. Listen, Mr. Winthrop; I want you to be very gentle with
Edgarda now." And, leaning forward, she touched his arm impressively
with her finger.
Winthrop always felt an immense pity for this little mother, she was
racked by so many anxieties of which the ordinary world knew nothing,
the comfortable world of Mrs. Rutherford and Mrs. Carew; that these
anxieties were exaggerated, did not render them any the less painful to
the woman who could not perceive that they were.
"Of course I shall be gentle," he said, taking her hand cordially. As he
held it he could feel the hard places on the palm which much household
toil, never neglected, though never mentioned, had made there.
"But when you see her, when you hear her talk, it may not be so easy,"
responded Mrs. Thorne, looking at him with an expression in her eyes
which struck him as containing at the same time both entreaty and
defiance.
"It will always be easy, I think, for me to be gentle with Garda,"
responded Winthrop; and his own tone was gentle enough as he said it.
Tears rose in Mrs. Thorne's eyes; but she repressed them, they did not
fall. "I depend greatly upon you," she said, with more directness than
she had yet used. She drew her hand from his, took up his hat, which was
lying on a chair near her, and gave it to him; she seemed to wish him to
go, to say no more.
He obeyed her wish, he left the house and went to the rose garden. Here,
after looking about for a moment, he saw Garda.