The next day it was arranged that Garda should, for the present, remain
where she was; she wished to do this, and Mrs. Carew, unselfish always,
had offered to close her own house (so far as Cynthy and Pompey would
permit), and stay with her for a while.
It was known now that Mrs. Harold was to have charge of Garda. The
Gracias friends were grieved by this tidings; they had supposed that
Garda would be left to them. But they all liked Margaret, and when, a
little later, they learned that she had asked Dr. Kirby to fill the
office of guardian, they welcomed with gladness this guarantee that they
were not to be entirely separated from the child whom they had known and
loved from her birth, that one of them was to have the right, in some
degree, to direct her course, and watch over her. These unworldly
people, these secluded people, with their innocently proud, calm belief
in their own importance, never once thought of its being possibly an
advantage to Garda, this opportunity to leave Gracias-a-Dios, to have
further instruction, to see something of the world. They could not
consider it an advantage to leave Gracias-a-Dios, and "further
instruction," which, of course, meant northern instruction, they did not
approve; as for "the world," very little confidence had they in any
world so remote from their own. That, indeed, was the Gracias idea of
New York--"remote." Nor did the fact that Mrs. Harold had a fortune (a
very large one it would have seemed to them had they known its amount)
make any especial impression. They would each and all have welcomed
Garda to their own homes, would have freely given her a daughter's share
in everything they possessed; that, from a worldly point of view, these
homes were but poor ones, and a daughter's share in incomes which were
in themselves so small and uncertain, a very limited possession--these
considerations did not enter much into their thoughts. Their idea was
that for a fatherless, motherless girl, love was the great thing; and of
love they had an abundance.
Before he had had his interview with Margaret, before he knew of her
intention to ask him to be guardian, Dr. Kirby had gone about silent;
with a high color; portentous. Much as he admired Mrs. Rutherford, he
did not present himself at the eyrie; his mirror told him that he had
not the proper expression. But Margaret did not delay; on the third day
she made her request; and then the Doctor went home stepping with all
his old trimness, his toes well turned out, his head erect.
"It's very fortunate, ma" (the Doctor's _a_ in this word had a sound
between that of _a_ in "mare" and in "May"), "that she _has_ asked me,"
he said to his mother; "I doubt whether I could have kept silence
otherwise. I admire Mrs. Rutherford highly, as you know; she is a lady
of the finest bearing and presence. And I admire Mrs. Harold too. But if
they had attempted--if Mrs. Harold had attempted to take Garda off to
the North, and keep her there, without any link, any regularly
established communication with us, I _fear_" (the Doctor's face had
grown red again)--"I fear, ma, I should have balked; I should have just
set my feet together, put down my head, and--raised the devil behind!"
"Why, my son, what language!" said his mother, surprised; though she
felt, too, the force of his comparison, as she lived in the country of
the mule.
"Excuse me, ma; I am excited, or rather I have been. But Garda is one of
us, you know, and we could not, _I_ could not, with a clear conscience
allow them to separate her from us entirely, hurry her off into a
society of which we know little or nothing, save that it is totally
different from our own--modern--mercantile--hurrying" (the Doctor was
evidently growing excited again)--"all that we most dislike. You are
probably thinking that there are Mrs. Rutherford, Mrs. Harold, yes, and
Mr. Winthrop too (if he would only dress himself more as a gentleman
should), to answer for it, to serve as specimens. Those charming ladies
would grace, I admit, any society--any society in the world! But I am
convinced that they are not specimens, they are exceptions; I am
convinced that society at the North is a very different affair. And,
besides, Garda belongs here. Her ancestors have been men of
distinction,--among the most distinguished, indeed, of this whole coast;
I _may_ be mistaken, of course, ma; I _may_ be too severe; but still I
cannot help thinking that at the North this would fall on ignorant ears;
that the people there are too--too ignorant of such matters to
appreciate them."
"I reckon you are right," replied Mrs. Kirby. "Still, Reginald, we must
not forget that it was the mother's own wish that Mrs. Harold should
take charge of Garda."
"Yes, ma, I know. Poor little Mistress Thorne, to whom I was most
sincerely attached"--here the Doctor paused to give a vigorous
cough--"was, we must remember, a New-Englander by birth, after all; and
in spite of her efforts (most praiseworthy they were too), she never
_quite_ outgrew that fact. It couldn't, therefore, be expected that she
should comprehend fully the great advantages (even taking merely the
worldly view of it) of having her daughter continue to live here--here
where such a descent is acknowledged, and proper honor paid to ancestors
of distinction."
"True, my son," said the neat little old lady, knitting on. "But still a
mother has a good deal to do with the 'descent!' I'm not sure that she
hasn't even more than an ancestor--ahem."
On the whole, as matters were now arranged, with Dr. Kirby appointed as
guardian, it could be said that Gracias accepted the new order of things
regarding Garda's future. Not thankfully or gratefully, not with inward
relief; it was simply an acquiescence. They felt, too, that their
acquiescence was magnanimous.
The only discordant element was Mrs. Rutherford. And she was very
discordant indeed. But as she confined the expression of her feelings to
her niece, the note of dissonance did not reach the others.
"It's beyond belief," she said. "What possible claim have these Thornes
upon you? The idea of her having tried to saddle you with that daughter
of hers! She took advantage of you, of course, and of the situation; I
am really indignant for you, and feel that I ought to come to your
rescue; I advise you to have nothing to do with it. You can be friendly,
of course, while we are here; but, afterwards, let it all drop."
"I can hardly do that when I have promised, Aunt Katrina," answered
Margaret. And she answered in the same way many times.
For Mrs. Rutherford could make a very dexterous use of the weapon of
iteration. She was seldom betrayed into a fretful tone, there was always
a fair show of reason in what she said (its purely personal foundation
she was skilful in concealing); her best thrust was to be so warmly on
the side of the person she was trying to lead, to be so "surprised" for
him, and "angry" for him (as against others), that he was led at last to
be "surprised" and "angry" himself, though in the beginning he might
have had no such idea. By these well-managed reiterations she had gained
her point many times during honest Peter's lifetime; he never failed to
be touched when he saw how warmly she was taking up "his side," though
up to that moment, perhaps, he had not been aware that he had a "side"
on that particular subject, or that anybody was on the other.
But if she gained her point with Peter, she did not gain it with Peter's
niece.
"Garda, I hope, will not be a trouble to you, Aunt Katrina. For the
present she is to remain at East Angels; when we go north, I shall place
her with Madame Martel."
"It's really pitiful to think how unhappy she will be," said Mrs.
Rutherford, the next day, shaking her head prophetically. "Poor
child--poor little southern flower--to take her away from this lovely
climate, and force her to live at the cold North--to take her away from
a real home, where they all love her, and put her with Madame Martel!
You must have a far sterner nature than _I_ have, Margaret, to be able
to do it."
To this Margaret made no answer.
"I really wish you would tell me why you rate your own influence over
that of everybody else," remarked Mrs. Rutherford on another occasion.
She spoke impersonally, as though it were simply a curiosity she felt.
"Have you had some experience in the management of young girls that I
know nothing about?"
"No," replied Margaret.
"Yet you undertake it without hesitation! You have more confidence in
your powers than I should have in mine, I confess. How do you know what
she may do? Depend upon it, she won't have our ideas at all. You are a
quiet sort of person, but she may be quite the reverse, and then what a
prospect! She will be talked about, such girls always are; she may even
get into the papers."
"Not for a year or two yet, I think," answered Margaret, smiling.
The next day, "It would be so _easy_ to do it now," observed the
handsome aunt; "it almost seems like a tempting of Providence to neglect
such an opportunity." (Mrs. Rutherford always lived on intimate terms
with Providence.) "You could keep up your interest in her, send her down
books, and even a governess for six months or so, if you wished to be
very punctilious; all the people here want Garda to stay--they cannot
bear to give her up; you would be doing them a kindness by yielding.
They are really fond of her, and she is fond of them; of course you
can't pretend that she cares for _you_ in that way?"
"Oh no, I don't pretend," replied Margaret.
"You carry her off without it!"
The next advance was on another line. "What are you going to do when she
is through school, Margaret?" demanded the inquirer, with interested
amiability. "She'll have to see something, go somewhere--you can't shut
her up; and who is going to chaperon her? I am an invalid, you know, and
you yourself are much too young. You must remember, my dear, that you
are a young and pretty woman." (Aunt Katrina had evidently been driven
to her best shot.)
But though this, or a similar remark, would have been certain to bring
down Peter, and place him just where his wife wished him to be, it
failed to bring down Peter's niece.
Mrs. Rutherford saw this. And concluded as follows: "However, it doesn't
make much difference; with the kind of beauty Garda Thorne has, no one
would look at _you_, you might be any age; she has the sort of face that
simply extinguishes every one else."
"Having no radiance of my own to look after, I can see her all the
better, then," replied Margaret. "She'll be the lighted Bank, and I the
policeman with the dark lantern."
Mrs. Rutherford did not like this answer, she thought it flippant. It
was true, however, that Margaret was very seldom flippant.
"It does seem to me so _weak_ to keep an extorted promise," she began
another day. "I suppose you won't deny that it was extorted?"
"It was very much wished for."
"And you gave it unwillingly."
"Not unwillingly, Aunt Katrina."
"Reluctantly, then."
"Yes, I was reluctant."
"You were reluctant," repeated Mrs. Rutherford, with triumph. "Of course
I knew you must be. But whatever possessed you to do it,
Margaret--induced you to consent, extortion or no extortion--that passes
me!"
Margaret gave no explanation. So the aunt attempted one. "It _almost_
seems as though you were influenced by something _I_ am ignorant of,"
she went on, making a little gesture of withdrawal with her hand, as if
she found herself on the threshold of mysterious regions of double
motive into which she should prefer not to penetrate.
This was a random ball. But Margaret's fair face showed a sudden color,
though the aunt's eyes did not detect it. "She is alone, and very young,
Aunt Katrina; I have promised, and I must keep my promise. But I shall
do my best to prevent it from disturbing you, with me you will always be
first; this is all I can say, and I do not think there is any use in
talking about it more." She had risen as she said these words, and now
she left the room.
In addition to her niece's obstinacy, this lady had now to bear the
discovery that her nephew Evert did not share her views respecting Garda
Thorne--views which seemed to her the only proper and natural ones; he
not only thought that Mrs. Harold should keep her promise, but he even
went further than she did in his ideas as to what that promise included.
"She ought to keep Garda with her, and not put her off at Madame
Martel's," he said.
"I see that _I_ am to be quite superseded," remarked Mrs. Rutherford, in
a pleasant voice, smoothing her handkerchief, however, with a sort of
manner which seemed to indicate that she might yet be driven to a
use--lachrymose--of that delicate fabric.
"My dear aunt, what can you be thinking of?" said Winthrop. "Nobody is
going to supersede you."
"But how _can_ I like the idea of sharing you with a stranger, Evert?"
Her tone continued affectionate; she seldom came as far as ill temper
with her nephew; she seldom, indeed, came as far as ill temper with any
man, a coat seemed to have a soothing effect upon her.
"There's no sharing, as far as I am concerned," Winthrop answered. "_I_
have nothing to do with Garda; it's Margaret."
"Yes, it _is_ Margaret. And very obstinate, too, has she been about it.
Now, if the girl had been left to me," pursued the lady, in a reasonable
way, "there would have been some sense in it. I have had experience, and
_I_ should know what to do. I should pick out an excellent governess,
and send her down here with all the books necessary--perhaps even a
piano," she added, largely; "in that way I should keep watch of the
child's education. But I should never have planned to take her away from
her home and all her friends; that would seem to me cruelty. My idea
would have been, and still is, that she should live here, say with the
Kirbys; then she would have the climate and life which she always has
had, to which she is accustomed; and in time probably she would marry
either that young Torres, or Manuel Ruiz, both quite suitable matches
for her. But what could she do in _our_ society, if Margaret should
persist, later, in taking her into it? It would be quite pitiable, she
would be so completely out of her element, poor little thing!"
"So beautiful a girl is apt to be in her element wherever she is, isn't
she?" remarked Winthrop.
"Is it possible, Evert, that you really admire her?"
"I admire her greatly."
The tears rose in Mrs. Rutherford's eyes at this statement. They were
only tears of vexation, but the nephew did not know that; he came and
stood beside her.
She had hidden her face in her handkerchief. "If you should ever marry
that girl, Evert, my heart would be broken!" she lamented from behind
it. "She isn't at all the person for you to marry."
Winthrop burst into a laugh. "I'm not at all the person for _her_ to
marry. Have you forgotten, Aunt Katrina, that I am thirty-five, and
she--barely sixteen?"
"Age doesn't make any difference," answered Mrs. Rutherford, still
tearful. "And you are very rich, Evert."
"Garda Thorne doesn't care in the least about money," responded
Winthrop, shortly, turning away.
"She ought to, then," rejoined Mrs. Rutherford, drying her eyes with a
soft pressure of the handkerchief, so that the lids should not be
reddened. "In fact, that is another of her lacks: she seems to have no
objection to imposing herself upon Margaret in a pecuniary way as well
as in others. She has nothing, there isn't literally a cent of income,
Betty Carew tells me; only a pile of the most extraordinarily darned old
clothes and house-linen, a decayed orange grove, and two obstinate old
negro servants, who don't really belong to anybody, and wouldn't obey
them if they did. That you should buy the place, that has been their one
hope; it was very clever of them to give you the idea."
"Garda didn't give it, I wanted the place as soon as I saw it. She _is_
ignorant about money; most girls of sixteen are. But what is it that
really vexes you so much in this affair, Aunt Katrina? I am sure there
is something."
"You are right," replied Mrs. Rutherford, with dignity. "But 'vexes' is
not the word, Evert. It is a deeper feeling." She had put away her
handkerchief, and now sat majestically in her chair, her white hands
extended on its cushioned arms. "_Hurt_ is the word; I am hurt about
Margaret. Here I have done everything in the world for her, opened my
home and my heart to her, in spite of _all_; and now she deserts me for
a totally insignificant person, a stranger."
"Margaret has always been very devoted to you, and I am sure she will
continue to be--she is conscientious in such things--no matter what
other responsibilities she may assume," said Winthrop, with warmth.
Mrs. Rutherford noticed this warmth (Winthrop noticed it too); but, for
the moment, she let it pass. "That is just it--other responsibilities,"
she answered; "but why should she assume any? Before she promised to
give that girl a home, she should have remembered that it was _my_ home.
Before she promised to take charge of her, she should have remembered
that she had other things in charge. I am an invalid, I require (and
most properly) a great deal of her care; not to give it, or to give it
partially, would be, after all I have done for her, most ungrateful; she
should have remembered that she was not free--free, that is, to make
engagements of that sort."
Winthrop had several times before in his life come face to face with the
evidence that his handsome, agreeable aunt was selfish. He was now face
to face with it again.
"As regards what you say about a home, Aunt Katrina, Margaret could at
any time have one of her own, if she pleased," he answered; "her income
fully permits it."
Mrs. Rutherford now gave way to tears that were genuine. "It's the first
time, Evert, I've known you to take _her_ part against me," she
answered, from behind her shielding handkerchief.
Winthrop recalled this speech later--after he had made his peace with
his afflicted relative; it _was_ the first time. He thought about it for
a moment or two--that he should have been driven to defend Lanse's wife.
But that was it, he had been driven. "She was so confoundedly unjust,"
he said to himself, thinking of his aunt. He knew that he had a great
taste for justice.
A few days after this he came to the eyrie one morning at an hour much
earlier than his accustomed one; he sent Celestine to ask Mrs. Harold to
come for a moment to the north piazza, the one most remote from Mrs.
Rutherford's rooms. Margaret joined him there immediately; her face wore
an anxious expression.
"I see you think I bring bad news--sending for you in this mysterious
way," he said, smiling. "It isn't bad at all; under the circumstances I
call it very good, the best thing that could have happened. Mr. Moore
has had a letter; Lucian Spenser was married last week. Something
sudden, I presume; probably it was that that took him north."
Margaret's eyes met his with what he called their mute expression. He
had never been able to interpret it, he could not now.
"It hasn't, of course, the least interest for us, except as it may touch
Garda," he went on. "I don't apprehend anything serious; still, as we
are the only persons who have known her little secret--this fancy she
has had--perhaps it would be better if one of us should go down to East
Angels and tell her before any one else can get there--don't you think
so? And will you go? or shall I?"
"You," Margaret answered.
"I don't often ask questions, you must give me that credit," he said,
looking at her. "But I should really like to know upon what grounds you
decide so quickly."
"The grounds are unimportant. But I am sure you are the one to go."
Winthrop, on the whole, wished to go. He now found himself telling his
reasons. "I can go immediately, that is one thing; you would have to
speak to Aunt Katrina, make arrangements, and that would take time. Then
I think that Garda has probably talked more freely to me about that
youth than she has to you; it's a little odd that she should, but I
think she has."
"It's very possible."
"On that account it would come in more naturally, perhaps, if she should
hear it first from me."
Again Margaret assented.
"And then it won't make her think it's important, my stopping there as I
pass; your going would have another look. I'm a little curious to see
how she will take it," he added.
"That is your real reason, I think," said Margaret.
"She has just lost her mother," he went on, without taking up this
remark. "Perhaps the real sorrow may make her forget the fictitious one;
I am sure I hope so. I will go down, then. But in case I am mistaken, in
case she should continue to--fancy herself in earnest, shall I come back
and tell you?"
"I suppose so, she is in my charge. But if I should have to go down
there myself, Aunt Katrina would take it rather ill, I am afraid,--that
is just now."
"You are very good to Aunt Katrina, I want to tell you that I appreciate
it; I am afraid she has rather a way of treating you as an appendage to
herself, not as an independent personage."
"That is all I am--an appendage," said Margaret. She paused. "Feeling as
she does," she continued, "she yet allows me to stay with her. That has
been a great deal to me."
Winthrop's face changed a little; up to this time his expression had
been almost warmly kind. "Feeling as she does!" Yes, Aunt Katrina might
well feel as she did, with her favorite nephew, her almost son,
wandering about the world (this was one of the aunt's expressions, he
used it in his thoughts unconsciously), without a home, because he had
a wife so Pharisaic, so icily unforgiving.
"You make too much of it," he answered, coldly; "the obligation is by no
means all on one side." Then he finished what he had begun to say before
she made her remark. "I had occasion to remind my aunt, only the other
day, that if at any time you should wish to have a home of your own, she
ought not to object. She would miss you greatly, of course; I,
however--and I am glad to have this opportunity of saying it--should
consider such a wish very natural, and I should be happy to do
everything possible towards furthering it."
"I have no such wish; but perhaps you think--perhaps you prefer that I
should leave Mrs. Rutherford?" She had turned away, he could not see the
expression of face that accompanied the words.
"It would be impossible that I should prefer such a thing; I don't think
you can be sincere in saying it," responded Winthrop, with a tinge of
severity. "We both know perfectly well what you are to Aunt Katrina;
what is the use of pretending otherwise?" His voice softened. "Your
patience with her is admirable; as I said before, don't think I don't
see it. I spoke on your own account, I thought you might be tired."
"I am tired--sometimes. But I should be tired just the same in a house
of my own," answered Margaret Harold.
He left her, and rode down to East Angels.
But his visit was short; before three o'clock he was again at the eyrie.
"I think you had better go down," he said to Margaret, as soon as he
could speak to her unheard. "She is taking it most unreasonably; she is
crying almost convulsively, and listens to nothing. So far, Mrs. Carew
thinks it the old grief for her mother; a revival. But she won't think
so long; for Garda, you know, never conceals anything; as soon as she is
a little calmer she will be sure to say something that will let out the
whole."
"You do not want it known?"
"I thought we were agreed about that. How can any one who cares for the
girl want it known? It's so"--he hesitated for a word, and then fell
back upon the useful old one--"so childish," he repeated.
"I will go down, then," said Margaret.
"The sooner the better. I hope that you will be able to bring her to
reason."
"But if you didn't--"
"I didn't because I lost my temper a little. It seemed to me that the
time had come to speak to her plainly."
"Plainly generally means severely. I think severity will never have much
effect upon Garda; if you are severe, you will only lose your
influence."
"My influence!--I don't know that I have any. What is your idea of
Edgarda Thorne?" he said, suddenly. "I don't know that I have ever asked
you. Very likely you won't tell."
"I will tell exactly, so far as I know it myself--my idea," replied
Margaret. "One cannot have a very definite idea of a girl of sixteen."
"I beg your pardon; to me she seems a remarkably definite person."
"She is, in one way. I think she is very warm-hearted. I think she is
above petty things; I have never seen any girl who went so little into
details. Mentally, I think her very clever, though she is also indolent.
Her frankness would be the most remarkable thing about her were it not
for her beauty, which is more remarkable still; it is her beauty, I
think, that makes her, young as she is, so 'definite,' as you call it."
"We seem to have much the same idea of her," said Winthrop. "I shouldn't
have thought it possible," he added.
"That we should agree in anything?" said Margaret, with a faint smile.
"No, not that; but a woman so seldom has the same idea of another woman
that a man has. And--if you will allow me to say it--I think the man's
idea often the more correct one, for a woman will betray (confide, if
you like the term better) more of her inner nature, her real self, to a
man, when she knows him well and likes him, than she ever will to any
woman, no matter how well she may know and like her."
Margaret concurred in this.
"So you agree with me there too? Another surprise! What I have said is
true enough, but women generally dispute it."
"What you have said is true, after a fashion," Margaret answered. "But
the inner feelings you speak of, the real self, which a woman confides
to the man she likes rather than to a woman, these are generally her
ideal feelings, her ideal self; what she thinks she feels, or hopes to
feel, rather than the actual feeling; what she wishes to be, rather than
what she is. She may or may not attain her ideal; but in the mean time
she is judged, by those of her own sex at least, according to her
present qualities, what she has already attained; what she is
practically, and every day."
"So you think it is her ideals that Garda has confided to me? What sort
of an ideal was Lucian Spenser!"
"Garda is an exception; she has no ideals."
"Oh! don't make her out so disagreeable."
"I couldn't make her out disagreeable even if I should try," answered
Margaret. "All I mean is that her nature is so easy, so sunny, that it
has never occurred to her to be discontented; and if you are contented
you don't have ideals."
"Now you are making her out self-complacent."
"No, only simple; richly natural and healthy. She puts the rest of us
(women, I mean) to shame--the rest of us with our complicated motives,
and involved consciences."
"I hope you don't mean to say that Garda has no conscience?"
Margaret looked up; she saw that he was smiling. "She has quite enough
for her happiness," she answered, smiling too.
But in spite of the smile he detected a melancholy in her tone. And this
he instantly resented. For he would never allow that it was owing to her
conscientiousness--her conscience, in short--that Margaret Harold's
married life had been what it was; that sort of conscientiousness was
odious.
"Don't imagine that I admire conscience," he remarked. "Too much of it
makes an arid desert of a woman's life. A woman of that sort, too, makes
her whole family live in the desert!"
Margaret made no reply to this. She left him and went to find Mrs.
Rutherford.
"Of course if it is Garda, little Garda," that lady replied, with a sort
of sardonic playfulness which she had lately adopted, "I couldn't dream
of objecting." She had given up open opposition since Winthrop's
suggestion that Margaret could have, if she should wish it, a home of
her own. The suggestion had been very disagreeable, not only in itself
(the possibility of such a thing), but also because it cut so completely
across her well-established position that it was an immense favor on her
part to give Margaret a home. The favor implied, of course, a following
gratitude; and Margaret's gratitude had been the broad cushion upon
which Mrs. Rutherford had been comfortably seated for seven years. Take
it away, and she would be reduced to making objections--objections (if
it should really come to that) to Margaret's departure; and what
objections could she make? She would never admit that her niece's
presence had become necessary to her comfort; and to say that she was
too young and attractive to be at the head of a house of her own, this
would not accord at all with her accustomed way of speaking of her--a
way which had carried with it the implication (though not in actual
words) that she was neither. For some reason, the youth of other women
was always an offence to Mrs. Rutherford.
However, she was skilful in reducing that attraction. Up to twenty,
girls, of course, were "silly," "uninteresting." After that date, they
all sprang immediately, in her estimation, to be "at least twenty-five,"
and well on the road, both in looks and character, to old-maidhood. If
they married, it was even easier; for in a few months they were sure to
become "so faded and changed, poor things," that one would scarcely know
them; and, with a little determination, this stage could be kept along
for fifteen or twenty years. Only when they were over forty did Mrs.
Rutherford begin to admit the possibility of their being rather
attractive; in this lady's opinion, all the really "superb" women were
several years even beyond that.
"I shall not be long away this time," Margaret had responded.
"Oh, enjoy your new plaything; it won't last!" said the aunt, still
sportive.
Margaret reached East Angels before sunset. Mrs. Carew told her that
Garda was down at the landing.
"I've been down there three times myself; in fact, I've just got back,"
said Betty, who looked flushed by these excursions. "The truth is, I
fancy she doesn't want to talk--she's cried so; and so of course I don't
stay, of course. And then, no sooner do I get back here, than I think
perhaps she's lonely, and down I go again. I don't mind the walk in the
_least_, though it _is_ a little warm to-day, but Carlos Mateo seems to
have taken a spite against me, for every single time, both going and
coming, he has chased me the whole length of the live-oak avenue--just
as soon as we were out of Garda's sight; and I'm _so_ afraid he'll reach
down and nip my ankles, that I _run_. However, I don't mind it at all,
_really_; and when I came up this last time I thought the best thing I
could do would be to try and get up something nice for Garda's supper;
she's touched nothing since morning, and so much crying is dreadfully
exhausting, of course. I'm right glad you've come, you'll be such a
comfort to her; and now _I_ will devote my time (I reckon it'll take it
all) to that Raquel, who certainly is the most tiresome; the only manner
of means, Mrs. Harold, by which I can get what I want this evening is to
keep going out to the kitchen and pretend to be merely looking in for a
moment or two in a friendly sort of way, as though she were an old
servant of my own, and talk about other matters, and then just allude to
the supper at the end casually, as one may call it; by keeping this up
an hour and a half _more_ (I've already been out three times) I _may_
get some faint approach to what I'm after. You see I'm only a Georgian,
not a Spaniard! And to think of what poor little Mistress Thorne must
have gone through with her--she, not even a Southerner! Oh dear! she
must have suffered. But a good many of us have suffered," continued
Betty, suddenly breaking down and bursting into tears. "I'm sure I don't
know why I cry now, Mrs. Harold, any more than any other time; I'm
ashamed of myself, really I am. But--sometimes--I--cannot--help it!" And
for a few moments the stout, ruddy-faced woman sobbed bitterly. In
truth she had suffered; she had seen her brothers, her husband's
brothers, her young nephews, her own fortune and theirs, swept off by
war, together with the hopes and beliefs which had been as real to her
as life itself. She had never reasoned much, or argued, but she had
felt. The unchangeable sweetness of her disposition, which had kept her
from growing bitter, had not been a sign of quick forgetfulness; poor
Betty's heart ached often, and never, never forgot.
"I didn't think you could be so sympathetic, my dear," she said,
naively, to Margaret, as she wiped her eyes. "Thank you; I can see now
why Garda's so fond of you." She pressed Margaret's hand, kissed her,
and, still shaken by her sudden emotion, went out for another encounter
with Raquel.
Margaret found Garda on the bench at the landing. She looked pale and
exhausted, and was glad to lay her head on her northern friend's
shoulder and tell her all her grief. It was a surprising sort of
sorrow--she expressed it freely as usual; there was no manifestation of
wounded pride in it, no anger that she had been so soon forgotten, or
jealousy of the person whom Lucian had married; she seemed, indeed,
scarcely to remember the person whom Lucian had married. All she
remembered was that now she should probably not see him again, or soon
again; and this was the cause of all her tears--disappointment in the
hope of having the pleasure, the entertainment, of his presence. For it
all came back to that, her amusement; the rich share of enjoyment that
had been taken from her; even Lucian himself she did not dwell upon save
as he was associated with this, save as he could give her the delight of
looking at him (she announced this as a great delight), could charm her
with the versatility of his talk. "I have never seen any one half so
beautiful"--"Nobody _ever_ made me laugh so"--these two declarations she
repeated over and over again; Margaret could have laughed herself had
the grief which accompanied them been less real. But there was nothing
feigned in the heavy eyes, and the sobs which came every now and then,
shaking the girl's whole frame.
She remained at East Angels two days. During this time, while she was
very gentle with Garda, she did not try to "bring her to reason," as
Winthrop had suggested; but she did try the method of simple listening,
and found it very efficacious.
Garda, unrebuffed, unchilled, and frank as always, let out all her
thoughts, all her feelings; she said some very astonishing
things--astonishing, that is, to her hearer; but then she was herself an
astonishing girl, an unusual girl. The end of it was that the unusual
girl clung more closely than ever to her friend, and that she soon
became calmer, passive if not happy. Winthrop, coming down to East
Angels on the second day, found her so, and took counsel with Margaret,
after she had returned home, over the change; he expressed the opinion
that very soon she would have forgotten all about it. In this he was
mistaken; the days passed, and Garda remained in the same passive
condition. She was gentle with every one; to Margaret and Winthrop she
was affectionate. But in spite of her bloom--for her color came back as
soon as the tears ceased--in spite of her rich youthfulness, she had the
appearance of a person who has stopped, who does not care, who has lost
interest and lets the world go by. This could not make her look older;
but it did give her a strange expression.
"A mourning child is worse than a mourning woman," said Winthrop to
Margaret, emphatically. "It's unnatural."
"Garda isn't a child," she answered.
"Since when have you come to that conclusion?"
She hesitated. "I think, perhaps, I have never fully understood her. I
don't know that I understand her even now."
"Oh, 'understand'--as if she were a sphinx, poor little girl! One thing
is certain," he added, rather contradictorily, "if she loses her
simplicity, she loses all her charm."
"Not all, I think."
"Yes, all to me."
"You cannot see what she finds to admire in Lucian Spenser; that is what
vexes you."
"I am not in the least vexed. She fancied her own fancy, her own
imagination; that was all."
"Garda has very little imagination."
"How you dislike her!" said Winthrop, looking straight into her eyes.
To his surprise he almost thought he saw them falter. "On the contrary,
I am much attached to her," she answered, letting her glance drop; "I
shall grow very fond of her, I see that. It was nothing against her to
say that she has little imagination. If she had had more, would she have
been so contented here? I think it has been very fortunate."
"Yes, she has certainly been contented," said Winthrop. "I like that."
"As to what you say about her losing her simplicity, I don't think she
has lost it in the least. Why, what could be a greater evidence of it
than the open way in which she has shown out to me, but more especially
to you, all she has felt about Mr. Spenser?"
"Yes, to me--I should think so! I might have been her grandfather,"
responded Winthrop, flapping his hat with his gloves, which he had just
discovered in some unremembered pocket.
In the mean time the dark Torres, lean and solemn, had haunted East
Angels ever since Mrs. Thorne's death. Twice a day, with deep reverence
for affliction, he came to inquire after Garda's health; twice a day,
walking almost on tiptoe, he withdrew. His visits never exceeded ten
minutes in length. So great was his respect that he never sat down. But
underneath all this quietude the feelings, which Manuel had described as
volcanic, were surging within; if they did not show on the surface, that
was the misfortune (or advantage) of having a profound sense of dignity,
and a yellow skin. Garda was now alone in the world, and she was in
great trouble; like the other Gracias friends, Torres believed that all
the recent grief, together with the change in her, had been caused by
her mother's death--Margaret and Winthrop had at least succeeded in
that. But even if all Gracias had known the truth, Torres would never
have known it; he would never have known it because he would never have
believed it. A Torres believed only what was credible, and such a tale
about a Duero would be incredible. In the same way, he had never given
the least credit to the story that Garda was going north--to New York.
Why should Garda go to New York, any more than he, Torres, to Japan? No;
what Garda needed now was not wild travelling about the world with
promiscuous people, but safeguards that were not promiscuous; safeguards
that should be embodied in a single and distinct Arm, a single and
distinguished Name; in short, what he himself could give her--an
Alliance; an Alliance suited to her birth.
So when the visits of affliction had been all accomplished, he started
one morning in his best attire, and his aunt's black boat, rowed by
eight negroes, for Gracias-a-Dios, to ask permission from Reginald
Kirby, guardian, to "address," with reference to an Alliance, the
Dueros' daughter.
The Giron fields, meanwhile, lay idle and empty behind him; he had swept
them of every man.
"Dear Adolfo," said his aunt, who, as a widow with six little children,
was trying hard (for a Giron) to raise something on her plantation that
year, "must you have them all? They are very much needed to-day, we are
so behindhand with everything."
"My aunt, what is sugar compared with our name?"
Madam Giron immediately agreed that it was nothing, nothing.
"Look out, my aunt, as we start; that will be compensation," said
Adolfo.
Madam Giron not only looked out, but she came down to the landing. She
was a handsome woman still, though portly; she had dark eyes of a
charming expression, and shining black hair elaborately braided. When
she was dressed for a visit she had a waist. On ordinary occasions it
lapped over the band more or less. She was good-nature itself, and now
stood on the bank smiling, wearing a gown of rather shapeless aspect,
which was, however, short enough to show a pair of very pretty Spanish
feet incased in neat little black slippers. She had already forgotten
the idle fields in her pride at the fine appearance of the rowers. "A
good voyage!" she said.
The boat, with the eight negroes sitting close together, was low in the
water as it started off. The stern seemed higher; any place where Torres
sat always seemed higher.
Reaching Gracias, he landed at the water-steps of the plaza, and leaving
the boat waiting below, went to the residence of the Kirbys--an old
white house in a large garden. Dr. Reginald, for the moment, was out.
Torres signified that he would return, and making his way with his stiff
gait to one of the side streets, he walked up and down for twenty
minutes, beguiling the time (as all his phrases for the interview were
definitely arranged, and he did not wish to disturb them) by trying to
translate a sign which was nailed on a low coquina house near.
CHRISTOBAL REY,
TONSORIAL ARTIST.
N.B.--CLEAN TOWELS. SATISFACTION
GUARANTEED.
Having thus employed the interval (and still at "Tonsorial" in his
attempted translation), he returned to the Kirby homestead.
The Doctor was now in, and received him courteously. Torres, standing in
the centre of the room, hat in hand, his feet drawn together at the
heels, made (after several opening sentences of ceremony which he had
constructed with care at home) his formal demand.
The Doctor had always got on very well with Torres by replying to him in
English; any chance remark would do. Torres listened to the remark with
respect, understanding no more of it than the Doctor had understood of
the Spanish sentence which had preceded it. Then, after due pause, the
Cuban would say something more in his own tongue. And the Doctor would
again reply in English. In this way they had had, when they happened to
meet, quite long conversations, which appeared to be satisfactory to
both. The Doctor now reverted to this method; the boy had evidently come
to pay him a visit of ceremony in acknowledgment of several invitations;
he would not probably stay long. So, in answer to Torres' request for
permission to "address" Garda, with reference to an "Alliance," he
replied that on the whole he thought the oranges would be good this
year, though--and here followed a little disquisition on the effects
respectively of wet and dry seasons, to which Torres listened with
gravity unmoved. He then advanced to his second position: he hoped the
Doctor, as guardian, cherished no personal objections to his suit; this
was the courtesy of ceremony on his part, of course; the Doctor
naturally could cherish no objection.
The Doctor replied that he had never cared much for mandarins; for his
own part, he preferred the larger kinds. However, that was a matter of
taste--each one to his own; he believed in letting everybody have what
he liked. And, having the third time pushed a chair in vain towards his
visitor, he waived further ceremony and seated himself; he had already
been kept standing unconscionably long.
Torres, who had understood at least the gesture, responded with
deference, pointing out that to be seated would not accord with his
present position as most humble of suitors for the Doctor's favor.
And then the Doctor responded that, to please his mother, he had planted
a few mandarins after all.
So they went on. The Doctor thought his visitor would never go. From his
comfortable chair he watched him standing in his fixed attitude,
producing his Spanish phrases, one after the other, with grave
regularity, whenever there was a pause. Finally the Doctor, who had a
gleam of fun in him, folded his arms and recited to him two hundred
lines from "The Rape of the Lock," which was one of his favorite poems;
he emphasized the parts which he liked, and even gesticulated a little
as he went on, not hurrying at all, but finishing the whole in round
full tones, with excellent taste and elocution. "There!" he said to
himself; "let us see how he likes that."
But Torres, apparently, liked it as well as anything else; he listened
to the whole without change of expression, and then, after the proper
pause, brought out another of his remarks. The Doctor glanced at the
clock; the visitor had been there over half an hour. "Look here, Torres,
what _is_ it you are talking about?" he said, convinced at last that the
Cuban had really something to say, and that their usual tactics would
not do this time. He had understood not a word of the long Spanish
sentences, for Garda's name, which might have thrown some light upon
them, had been scrupulously left unspoken by this punctilious suitor,
who had used the third person throughout, alluding to her solely as the
descendant of her ancestors, and, as such, a "consort" who would be
accepted by his own.
Torres watched while the Doctor walked about the room, trying to think
of something which should act as interpreter; he paused at pen and paper
on the writing-table; but written Spanish was no clearer to him than
spoken. At last, with a sudden inspiration, he took down a dictionary.
"Here," he said, "find the words you want." And he thrust the Spanish
half upon the grave young man.
But Torres recoiled; he could not possibly make a "school exercise," he
declared, of his most sacred aspirations.
The Doctor, exasperated, pried the words out of him one by one, and then
himself, with spectacles on, looked them out, or tried to, in the
dictionary. But progress was slow; Torres' sentences contained much
circumlocution, and he would not give the infinitives of his verbs when
the Doctor asked for them, considering it beneath his dignity to lend
himself in any way to such a childish performance. At length, after much
effort, suddenly the Doctor got at his meaning. "You ridiculous idiot!"
he said, throwing the dictionary down with a slam (for he had had to
work hard, and the print was fine), "you make 'an Alliance,' indeed!
Alliance! Why, you're two years under age yourself, and haven't done
growing yet, not to speak of your having nothing in the world to offer a
wife that I know of--except your impudence, which is colossal, I grant!
Go home and play with your top. When you're a man, you can come back and
talk of it--if you like; at present face about, go home and play with
your top!"
Torres, of course, could not comprehend these injunctions. But he could
comprehend the Doctor's opening the door for him; and, with respect
unbroken, he formally took leave. He walked down the side street, and
looked mechanically at the sign again; but he could not translate it any
more than he could the Doctor's last sentence, whose words he carried
carefully in his memory. He went back to his boat, and was rowed in
state again down the shining water.
"My aunt," he said, when he had arrived, drawing Madam Giron apart from
the small Girons who encompassed her, "what is
'Co--ome--oonplay--weetyer--torp?'"
But Madam Giron could not tell him; her English was not imaginative
enough to enable her to comprehend her nephew's pronunciations. Torres
decided that he would go and ask Manuel, and rowed himself across to
Patricio for the purpose; this not being a state occasion, it was
allowable to ply the oars.
"Manuel, what is 'Co--ome--oonplay--weetyer--torp?'" he said, appearing
on the piazza of Manuel's room, which formed one of the wings of the
rambling old house.
But Manuel was in a desperate humor; he was putting on his hat, then
dragging it off again, and rushing up and down the room with a rapid
step; he glared at his friend, but would not reply.
"I asked you, Manuel, what is 'Co--ome--oonplay--weetyer--torp?'"
repeated Torres. "It is what the Gracias-a-Dios doctor said to me, as
answer, when (after very long stupidity on his part; I can say it to
you, Manuel--doltishly long) he at last comprehended that I was
requesting his permission to address the Senorita Duero. Naturally, as
you will now understand, I desire a careful translation."
Manuel laughed bitterly. "So you've got it too! But _I_ went to the girl
herself, as you would have done if you hadn't been such a ninny; but
you're always a ninny. What do you suppose she said to me--yes, Garda
herself?" he went on, furiously, dropping, in the recital of his wrongs,
even the pleasure of abusing his friend. "Here I only went to her
because she is so alone now, so unhappy, it was pure compassion on my
part; I made sacrifices, _sacrifices_, I tell you, and poignant ones!--I
intended to see the world first. Am I not in the flower of my youth--I
ask you that? Am I not keenly pleasing? But--everybody knows! Well, was
she grateful? I leave you to judge! She deliberately said--yes, in so
many words--that she had never cared for me, when the whole world knows
she has cared to distraction, to frenzy. And she had the effrontery to
add that the only person she cared for--and for him she cared 'day and
night'--was that--that--" In his rage Manuel could not speak the name,
but he seized a great knife with a sharp edge, and cut straight through
a book which was lying on the table. "There!" he cried, throwing the
severed leaves in handfuls about the room, "that is how I will serve
him--Spenser-r-r-r! Let him come on!" And he continued to throw the
papers wildly.
Torres was shocked. Not at the sight of his friend displaying his
vengeance in that childish fashion; he had long considered Manuel
hopelessly undignified. His shock came from the idea of a Senorita Duero
having been spoken to on such a subject, spoken to directly! Of course
she had rejected Manuel (it would always be of course that she should
reject Manuel), but the idea of her having been forced to do so by word
of mouth--being deprived of the delicate privilege of expressing herself
through her proper guardian! As to the story that she was thinking of
some one else, "day and night," he paid no heed to it; that was plainly
Manuel's fiction. No one could for a moment believe that the senorita
thought of any one long after sunset--say half-past seven or eight;
anything else would be clearly improper.
"If you had given the subject a deeper consideration, Manuel--" he
began.
But Manuel was still engaged with the book; he was now slicing the
cover. "Spenser-r-r-r-r!"
Torres went towards him, and put out his forefinger with an impressive
gesture. "I say if you had given the subject a deeper consideration,
Manuel--"
"Scat!" said Manuel.
"What?" said the Cuban.
"Scat! scat! You're no better than an old tabby."
Torres looked at him solemnly. Then he put up his finger again. "It was
_not_ the proper course, Manuel," he began, a third time. "If you had
given--"
"Oh, _go_ to the devil!" cried Manuel, with a sort of howl, leaping
towards him with the knife.
Torres thought he had better go.
He was not in the least afraid of Manuel; Torres had never been afraid
in his life. But Manuel was a little excited (he had the bad habit of
excitement); it was, perhaps, better to leave him to himself for a
while. So he went back to the main-land; and meditated upon the Doctor's
words. They remained mysterious, and the next day he made another
progress up the Espiritu to Gracias, having decided to intrust his
secret to the good rector of St. Philip and St. James', and profit by
his knowledge of both languages.
The Rev. Mr. Moore was not only good, but he had not been troubled by
nature with too large an endowment of humor--often an inconvenient
possession. He listened to his visitor's story and the quoted sentence
with gravity; then, after a moment's meditation, he put his long hands
together, the tip of each delicately finished finger accurately meeting
its mate, and made a discreet translation as follows: "You are still
young; it would be better, perhaps, to remain at home until you are
somewhat older." "Somewhat" was Mr. Moore's favorite word; everything
with him was somewhat so; nothing (save wickedness) entirely so. In this
way he escaped rashness. Certainly Reginald Kirby had put no "somewhat"
of any sort in his answer to the Cuban. But Mr. Moore was of the opinion
that he intended to do so (being prevented, probably, by that same
rashness), and so he gave his guest the benefit of the doubt.
Torres reflected upon the translation; he had accepted a chair this
time, but sat hat in hand, his heels drawn together as before. "With
your favor, sir," he said at last, raising his eyes and making the
clergyman a little bow, "this seems to me hardly an acceptance?"
"Hardly, I think," replied the clergyman, with moderation.
"At the same time, it is not a rejection. As I understand it, I am
advised--for the present at least--simply to wait?" And he looked at the
clergyman inquiringly.
"Exactly--very simple--to wait," assented Mr. Moore.
The Cuban rose; and made ceremonious acknowledgments.
"You return?" asked the clergyman, affably.
"I return."
"There is, no doubt, much to interest you on the plantation," remarked
Mr. Moore, in a general way.
"What there is could be put upon the point of the finest lance known to
history, and balanced there," replied Torres, with a dull glance of his
dull dark eyes.
"I fear that young man has a somewhat gloomy disposition," thought the
clergyman, when left alone.
Torres went down the lagoon again; and began to wait.