The next afternoon Margaret was strolling in the old garden of East
Angels. The place now belonged to Evert Winthrop; but it had not pleased
him to make many changes, and the garden remained almost as much of a
blooming wilderness as before. When at home (and it was seldom that she
was absent for any length of time, as she had been the previous day)
Margaret was occupied at this hour; it was the hour when Mrs. Rutherford
liked to have "some one" read to her. This "some one" was always
Margaret.
Poor Aunt Katrina had been a close prisoner all summer; an affection of
the hip had prostrated her so that she had not been able to leave East
Angels, or her bed. Everything that care or money could do for her had
been done, Winthrop having sent north for "fairly _ship-loads_ of every
known luxury," Betty Carew declared, "so that it makes a _real_ my ship
comes from India, you know, loaded with everything wonderful, from brass
beds down to verily _ice-cream_!" It was true that a schooner had
brought ice; and many articles had been sent down from New York by sea.
The interior of the old house now showed its three eras of occupation,
as an old Roman tower shows its antique travertine at the base, its
mediaeval sides, and modern top. In the lower rooms and in the corridors
there remained the original Spanish bareness, the cool open spaces
empty of furniture. Then came the attempted prettinesses of Mrs. Thorne,
chiefly manifested in toilet-tables made out of wooden boxes, covered
with paper-cambric, and ruffled and flounced in white muslin, in a very
large variety of table mats, in pin-cushions, in pasteboard brackets
adorned with woollen embroidery. Last of all, incongruously placed here
and there, came the handsome modern furniture which had been ordered
from the North by Winthrop when Dr. Kirby finally said that Mrs.
Rutherford would not be able to leave East Angels for many a month to
come.
The thick walls of the old house, the sea-breeze, the spaciousness of
her shaded room, together with her own reduced condition, had prevented
the invalid from feeling the heat. Margaret and Winthrop, who had not
left her, had learned to lead the life which the residents led; they
went out in the early morning, and again at nightfall, but through the
sunny hours they kept within-doors; during the middle of the day indeed
no one stirred; even the negroes slept.
The trouble with the hip had declared itself on the very day Winthrop
had announced his engagement to the group of waiting friends at the
lower door. The news, therefore, had not been repeated in the sick-room;
Mrs. Rutherford did not know it even now. Her convalescence was but just
beginning; throughout the summer, and more than ever at present, Dr.
Kirby told them, the hope of permanent recovery for her lay in the
degree of tranquillity, mental as well as physical, in which they should
be able to maintain her, day by day. Winthrop and Margaret knew that
tranquillity would be at an end if she should learn what had happened;
they therefore took care that she should not learn. There was, indeed,
no occasion for hurry, there was to be no talk of marriage until Garda
should be at least eighteen. In the mean time Aunt Katrina lived, in one
way, in the most complete luxury; she had now but little pain, and
endless was the skill, endless the patience, with which the six persons
who were devoted to her--Margaret, Winthrop, Dr. Kirby, Betty Carew,
Celestine, and Looth--labored to maintain her serenity unbroken, to vary
her few pleasures. Betty, it is true, had to stop outside the door each
time, and press back almost literally, with her hand over her mouth,
the danger of betraying the happiness of "dear Evert" and "darling
Garda" through her own inadvertence; but her genuine affection for
Katrina accomplished the miracle of making her for the time being almost
advertent, though there was sure to be a vast verbal expansion
afterwards, when she had left the room, which was not unlike the
physical one that ensued when she released herself, after paying a
visit, from her own tightly fitting best gown.
To-day Aunt Katrina had felt suddenly tired, and the reading had been
postponed; Margaret had come out to the garden. She strolled down a path
which had recently been reopened to the garden's northern end; here
there was a high hedge, before which she paused for a moment to look at
a sensitive-plant which was growing against the green. Suddenly she
became conscious that she heard the sound of low voices outside; then
followed a laugh which she was sure she knew well. She stepped across
the boundary ditch, full of bloom, and looked through the foliage.
Beyond was an old field; then another high hedge. In the field, a little
to the right, there was a thicket, and here, protected by its
crescent-shaped bend, which enclosed them both in its half-circle, were
Garda and Lucian; Lucian was sketching his companion.
Only the sound of their voices reached Margaret, not their words. She
looked at them for a moment; then she stepped back over the ditch,
passed through the garden, and returned to the house, where she seated
herself on a stone bench which stood near the lower door. Here she
waited, she waited nearly an hour; then Garda appeared, alone.
Margaret rose, went to meet her, and putting her arm in hers, turned her
towards the orange walk. "Come and stroll a while," she said.
"You are tired, Margaret; I wish you didn't have so much care," said
Garda, affectionately, as she looked at her. "Mrs. Rutherford isn't
worse, I hope?"
"No; she is sleeping," Margaret answered. After a pause: "You heard from
Evert this morning, I believe?"
"Yes; didn't I show you the letter? I meant to. I think it's in my
pocket now," and searching, she produced a crumpled missive.
Margaret took it. Mechanically her fingers smoothed out its creases, but
she did not open it. "You have been out for a walk?" she said at last,
with something of an effort.
But Garda did not notice the effort; she was enjoying her own life very
fully that afternoon. "No," she answered. Then she laughed. "You could
not possibly guess where I have been."
"I am afraid I couldn't make the effort to-day."
"And you shall not--I'll tell you; I've been in the green studio.
Fortunately you haven't the least idea where that is."
"Have you taken to painting, then?"
"No; painting has taken to me. Lucian has been here."
"When did he come?"
"About two hours ago, I should say. You didn't see him because he did
not come to the house; I met him in--in the green studio, of course; I
gave him another sitting."
"Then you expected him?" said Margaret, looking at her.
"Yes; we made the arrangement in the only instant you gave us
yesterday--when you went to hang your wreath on that old tomb."
"Why was it necessary to be so secret about it? Am I such an ogre?"
"No; you're a fairy godmother. But you would have objected to it, and
spoiled it all beforehand; you know you would," said Garda, with gay
accusation.
Margaret's eyes were following the little inequalities of the ground
before them as they advanced.
"Perhaps you could have brought me round," she answered. "At any rate,
you must admit me to the next sitting."
"No, that I cannot do, Margaret; so don't ask me. I love to be with you,
and I love to be with Lucian. But I don't love to be with you two
together--you watch him so."
"I--watch Mr. Spenser? Oh no!"
"Well, then--and it's the same thing--you watch me."
"Is that the word to use, Garda? You are under my charge--I have hoped
that it was not disagreeable to you; I have tried--"
Garda stopped and kissed her. "It isn't disagreeable; it's beautiful,"
she said, with impulsive warmth. "But there's no use in your trying to
keep me from seeing Lucian," she added, as they walked on; "I can't
imagine how you should even think of it, when you know so well how much
I have always liked him. Oh, what a comfort it is just to _see_ him here
again!"
"You must remember that he has other things to think of now."
"Only his wife; he needn't take long to think of her."
"He took long enough to leave Gracias last winter and go north and marry
her."
"Yes; and wasn't it good of him? I couldn't bear to have him go at the
time; but I've forgotten all about that, now that he's back again."
"But not alone this time."
"Lucian's always alone for me," responded Garda. "But why do you keep
talking about Mrs. Rosalie, Margaret? Isn't it enough that we have to
talk _to_ her? She isn't an object of pity in the least; she's got
everything she wants, and six times more than she deserves; I detest
people who, when they're cross, are all upper lip."
A vision of Rosalie's face rose in Margaret's mind. But she did not at
present discuss its outlines with Garda, she simply said, "I must come
to the next sitting. And don't choose for it the exact hour when I'm
reading to Aunt Katrina."
"I chose that hour on purpose, so that you shouldn't know."
"Yes, because you thought I should object. But if I don't object--"
"You do," said Garda, laughing; "you're only pretending you don't. Very
well, then. Only--you mustn't keep stopping me."
"Stopping you? What do you mean?"
"Oh, stopping, stopping--I mean just that; there's no other word. I want
to look at Lucian and talk to him exactly as I please."
"I'm not aware that I've blinded or gagged you," said Margaret, smiling.
"No, but you have a way of saying something that makes a change; you
make him either get up, or turn his head away, or else you stop what
he's saying. You see, _he_ follows your lead."
"Though you do not."
"He does it from politeness--politeness to you," Garda went on.
"Yes, he has very good manners," said Margaret, dryly.
"Haven't I good manners too?" demanded the girl, in a caressing tone,
crossing her hands upon her friend's arm.
"Very bad ones, sometimes. Now, Garda, don't you really think--"
"I never really think, I never even think without the really. What is
the use of getting all white with thinking?--you can't set anything
straight by it. _You_ are sometimes so white that you frighten me."
"Never mind my whiteness; I never have any color," said Margaret, a
nervous impatience showing itself suddenly. Then she controlled herself.
"Are you thinking of having another sitting to-morrow?"
"Perhaps; it isn't quite certain yet. I don't know whether you know that
Lucian is trying to persuade Madam Giron to take him in for a while?"
"To take _him_ in?"
"Them-m-m," said Garda, "since you insist upon it."
"I can't imagine Madame Giron consenting," said Margaret. She was much
surprised by this intelligence.
"She wouldn't unless it were to please Adolfo; if he should urge her to
do it. And I think he will urge her, because--because he and Mrs.
Spenser are such great friends."
"They're nothing of the sort. You know as well as I do that she only
talks to him because her husband likes him."
"Well, then, Adolfo will urge because I told him to."
"You told him?"
"Yes," said Garda, serenely; "I told him we could make so many more
excursions if they were staying down here. And so we can, I hope--Lucian
and I, at any rate; _we're_ light on our feet."
"If Madam Giron should consent, when would the Spensers come down?" said
Margaret, pursuing her investigations.
"To-morrow at twelve," Garda answered, promptly.
"Mrs. Spenser knew nothing of it yesterday."
"Oh yes, she did; a little."
"She didn't speak of it."
"She didn't speak of it because she's not pleased with the idea. At
least not much."
"Then it's Mr. Spenser who is pleased?"
"Yes; still, I am the most pleased of all; I suggested it to him, he
would never have thought of it himself. You see, he was losing so much
time in coming and going. If he were at Madam Giron's, too, I could hope
to see him sometimes in the evening; for instance, to-morrow evening."
"Do you mean that he is coming to see us then?"
"He is coming to see me; that is, if they are down there. I shall not
let him see any of the rest of you. It isn't a sitting, you know, we
don't have sittings by moonlight; I shall send him word where to come,
and then I shall slip out and find him."
Margaret stopped. "Garda," she said, in a changed tone, "you told me
yesterday that I had been very kind to you--"
"So you have been."
"Then I hope you won't think me unkind--I hope you will yield to my
judgment--when I tell you that you must not send any such message to Mr.
Spenser."
"Didn't I tell you you would try to stop it?" said Garda, gleefully.
"Of course I shall try. And I think you will do as I wish."
Garda did not answer, she only looked at her friend with a vague little
smile. She seemed not to be giving her full attention to what she was
saying; and at the same moment, singularly enough, she seemed to be
admiring her, taking that time for it--admiring the delicate moulding of
her features, her oval cheeks, which had now a bright flush of color.
The expression of her own face, meanwhile, remained as soft as ever,
there was not a trace of either opposition or annoyance.
"Isn't there some one else, too, who would not like to have you do
such--such foolish thing?" Margaret went on. "Shouldn't you think a
little of Evert?"
"Evert's too far off to think of. He's a thousand miles away."
"What difference does that make?"
"You're right, it doesn't make any," said Garda. "I should do just the
same, I presume, if he were here." She spoke in a matter-of-fact tone.
Margaret looked at her, and seemed hardly to know what to say next.
In the position in which they were standing, Garda was facing the
entrance of the orange walk. Her eyes now began to gleam. "Isn't this
funny?" she said. "Here he is himself!"
Margaret turned, expecting to see Lucian. But it was Evert Winthrop who
was coming towards them.
"You didn't expect me?" he said as he took their hands, Garda's in his
right hand, Margaret's in his left, and held them for a moment. "But I
told you in the postscript of my last letter, Garda, that I might
perhaps follow it immediately."
"I haven't had time to get to the postscript yet," Garda answered. "The
letter only came this morning; and Margaret has it now."
"You know I haven't opened it, Garda," said Margaret, hastily returning
it.
"No; but I meant you to," said the girl. Something in this little scene
seemed to strike her as comical, for she covered her face with both
hands and began to laugh. "What a bad account you will give of me!" she
said.
"You will have to give it yourself," replied Margaret. "I must go; Aunt
Katrina must be awake by this time."
"Isn't she well?" said Winthrop, looking after her as she left them.
"She had color enough before you came," said Garda, smiling, then
laughing at recollections he could not share. "Have you come back as
blind as you went away?"
"How blind is that?"
"Blind to all my faults," she responded, swinging her hat by its
ribbons.
"Don't spoil your hat. No, I'm not blind to them, but we're going to
cure them, you know."
"I'm so glad!"
He had taken a case from his pocket, and was now opening it; it held a
delicate gold bracelet, exquisitely fashioned, which he clasped round
her arm.
"How pretty!" said Garda. Her pleasure was genuine, she turned her hand
so that she could see the ornament in every position.
"You prefer diamonds, I know," said Winthrop, smiling. "But you're not
old enough to wear diamonds yet."
She continued to look at her bracelet until she had satisfied herself
fully. Then she let her hand drop. "Will you give me some very beautiful
diamonds by-and-by?" she asked, turning her eyes towards him.
"To be quite frank, I don't like them much."
"But if _I_ like them?" She seemed to be curious as to what he would
reply.
"You may not like them yourself, then."
She regarded him a moment longer. Then her eyes left him; she looked off
down the long aisle. "I shall not change; no, not as you seem to think,"
she said, musingly. And she stood there for a moment very still. Then
her face changed, her light-heartedness came back; she took his arm,
and, as they strolled slowly towards the house, talked her gayest
nonsense. He listened indulgently.
"Why don't you ask me what I have been doing all these weeks while you
have been away?" she said at last, suddenly.
"I suppose I know, don't I? You have written."
"You haven't the least idea. I have been _amused_--really amused all the
time."
"Is that such a novelty? I've always thought you had a capital talent
for amusing yourself."
"That's just what I mean; this time I've _been_ amused, I didn't have to
do it myself. Oh, promise me you won't stop anything now you've come.
We've had some lovely excursions, and I want ever so many more."
"When did I ever stop an excursion in Florida?" said Winthrop.
"Yes, you've been very good, very good always," answered Garda, with
conviction. "But this time you must be even better, you must let me do
exactly as I please."
"Oh, I don't pretend to keep you in order, you know; I leave that to
Margaret."
"Poor Margaret!" said Garda, laughing.
The next day Lucian and his wife came down to the Giron plantation;
Madam Giron had consented to take them in.
* * * * *
Three nights afterwards, Margaret, awake between midnight and one
o'clock, thought she heard Garda's door open; then, light steps in the
hall. She left her bed, and opening the door between their two rooms,
went through into Garda's chamber. It was empty, the moonlight shone
across the floor. She returned to her own room, hastily threw on a white
dressing-gown, twisted up her long soft hair, and put on a pair of low
shoes; then she stole out quietly, went down the stone staircase and
through the lower hall, and found, as she expected, the outer door
unfastened; she opened it, closed it softly after her, and stood alone
in the night. She had to make a choice, and she had only the faintest
indication to guide her--a possible clew in a remembered conversation;
she followed this clew and turned towards the live-oak avenue. Her step
was hurried, she almost ran; as she drew the floating lace-trimmed robe
more closely about her, the moonlight shone, beneath its upheld folds,
on her little white feet. She had never before been out alone under the
open sky at that hour, she glanced over her shoulder, and shivered
slightly, though the night was as warm as July. Her own shadow, keeping
up with her, was like a living thing. The moonlight on the ground was so
white that by contrast all the trees looked black.
The live-oak avenue, when she entered it, seemed a shelter; at least it
was a roof over her head, shutting out the sky. The moonlight only came
at intervals through the thick foliage, making silver checker-work on
the path.
There were two or three bends, then a long straight stretch. As she came
into this straight stretch she saw at the far end, going towards the
lagoon, a figure--Garda; behind Garda, doubly grotesque in the changing
shade and light, stepped the crane.
Margaret's foot-falls made no sound on the soft sand of the path; she
hurried onward, and passing the crane, laid her hand on the girl's
shoulder. "Garda," she said.
Garda stopped, surprised. But though surprised, she was not startled,
she was as calm as though she had been found walking there at noonday.
She was fully dressed, and carried a light shawl.
"Margaret, is it you? How in the world did you know I was here?"
Margaret let her head rest for a moment on Garda's shoulder; her heart
was beating with suffocating rapidity. She recovered herself, stood
erect, and looked at her companion. "Where are you going?" she asked.
"I am going to try and find Lucian; but it may be only trying. He was to
start from the Giron landing at one, when the tide would serve, he said;
but you heard him, so you know as much as I do."
"No. For I don't know what _you're_ going to do."
"Why, I've told you; I'm going to try to go with him, if I can. I'm
going to stand out at the edge of the platform, and then, when he comes
by, perhaps he will see me--it's so light--and take me in. I want to
sail through that thick soft fog he told us about (when it comes up
later), with the moonlight making it all queer and white, and the gulls
fast asleep and floating--don't you remember?"
"Then he doesn't expect you?"
"Oh no," said Garda; "it's my own idea. I knew he would be alone,
because Mrs. Rosalie can't go out in fogs, she's afraid of rheumatism."
"And you see nothing out of the way in all this?"
"No."
"--Stealing out secretly--"
"Only because you would have stopped it if you had known."
"--At night, and by yourself?"
"The night's as good as the day when there's moonlight like this. And I
shall not be by myself, I shall be with Lucian; I'd rather be with him
than anybody."
"And Evert?"
"Well," said Garda, "the truth is--the truth is I'm _tired_ of Evert."
"You'd better tell him that," said Margaret, with a quick and curious
change in her voice.
"I will, if you think best."
"No, don't tell him; you're not in earnest," said Margaret, calming
himself.
"Yes, I am in earnest. But I shall miss Lucian if I stay here longer."
"Garda, give this up."
"I don't see how you happened to hear me come out," said the girl,
laughing and vexed.
"Have you been out in this way before?"
"No; how could I? Lucian has only just come down here. I should a great
deal rather tell you everything, Margaret, as fast as I think of it, and
I would--only you would be sure to stop it."
"I want to stop this. Give it up--if you care at all for me; I make it a
test."
"You know I care; if you put it on that ground, of course I shall have
to give it up," said Garda, disconsolately.
"Come back to the house, then," said Margaret, taking her hand.
"No, I'm not going back, I'm going down to the landing," answered the
girl. She appeared to think that she had earned this obstinacy by her
larger concession.
"But you said you would give up--"
"If we keep back under the trees he cannot see us; I mean what I say--he
_shall_ not. But I want to see him, I want to see him go by."
She drew Margaret onward, and presently they reached the shore. "There
he comes!" she said--"I hear the oars." And she held tightly to
Margaret's hand, as if to keep herself from running out to the
platform's edge.
The broad lagoon, rippling in the moonlight, lay before them; the night
was so still that they heard the dip of the oars long before they saw
the boat itself; Patricio, opposite, looked like a country in a dream.
The giant limbs of the live-oak under which they stood rose high in the
air above them, and then drooped down again far forward, the dark shade
beneath concealing them perfectly, in spite of Margaret's white robe.
Now the boat shot into sight. Its sail was up, white as silver, but as
there was no wind, Lucian was rowing. It was a small, light boat, almost
too small for the great silver sail; but that was what Lucian liked. He
kept on his course far out in the stream; he was bound for the mouth of
the harbor.
Garda gave a long sigh. "I ought to be there!" she murmured. "Oh, I
ought to be there!" She stood motionless, watching the boat come nearer,
pass, and disappear; then she turned and looked at Margaret in silence.
"We can go out to-morrow evening, if you like," said Margaret, ignoring
the expression of her face.
"Yes, at eight o'clock, I suppose, with Evert, and Mrs. Rosalie!"
"Would you prefer to go in the middle of the night?"
"Infinitely. And with Lucian alone."
"I should think that might be a little tiresome."
"Oh, come, don't pretend; you don't know how," said Garda, laughing. "At
heart you're as serious as death about all this--you know you are.
Tiresome, did you say? Just looking at him, to begin with--do you call
_that_ tiresome? And then the way he talks, the way he says things! Oh,
Margaret, I give you my word I _adore_ being amused as Lucian amuses
me." She turned as she said this and met Margaret's eyes fixed upon her.
"You can't understand it," she commented. "You can't understand that I
prefer Lucian to Evert."
Margaret turned from her. But the next instant she came back. "There are
some things I must ask you, Garda."
"Well, do stay here a little longer then, it's so lovely; we'll sit down
on the bench. But perhaps you'll be chilled--you're so lightly dressed.
What have you on your feet? Oh Margaret! only those thin shoes--no more
than slippers?" She took her shawl, and kneeling down, wrapped it round
Margaret's ankles. "What little feet you have!" she said, admiringly.
"It reminds me of my wet shoes that night on the barren," she added,
rising; and then, standing there with her hands clasped behind her, she
appeared to be meditating. "Now that time I was in earnest too!" she
said, with a sort of wonder at herself.
"What do you mean?" asked Margaret.
"Oh, nothing of consequence. Are you sure you're not cold?"
"I'm quite warm; it's like summer."
"Yes, it's warm," said Garda, sitting down beside her. "Oh, I wish I
were in that boat!" And she put her head down on Margaret's shoulder.
After a moment Margaret began her interrogatory. "You consider yourself
engaged to Evert, don't you?"
"Yes, after a fashion. He doesn't care about it."
"Yes, he does. You don't comprehend him."
"Don't you think he ought to _make_ me comprehend, then? It seems to me
that that's his part. But no, the real trouble is that he doesn't in the
least comprehend _me_. He has got some idea of his own about me, he has
had it all this time. But I'm not like his idea at all; I wonder how
long it will be before he will find it out?"
"Don't you care for him, Garda?"
"No, not any more. I did once; at least that night on the barren I
thought I did. But if I did, I am sure I don't know what has become of
the feeling! At any rate it has gone, gone entirely; I only care for
Lucian now."
"And would you give up Evert, engaged to him as you are, with your own
consent and the consent of all your friends, for a mere fancy like
this?"
"Mere fancy? I shall begin to think, Margaret, that you don't know what
'mere fancies,' as you call them, are!"
"And what view do you take of the fact that Lucian is a married man?"
Margaret went on, gravely.
"A horribly melancholy one, of course. Still, it's a great pleasure just
to see him; I try to see him as often as I can."
"And you're willing to follow him about as you do--let him see how much
you like him, when, in reality, he doesn't care in the least for you? If
he had cared he would never have left you, as he did last winter, at a
moment's notice and without a word."
"No, I know he doesn't care for me as I care for him," said Garda. "But
perhaps he will care more in time; I have thought that perhaps he would
care more when he found out how I felt towards him; that is what I have
been hoping."
Margaret got up, she made a motion with her hands almost as if she were
casting the girl off. "Garda," she said, "you frighten me. I have tried
to speak with the greatest moderation, because I have not thought you
realized at all what you were saying; but you are so calm, you speak in
such a tone!--I cannot understand it."
"Well, Margaret, I've never tried to understand it myself. Why, then,
should you try?" said Garda, in her indolent way.
Then, as she looked at Margaret, she became conscious of the marked
change in her face, and it seemed to startle her. She rose and came to
her. "One thing I know," she said, quickly, "if you are vexed with me,
so vexed that you will have nothing more to do with me, I don't know
what will become of me. You are the only woman I care for. _Don't_ throw
me over, Margaret. There's one thing that may happen," she added,
looking at her friend with luminous gaze, "I may stop caring for Lucian
of my own accord before long; you know I stopped caring for Evert."
"Oh, Garda! Garda!" murmured Margaret, putting her hand over her eyes.
"You are shocked because I tell you the exact truth. I believe you would
like it better if I should dress it up, and pretend to have all sorts of
reasons. But I never have reasons, I only know how I feel; and you can't
make me believe, either, that it isn't better to be true about your
feelings whatever they are, than to tell lies just to make people think
well of you."
"Garda, promise me not to see Lucian in this way again; that is, not to
plan to see him," said Margaret, with a kind of desperation in her tone.
"Why, how can you suppose I would ever promise that?" asked Garda,
astonished.
"Very well. Then I shall speak to him myself." And as she stood there,
her tall slender figure outlined in white, her dark blue eyes fixed on
the girl, Margaret Harold looked almost menacing.
"No, I don't think you would do that," answered Garda; "because as he
doesn't care for me, it would be like throwing me at his head; and that
you wouldn't like because you have a pride about it--for Evert's sake, I
mean. Why don't you tell Evert instead of Lucian? I've thought of
telling Evert myself. The idea of his needing to be told!"
"It's because he has such a perfect belief in you," began Margaret. "He
would never dream that you could--" She stopped, her lips had begun to
tremble a little.
But Garda was not paying heed to what Margaret was saying. "No, you'll
never speak to Lucian," she repeated, "I know you never will; you
couldn't."
"You're right, I couldn't. And the reason would be because I should be
ashamed--ashamed for you."
But Garda was not moved by this. "I don't see why we should be ashamed
of our real feelings," she said again, with a sort of sweet stolidity.
"We go through life, Garda, more than half of us--women, I mean--obliged
always to conceal our real feelings."
"Then _that_ I never will do;" said Garda, warmly. "And you shall see
whether I come out any the worse for it in the end."
"You intend to do what you please, no matter who suffers?"
"They needn't suffer, it's silly to suffer. They'd better go and do what
_they_ please."
"And you think that right? You see nothing wrong in it?"
"Oh, right, wrong--I think it's right to be happy, as right as possibly
can be; and wrong to be unhappy, as wrong as possibly can be; I think
unhappy people do a great deal of harm in the world, besides being so
very tiresome! I was a goose to be as unhappy as I was last winter; I
might have known that I should either get over caring for him, or else
that I should see him again. In this case both happened."
After this declaration of principles the girl walked down the slope and
out to the edge of the platform, where she stood in the moonlight
looking northward up the lagoon.
"I can just make out his sail," she said, calling back to Margaret,
excitedly, and evidently having entirely forgotten her reasoning mood of
the moment before. "The fog is rising. Come quick and look."
But Margaret did not come. When the sail finally disappeared, Garda came
back, bright and happy. Then, as she saw her friend's face, her own face
changed to sudden sympathy.
"Margaret," she said, taking her hands, "I cannot bear to see you so
distressed."
"How can I help it?" murmured Margaret. She looked exhausted.
"You wouldn't care about all this as you do--care so deeply, I mean--if
it were not for Evert," Garda went on; "it's that that hurts you so.
Don't care so much about Evert; throw him over, as I have done."
"It's true that I care about Evert--about his happiness," answered
Margaret, in the same lifeless tone; "I have missed happiness myself, I
don't want him to miss it." Here she raised her eyes, she looked at
Garda for a long moment in silence.
The girl smiled under this inspection; she leaned forward, and put her
soft cheek against Margaret's, and her arm round Margaret's shoulders
with a caressing touch.
A revulsion of feeling swept over the elder woman, she took the girl's
face in both her hands, and looked at it.
"Promise me to say nothing to Evert, not one word--I mean about this
renewal of fancy you have for Lucian," she said, quickly.
"You call it fancy--"
"Never mind what I call it. Promise."
"Why, that's as you choose, I left it to you," Garda answered.
"I choose, then, that you say nothing. You're not really in earnest, you
don't know what you're talking about. It's a girl's foolishness; you
will come to your senses in time."
"Is that the way you arrange it? Any way you like. Perhaps you really do
know more about me than I know about myself," said Garda, with a
momentary curiosity as to her own characteristics.
"We must go back," said Margaret, her fatigue again showing in her
voice.
Garda put her arm round her as a support, and, thus linked, they walked
back through the long avenue over the silver lace-work cast by the moon
upon the path. Carlos Mateo, who had been off on unknown excursions,
joined them again, issuing in a ghostly manner from the Spanish-bayonet
walk, and falling into his usual place behind them. The linked figures
crossed the open space, which was again as white as snow with black
trees at the edges, and went softly in through the unfastened door.
"I'm going to get you a glass of wine," Garda whispered.
Margaret declined the wine, and they separated, each going noiselessly
to her own room.
But, half an hour later, Garda stole in and leaned over her friend.
"You're crying," she said--"I knew it! Oh, Margaret, Margaret, why do
you suffer so?"
"Don't mind," said Margaret, controlling herself. "I have my own
troubles, Garda, and must bear them as I can. Go back to your room."
But Garda would not go. As there was no place for her in Margaret's
narrow white bed, she got a coverlet and pillows and lay down on a
lounge that was near; here, almost immediately, though she said she
should not, she fell asleep. The elder woman did not sleep, she lay
watching the moonlight steal over the girl, then fade away. Later came
the pink flush of dawn; it touched the lounge, but Garda slept on; she
slept like a little child; her curling hair fell over her shoulders, her
cheek was pillowed on her round arm.
"So much truthfulness--such absolute truthfulness!" the elder woman was
thinking; "there must be good in it, there _must_."