That same evening Evert Winthrop was watching the storm on the St.
John's River. It had begun to darken the north-western sky before
sunset; rising higher and higher, at length it had come sweeping down
the broad stream. First the broken lurid edge (like little puffs of
white smoke) of the blackness that followed behind; and that was the
wind. Then the blackness itself, pierced here and there by lightning.
Then, last, in perpendicular columns extending from the sky to the
smooth water below (water that had been pressed flat by wind that had
gone on before), the rain falling straight downward densely and softly;
the line across the river made by the advancing drops on one side and
the smooth water which they had not yet reached on the other, was as
distinct as one made across a piece of velvet when one half of its nap
has been turned sharply back, while the other remains undisturbed.
The old white house, once a private residence, where Winthrop was
spending the night, was now a reluctant hotel; that is, inmates were
received there, and allowed to find their way about, to sit round a
brilliant light-wood fire on the broad hearth of the pleasant old parlor
on cold evenings, to bask in the sunshine on the piazzas during the day,
or wander under the magnificent trees, which, draped in silver moss,
formed long avenues on the river-bank north and south. They were also
allowed to partake of food in the dining-room, where the mistress of the
house, a dignified old lady, poured out her coffee herself at the head
of her table, the cups being carried about by half-grown negro boys,
whose appearance was not in the least an indication of the quality of
the beverage, that quality being excellent. This old house, when it had
thus changed itself, rather half-heartedly, into a hotel after the war,
had been obliged to put out a dock; a sign it could dispense with; it
could dispense with many things; but an inn of any sort it could not be
on the St. John's without a dock, since the river was the highway, and
its wide shallows near shore made it necessary for the steamers to land
their passengers far out in the stream. All these "docks" on the St.
John's were in reality long narrow piers, formed by spiles driven into
the bed of the stream, over whose tops planks had been nailed down; and
if a plank was missing here and there, was it not always easy to jump
over.
Near the end of the pier belonging to Winthrop's present abode there was
a little building about six feet square. This was the United States
post-office; any one who should doubt its official character, had only
to look at the legal notices written in ink and tightly tacked up on the
outside. Generally these notices had been so blurred by the rain that
all the "men" who were required to "know" the various matters written
underneath by this proclamation thereof, could have made out a good
defence for themselves in case of prosecution for failure to comply,
since how could they "know" what they could not decipher? But even if
the notices had been printed in fairest type, it is hardly probable that
the inhabitants would have "known" them any better; they had always
hunted and fished wherever and whenever they pleased; it was not likely
that a piece of paper tacked up on a shanty a quarter of a mile out in
the St. John's was going to change these rights now. The only
proclamation they felt any interest in was that which offered bounties
for the scalps of wild-cats, a time-honored and sensible ordinance, by
which a little money could always be secured.
Winthrop had come down the river that afternoon; his steamer had left
him here, as she did not touch at the Gracias landing, which was farther
down-stream on the opposite shore; the next morning a boat would pass
which did touch there, he must wait for that. The steamer that brought
him had also brought the United States mails from the up-river country;
the postmaster, a silent man in a 'coon-skin cap, received the bag with
dignity; Winthrop watched the distribution of its contents; one limp
yellow-enveloped letter and a coffee-pot. When he came down to the
pier's end again at sunset the 'coon-skin-crowned official had gone
home; but, in a friendly spirit, he had left the post-office
unlocked--there was a chair there which some one might like to borrow.
Winthrop borrowed it now--of the United States; he brought it outside
and sat there alone, watching the approach of the storm. The beautiful
river with its clear brown water lay before him, wide as a lake; on the
opposite shore the soft foliage of palmettoes, like great ostrich
plumes, rose against the sky. But he was not thinking of the river, he
was not even thinking of the black cloud, though his eyes were
apparently fixed upon it; he did not stir until the wind was fairly upon
him, then he retreated to the post-office, placed his chair inside, and
sat there under cover at the open door. For a moment he did think of the
storm, for it seemed as if the little house over him would be carried
off the pier, and sent floating up the stream like a miniature ark; but
after the wind had passed on, his mind returned to the old subject, the
subject which had engrossed him ever since he left East Angels fourteen
days before.
His brief letters had stated that he was hunting, fishing, and sailing,
that he had been through the Dummit orange grove. It was true that he
had been engaged in all the ways he described, and it was probable also
that his various guides and chance companions had not perceived any lack
of interest, or at least of energy, in the northerner who had
accompanied them; an active life was necessary to Winthrop, and never
more necessary than when he was perplexed or troubled; not once during
those two weeks had he sat down to brood, as he was apparently brooding
now.
But though he had thus occupied himself from daylight to bedtime, though
he had talked and listened to the talk of others, there had been always
this under-consciousness, which had not left him. At times the
consciousness had taken form, if not in actual words, then at least in
thoughts and arguments that followed each other connectedly. Generally,
however, it had been but a dull realization, like an ache, vivified at
intervals by sudden heats of anger, which, he was sure--though he might
be talking on other subjects at the moment--must bring the color to his
face. Man-like, he preferred the anger, it was better than the ache; he
should have liked to be angry all the time.
The ache and the anger had been caused by what he had with his own eyes
beheld, namely, the secret visit of Margaret to Lucian Spenser. For it
was secret. Lucian had said good-by to her before them all, it had been
left clearly to be supposed that they were not to see each other again;
this, then, had been a clandestine meeting. Margaret was no school-girl,
she was not ignorant of the rules of the world. And she was not an
exception, like Garda Thorne, full of sudden impulses, with an
extraordinary openness in following them; he had never thought Margaret
impulsive in the least. Yet there she was; she had slipped away without
the knowledge of any one, to go over to that solitary house for a
farewell interview with its occupant. Of course her being there at that
last moment, woman of deliberate intentions as she was, proved that an
acquaintance which she had not acknowledged existed between them; for
she had never shown any especial interest in Lucian in the presence of
others; on the contrary, she had appeared indifferent to him, she had
acted a part; they had both acted a part, and they had acted it so well
that he (Winthrop) had never once suspected them. A wrath rose within
him as he thought of this.
He had always disapproved of Margaret in one way; but at least--so he
kept telling himself--at least he had thought her entirely without
traits of this kind. He had thought her cold; but he had thought, too,
that she had principles, and strong ones. It was probably her
principles, more than anything else, that had made her leave Lanse in
the beginning; she might even be said to have been something of a martyr
to them, because, with her regard for appearances, she would have
infinitely preferred, of course, to have remained under the same roof
with Lanse, had it been possible, to have avoided the comment which is
roused by any long separation between a husband and wife, even though
but that comparatively mild degree of it which follows a separation as
carefully guarded and as undefined in duration as hers had been. For
nothing was ever said about its being a permanent one; people might
conclude, and they easily did conclude, that before long they should see
Lansing Harold back again, and established somewhere with his wife as
docilely as though he had never been away; this had happened in a
number of cases when the separation had been even longer. Europe was
full of American wives spending winters here and summers there, wives
whose husbands had remained at home; it might almost be called an
American method for infusing freshness into the matrimonial atmosphere,
for of course they would be doubly glad to see each other, all these
parted ones, when the travels should at last be over, and the
hearth-fire re-established again. In this instance it was the husband
who had gone. And in the mean while how well-ordered was the life led by
Mrs. Harold! there was not, there never could be, a breath of reproach
or comment concerning her.
Thus the world. And the world's opinion had been Winthrop's in so far
that he had fully shared its belief in the irreproachableness of
Margaret's life as regards what is sometimes defined as "a taste for
society," or, arranged in another form, as "a love of gayety," or, with
more frankness, "a love of admiration." Of course he had approved of
this. But he had not realized how deeply he had approved of it
(underneath disapprovals of another sort) until now, when, like a
thunder-clap, the revelation had come upon him: he and the world had
been mistaken! This Margaret, with her fair calm face, with her
studiedly quiet life, had a capacity for the profoundest deceptions; she
had deceived them all without the slightest difficulty, she was
deceiving them now. The very completeness with which she had disguised
her liking for Lucian showed what an actress she must be; if she had
allowed her liking to come out in a natural way, if she had even let it
be known that she intended to see him again, instead of going through
that form of bidding him good-by before them all, it would have had
another aspect; the present one, given the manner she had always
maintained with him in public, and given the fact that she was the most
unimpulsive of women, was ominous. In the moment of discovery it had
given him a sick feeling,--he had been so sure of her!
The sick feeling had come back often during the two weeks that followed.
Each time he had taken himself sharply to task for caring so much. But
it was because he had cared that he had left East Angels.
As he sat there in the wood, staring at Madam Giron's house after she
had entered it--as it seemed to him drawn in by Lucian--his first
feeling, after the shock of surprise, had been one of indignation, he
had started up with the intention of following her. Then he remembered
that he had no possible authority over her, even though she was his
cousin's wife; if he should go over there and confront her, could she
not very well turn and ask him what any of it was to _him_? It would
make a scene which could now benefit no one; for it was too late to
prevent imprudences on her part; and with Lucian he should prefer to
deal alone. Then, in another minute, he felt that he could not in any
case endure seeing her openly discomfited; for of course if he and
Lucian should exchange words in her presence, no matter how few, it
would amount to publicity of a certain sort, publicity which it had not
yet attained. At present Lucian had no idea that he, Winthrop, had
discovered their meeting; of her own accord Margaret would never tell
him, and it would be easier for her through all the future if Lucian
should never know; it was this thought that made him go homeward instead
of crossing the field to Madam Giron's, it drove him away. It was not
until he was safe in his own room that his vision grew clearer, that he
remembered that he need not have been so considerate of Margaret's
feelings, since (what he had not thought of with any distinctness in the
first shock of surprise) had she not deliberately braved him? For she
had seen him sitting there when she passed the first time, he had
clearly perceived that she had seen him. Yet, knowing that he was there,
she had passed him that second time in full view; she had crossed the
field knowing that he could see her plainly, had met Lucian on the
piazza and entered the house with him, without the least attempt at
concealment or disguise. It was true that no one else had seen her. But
he had seen her; and she had known it, and had not cared.
This last reflection gave his mood a sharp turn in the other direction;
he thought--he thought a thousand things. Chief among them came now the
remembrance that he should see her at table, she would be obliged to
appear there, she would be obliged to speak to him. But when in answer
to Telano's summons he went to the dining-room, hardly knowing how he
should bear himself towards her, she was not present; Garda brought word
that she was suffering from headache, and could not appear.
That night Winthrop was awake until a late hour, he found himself unable
to sleep. He was conscious of the depth of the disturbance that swayed
him, but though he did his best to conquer it, he made no progress; dawn
found him still under its influence. He decided to go away for a few
days; he had been shut up at East Angels too long, the narrow little
round of Gracias life was making him narrow as well. The evening before,
he had felt a strong wish to see Margaret, to note how she would appear;
but now his one desire was to get away without seeing her, if possible.
Curiosity--if curiosity it had been--had died down; in its place was
something that ached and throbbed, which he did not care to analyze
further.
Lucian had really gone--he had ascertained that; East Angels was
therefore safe for the present, as far as he was concerned. Winthrop
remained very indifferent to Lucian personally, even now; he consigned
his good looks to the place where the good looks of a strikingly
handsome man are generally consigned by those of his less conspicuously
endowed brethren who come in contact with him, and he felt that immense
disgust which men of his nature are apt to feel in such cases, with no
corresponding realization, perhaps, of the effect which has been
observed to be produced sometimes by--item, a pair of long-lashed eyes;
item, a pink young cheek; item, a soft dimpled arm--upon even the most
inflexible of mankind. No, he did not care about Lucian. He said to
himself that if it had not been Lucian, it would have been somebody
else; he made himself say that.
Now, as he sat there at the end of the long pier, with the dense rain
falling all round him, he went over again in his own mind all these
things. Two states of feeling had gradually become more absorbing than
the rest; one of these was a deep dumb anger against Margaret for the
indifference with which she had treated him, was still treating him.
What rank must he hold in her mind, then?--one which could leave her so
untroubled as to his opinion of her. What estimation must she have of
him that made her willing to brave him in this way? She had not written
during his absence, expressing--or disguising--apprehension; making
excuses; she had not even written (a woman's usual trick) to say that
she knew it was not necessary to write, that she was safe with him, and
that she only wrote now to assure him that she felt this. Was he such a
nonentity in every way that she could remain unconcerned as to any fear
of danger from him? Did she suppose him incapable of action?--too
unimportant to reckon with, too unimportant to trouble, even if he
should try, the well-arranged surface of her unperturbed life? Very
possibly she might not like him, but he was at least a man; it seemed to
him that she ought to have some regard for any man's opinion; even some
fear of it, in a case of this kind.
Yes, he was very angry. And he knew that he was.
Then, adding itself to this anger, there came always a second, came
against his will; this was a burning resentment against her personally,
for falling so far below the idea he had had of her. He had thought her
narrow, self-righteous,--yes; but he had also thought her life in other
respects as pellucid (and cold) as a mountain brook; one of those
brooks, if one wanted a comparison, that flow through the high valleys
of the Alps, clear, cold, and dreary; he had had time to make
comparisons in abundance, if that were any entertainment!
But it was not. And he found it impossible, too, to think of Margaret in
any other than this his first way; the second, in spite of what he had
with his own eyes beheld, remained unreal, phantasmagoric. This seemed
to him folly, and he was now going back to East Angels to break it up;
it would break it up to find her defiant. And it would amount to
defiance--her looking at him and talking to him without giving any sign,
no matter how calmly or even timidly she might do it; in his actual
presence perhaps she would be timid. In all cases, in any case, he now
wished to see her; the desire to find himself face to face with her had
taken possession of him again.
He reached East Angels the next day at two o'clock. Betty Carew was the
first to greet him, she had herself arrived from Gracias only an hour
before. She was full of the intelligence she brought, and immediately
repeated it to the new-comer: Mr. Moore had that morning received a
letter, or rather a note of six lines; Rosalie Spenser was dead. Her
illness had been brief, and she had not suffered; they thought it was
the heart. Fortunately Lucian had been able to get to her; he had found
the despatch at New Orleans, and had started immediately; they had had
the last three days together, and she was conscious to the end. And then
followed the good Betty's regrets, which were sincere; she had always
liked Lucian, and, when he married, her affectionate, easily expanding
heart had made room for Rosalie as well; "Lucian's wife" would have had
to be a very disagreeable person indeed to have made Betty dislike her.
For Betty's liking included the relatives of all her friends, simply
because they were relatives. The relationship made them a whole, she
accepted them in a body as one accepts "the French," "the Portuguese;"
they did not present themselves to her as objects for criticism.
Winthrop had lunch alone, the others had had theirs. While he was still
at the table, Garda came in. He had already seen her, as well as Betty,
and he had been in to say a word of greeting to his aunt; but Margaret
he had not yet seen.
"I should like to speak to you," Garda said. "Could you come out after
lunch to the orange walk for a few moments?" There was nothing unusual
in her tone.
When he entered that leafy aisle, later, she came to meet him.
"I am sorry to have made you take this trouble," she said, "when you are
only just back from your journey. But I wanted to tell you at once, it
seems unfair to wait; I wonder if you will be surprised? I don't care
for you any more; don't you think it would be as well, then, to break
our engagement?"