Garda Thorne went to Charleston. Margaret gave her consent only after
much hesitation; but Dr. Kirby was from the first firmly in favor of the
plan. He himself would take his ward to the South Carolina city (for
Garda, the Doctor would draw upon his thin purse whether he were able to
afford it or not), she should stay with his accomplished cousin Sally
Lowndes; thus she would have the best opportunity to see the cultivated
society of that dear little town.
This last sentence was partly the Doctor's and partly Winthrop's; the
Doctor had spoken thus reverentially of Charleston society, and Winthrop
thus admiringly of Charleston itself, which had seemed to him, the first
time he beheld it, the prettiest place on the Atlantic coast, a place of
marked characteristics of its own, many of them highly picturesque; his
use of the word "little" had been affectionate, not descriptive. He had
found a charm in the old houses, gable end to the street; in the jealous
walls and great gardens; in St. Michael's spire; in the dusky library,
full of grand-mannered old English authors in expensive old bindings; in
the little Huguenot church; in the old manor-houses on the two rivers
that come down, one on each side, to form the beautiful harbor; in the
rice fields; in the great lilies. The Battery at sunset, with Fort
Moultrie on one hand, the silver beaches round Wagner and the green
marsh where the great guns had been on the other, and Sumter on its
islet in mid-stream--this was an unsurpassed lounging-place; there was
nothing fairer.
The Doctor had been much roused by the breaking of Garda's engagement.
Garda had told him that Evert had not been to blame. But the Doctor was
not so sure of that. He felt, indeed, that he himself had been to blame,
they had all been to blame; ma, Betty Carew, the Moores, Madam Ruiz and
the Senor Ruiz, Madam Giron--they had all been asleep, and had let this
worst of modern innovations creep upon them unawares. For surely the
foundations of society were shaken when the engagement of a young lady
of Garda's position could be "broken." "And broken, ma," as he repeated
solemnly to his little mother a dozen times, "_without cause_."
"Well, my son, would you rather have had it broken _with_?" asked ma at
last.
The Doctor had had an interview with Winthrop. And he had been obliged
to confess (still to ma) that the northerner had borne himself with
courtesy and dignity, had given him nothing to take hold of; he had
simply said, in a few words, that Garda had asked to be released, and
that of course he had released her.
The Doctor himself had fervently desired that she should be freed. But
this made no difference in his astonishment that the thing could really
be done, had already been brought about. Garda had wished it; he himself
had wished it; and Winthrop had obeyed their wish. Nevertheless,
Reginald Kirby was a prey to rage, he was sure that somebody ought to be
severely handled. In the mean while it seemed a wise course to take
Garda to other scenes.
Adolfo Torres returned from Cuba before Garda's departure. He bade her
good-by with his usual gravity; then, exactly three hours later, he
started for Charleston himself. He kept punctiliously just that amount
of time behind her, it was part of his method; on this occasion the
method caused some discomfort, since, owing to the small number of
trains in that leisurely land, it obliged him to travel with the freight
all the way.
A week later a letter came to Evert Winthrop. It was a letter which gave
him a sharp surprise.
It bore the postmark of the little post-office out in the St. John's
where he had sat in the rain, and the contents were as follows:
"DEAR OLD LAD,--I am here--on the river. Could you come over for a
day? I am very anxious to see you.
"LANSING HAROLD."
At the last intelligence, Lanse had been in Rome.
There was a scrawled postscript:
"Say nothing, I write only to you."
Winthrop's relations with Margaret since they had parted, on the day of
his return, at the drawing-room door, had been of the scantiest; they
had scarcely exchanged a word. She avoided him; he said to himself that
she had turned into ice; but this was not a truthful comparison, for ice
does not look troubled, and Margaret looked both troubled and worn. When
he was present she was impassive; but her very impassiveness showed--but
what did it show? He could think of no solution that satisfied him any
more than he could think of a solution of the mystery of her apparent
desire that he should continue to believe of her what he had believed.
And now, to make things more complicated, Lanse had dropped down upon
them!
Winthrop made a pretext of another hunting expedition, drove over to the
river, and embarked again upon the slow old _Hernando_, which brought
him in due course to the long pier; here, sitting in the United States
chair, was Harold.
It was a long time since Winthrop had seen Lanse. He thought him much
altered. His figure had grown larger; though he was still but forty-one,
none of the outlines of youth were left, there was only an impression of
bulk. His thick dark hair was mixed with gray, as also his short beard;
and the beard could not conceal the increased breadth of the lower part
of the face, the slight lap-over of the cheeks above the collar. His
dark eyes, with the yellow lights in them, were dull; his well-cut mouth
was a little open, giving him a blank expression, as though he were half
asleep.
But when this expression changed, as it did when the silent postmaster
suggested, by a wave of the hand, that his guest should move the
government chair a little in order not to be in the way of the
passengers who might land, the alteration was so complete, though not a
feature stirred, that Winthrop laughed; Lanse serenely stared at the
'coon-skin-hatted man as though he did not exist; his gaze restored
perfectly, for himself at least, the space of light and air which that
public servant was mistakenly filling.
All this Winthrop witnessed from the deck, as the _Hernando_ was slowly
swinging her broad careening side towards the pier. Lanse had not
recognized his figure among the motley crowd of voyagers collected at
the railing; it was not until the ropes had been made fast by the
postmaster (who was also wharf-master, showing much activity in that
avocation), and the plank put out, that the lessening crowd brought
Winthrop's figure more into relief. He waved his hand again to Lanse;
and then Lanse, springing up, responded, and all the old look came back;
the dulness vanished, the heaviness became subordinate to the
brightening eyes and the smile, he waved his hand in return. They met
with gladness; Lanse seemed delighted to see his cousin, and Winthrop
had never forgotten his old affection for the big, good-natured,
handsome lad of his boyhood days.
The pier was soon left to them; every one else departed, and the two
men, strolling up and down, talked together.
At length Lanse said: "Well, I'm glad Margaret's as you describe" (but
Winthrop had not described her); "for I might as well tell you at once
what I'm down here for--I want her to come back."
"Come back?"
"Yes. I have her promise to come; but women are so insufferably
changeable."
"She isn't."
"Isn't she? So much the better for me, then; for she knew the worst of
me when she made that promise, and if by a miracle she _has_ remained in
the same mind, my road will be easy."
"I don't mean to push myself into your confidence, Lanse," said
Winthrop, after a moment's silence; "but I think I will say here that I
have always as strongly as possible disapproved of her course in
leaving you." He made himself say this. It was true, and say it he
would.
Lanse laughed, and turned down the brim of his soft hat to keep the sun
from his eyes. "I'm not going to lie about it," he answered. "I would
have told you at any time if you had asked me; she couldn't help leaving
me."
Winthrop stared.
"It's a funny world," Lanse went on. "Come along up and get something to
eat; then we'll go off in the canoe, and I'll tell you the whole story;
you've got to hear it if you're to help."
An hour later the two men were floating away from the pier in a small
boat built upon the model of the Indian's birch-bark canoe. Lanse, an
expert in this as in almost all kinds of out-door exercise, wielded the
paddle with ease, while Winthrop faced him, reclining in the bottom of
the boat; it could only hold two. Lightly it sped out towards deep
water, the slightest motion sent it forward; its sides were of such
slender thickness that the two men could feel the breathing of the great
soft stream, which had here a breadth of three miles, though in sight,
both above and below, it widened into six. These broad water stretches
were tranquil; from shore to shore the slow, full current swept
majestically on; and even to look across the wide, still reaches, with
the tropical forests standing thickly on their low strands, was a vision
of peace for the most troubled human soul.
Kildee plover flew chattering before the canoe while they were still
near land. Far above in the blue a bald-headed eagle sailed along. Lanse
chose to go out to the centre of the stream--Lanse never skirted the
edge of anything; reaching it, he turned southward, and they voyaged
onward for nearly an hour.
He did not appear disposed to begin his narrative immediately; and
Winthrop asked no questions. Every now and then each indulged in a
retrospective remark; but these remarks concerned themselves only with
the days of their boyhood, they brought up the old jokes, and called
each other by the old names. Winthrop, after a while, branching off a
little, suggested that this warm brown tide, winding softly through the
beautiful low green country, was something to remember--on a January
day, say, in a manufacturing town at the North, when a raw wind was
sweeping the streets, when the horse-cars were bumping along between
miniature hills of muddy ice, when all complexions were dubious and
harassed, and the constantly dropping flakes of soot from myriad
chimneys failed to convey a suggestion of warmth, but rather brought up
(to the initiated) a picture of chill half-heated bedrooms, where these
same harassed complexions must undergo more torture from soap and water
in the effort to remove the close-clinging marks of the "black snow."
"Oh, confound your manufacturing town!" Lanse answered.
"I can't; I'm a manufacturer myself," was Winthrop's response.
At length Lanse turned the canoe towards the western shore. A creek
emptied into the river at this point, a creek which had about the
breadth of the Thames at Westminster; Lanse entered the creek. Great
ragged nests of the fish-hawks crowned many of the trees here, making
them resemble a group of light-houses at the creek's mouth. They met an
old negro on a raft, who held up a rattlesnake which he seemed to think
they would admire. "Fibe foot en eight inch, boss, en ferteen rattles."
"That's African Joe," said Lanse. "I've already made his acquaintance;
he was born in Africa.--You old murderer, what do you want for showing
us that poor reptile you have put an end to?"
Old Joe, a marvel of negro old age, grinned as Lanse tossed him a
quarter. "'Gater, massa," he said, pointing.
It was a black lump like the end of a floating log,--an alligator
submerged all but that inch or two of head.
"That's the place I'm looking for, I think," said Lanse; "I was up here
yesterday."
And with two or three strong strokes of the paddle he sent the canoe
round a cape of lily-pads, into the mouth of a smaller creek which here
came, almost unobserved, into the larger one. It was a stream narrow but
deep, which took them into the forest. Here they floated over
reflections so perfect of the trees draped in silver moss on shore that
it was hard to tell where reality ended and the picture began. Great
turtles swam along down below, water-moccasins slipped noiselessly into
the amber depths from the roots of the trees as the canoe drew near;
alligators began to show themselves more freely; the boat floated
noiselessly over one huge fellow fifteen feet long.
Lanse was aroused. "I tell you, old lad, this isn't bad," he said.
"I don't care about it," Winthrop answered; "it's sensational."
Over this remark Lanse indulged in a retrospective grin. "Old!" he said.
"You've been getting that off ever since you were twenty. Who was it
that called Niagara 'violent?' The joke is that, at heart, you yourself
are the most violent creature I know."
"Oh--talk about hearts!" said Winthrop.
The trees now began to meet overhead; when their branches interlaced so
that the shade was complete, Lanse tied the boat-rope to a bough,
stretched himself out in his end of the boat, lit a cigarette, and
looked at his companion. "Now for the story," he said. "I tell you
because I want your help; I am sure that Margaret has the highest
opinion of you."
"She has none at all. She detests me."
"No!" said Lanse, using the word as an exclamation. "How comes that? You
must have been very savage to her?"
"I have always been against her about you."
"Has Aunt Katrina been savage too?"
"She has given her a home, at any rate."
"And a pretty one it must have been, if she has looked, while about it,
as you look now," Lanse commented.
"Never mind my looks. I don't know that your own are any better. What
have you to say?"
"One thing more, first. How much has Margaret told?"
"Nothing. That is, nothing to me."
"I meant Aunt K."
"How should I know?" said Winthrop, shortly. Then he made himself speak
with more truth. "Aunt Katrina complains that Margaret has never said a
word."
"Yet you've all been disapproving of her all this time! Now I call that
a specimen of the fixed injustice so common among nice people," said
Lanse, musingly. He was sorry for the nice people.
"Before you criticise, let us see how well _you_ have behaved,"
suggested his companion.
"Oh, _I_ don't pretend to be a well-regulated character. Let me see--I
shall have to go back to the beginning to make you understand. I don't
know whether you know how Margaret was brought up? She had always lived
in the country; not a village--the old Cruger place was three miles from
everywhere; there she lived with her grandmother and her grandmother's
friends, not a young person among them; she hadn't even been to
school--always a governess at home. She was only seventeen when I first
saw her; we were there in the house together--Aunt Katrina's--and I was
at the time more in the dumps than I had ever been in my life. I had
just come back from abroad, as you know; and the reason I had come back,
which you don't know, was because some one (never mind who--not an
American) had gone off and married under my nose a man with a
million--several of them if you count in French. As I had expected to
marry her myself, you may imagine whether I enjoyed it. Feeling pretty
well cut up, smarting tremendously, if I must confess it, it seemed to
me, after a while, that it wouldn't be a bad idea to marry Margaret
Cruger. I couldn't feel worse than I did, and maybe I might feel better,
she was very sweet in her way; I don't pretend that I was ever in love
with her, but I liked her from the first. I have always had a fancy for
young girls," pursued Lanse, taking off his hat and putting it behind
his head as a pillow; "when they're not forward (American girls are apt
to be forward, though without in the least knowing it), they're
enchanting. The trouble is that they can't stay young forever; they
don't know anything, and of course they have to learn, and _that_
process is tiresome; it would be paradise if a girl of seventeen could
sit down like a woman of thirty, and paradise isn't intended, I suppose,
to come just yet."
"Don't talk your French to me," said Winthrop; "I don't admire it."
"That's another of your shams. Yes, you do. But it's perfectly true
that a young girl can no more sit down with grace than she can listen
with grace."
"Yes; you want to talk."
"On the contrary, I don't want to, I want to be silent; but I want them
to know how to listen to my silence. Well, I won't go into the details.
She was so young--Margaret--that I easily made her believe that I
couldn't live without her, that I should go to the bad direct unless she
would take charge of me--a thing that is apt to succeed with young girls
when they're conscientious (as Margaret was), unless they happen to care
for some one else; Margaret didn't care for any one else, and so she was
caught. We were married; and I give you my word I fully intended to
treat her as well as I knew how. But--ill luck got mixed with it."
Here Lanse changed his position again, and clasping his hands under his
head, gazed up at the dense green above. "Let's hope a moccasin won't
take a walk out on one of those branches and fall down; they do it
sometimes, I know. We had not been married long, Margaret and I, when
the other one wrote to me."
"Nice sort of person."
"Precisely. But I cared more about her than I did about any one in the
world, and that makes a difference. I thought she wrote to me because
she couldn't help it--in short, because she cared so much for me. That's
taking. And now here's where ill luck took a hand. Did I intend to let
any of this in the least touch Margaret--interfere with _her_? As far as
possible from it; my intention was that she should never know or dream
of it, it was all to be kept religiously from her. Why--I wouldn't have
had her know it for anything, first on her own account, then on mine;
the wife of Lansing Harold," went on Lanse, smiling a little at himself,
yet evidently meaning exactly what he said, "must be above suspicion, by
which I intend the verb, not the noun; up to thirty, she must be too
innocent to suspect. But what do you suppose came next? By the most
extraordinary chance in the world Margaret herself got hold of one of my
letters to--to the other person. She came upon the loose sheets by
accident, and thought it was something that I must have been writing
some time to her; she never imagined that it was to any one else, or
she wouldn't have read it, she was punctiliousness itself in such
matters; but her eyes happened to fall first upon the middle sheet,
where there was no name, and the--'the language,' as she afterwards
expressed it, made her believe that it was addressed to herself; a man
could only write in that way to his wife, she supposed. But at the end
she was undeceived, for there she found the other name. Of course we had
a scene when I came home. I was horribly annoyed by what had happened,
but I did my best to be nice to her. I told her that it was a miserable
accident in every way, her coming upon that letter, that I could never
forgive myself for having left it where I did; I told her that I could
perfectly understand that it had been a great shock to her--a shock that
I was more sorry for than she could possibly be. But as it had happened,
we must both make the best of it, and her 'best' was simply to forget
all about it as soon as she could,--it was wonderful how much one could
forget if one tried; I could assure her that nothing should ever touch
her position as my wife, there should be no breath upon that; always I
should give her in the eyes of all the world the first honor, the first
place. You see, it was the best I could do. I couldn't deny the letter;
it was in my own handwriting, it even had a date; and it wasn't a
letter, either, that you could explain away. But I couldn't do anything
with her. I don't mean that she argued or combated, she seemed all
broken to pieces; she sat there looking at me with a sort of wonder and
horror combined. Before night she was ill--a fever. She was ill three
weeks, and I was as nice to her all that time as I possibly could be, I
brought her lovely flowers every day. As she grew better, I hoped we
were going to go on in peace; certainly the last thing I wanted was a
quarrel with her. But--women are bound to be fools! no sooner was she
able to sit up than she took the first chance to ask me (there had been
a nurse about before) whether I had abandoned that dreadful affair. I
suppose I could have lied to her, if I was going to do it, that was the
time. But, as it happens, I don't lie, it has never been one of my
accomplishments. So I told her that she ought to treat such things as a
lady should,--that is, not descend to them; and I told her furthermore
that she ought to treat this one as _my wife_ should. When I said that,
I remember she looked at me as if she were in a sort of stupor; you see,
to _her_ sense, she _was_ treating it as my wife should," commented
Lanse, telling his own story, as he felt himself, with much impersonal
fairness. "All this time, of course, I had had to postpone everything;
she continued to improve, and I took the ground of saying nothing. When
another month had passed, and she was perfectly well again, I mentioned
one day, carelessly, and before some one else, that I thought I should
try a little summer trip of thirty days or so across the ocean and back;
I shouldn't take her, because she wasn't as fond of the sea as I was,
and twenty of the thirty days would be spent afloat; she would be much
more comfortable at home--we had taken a pretty house at New Rochelle
for the year. She didn't make any especial comment then, but as soon as
she could get me alone I saw that it had all been of no use--my patience
and my waiting; she was determined to talk. Her point was that I must
not go. I am not very yielding, as you know; but she was even more
obstinate than I was; it was owing to the ideas she had about such
things, she wasn't a Roman Catholic, but she thought marriage a
sacrament--almost. I got in a few words on that side myself, I told her
that she seemed to have a singular idea of a wife's duties; one of them
was generally supposed to be to guard her husband's name, which was also
her own; but, that while _I_ wished to occasion no talk, no scandal, she
was doing her very best to stir up both by having an open quarrel with
me. And then I asked her what she proposed to do? I suppose I looked
ugly. She got up and stood there, holding on to the back of a chair; 'I
must go with you,' she said. 'I can't take you,' I told her. And then
she said that she could _follow_ me. That, I confess, put me in a rage,
I was never angrier in my life. I imagined her appearing upon the scene
there in Paris! A pretty spectacle I should be, followed about and
tracked down by a wife of that age--a wife, too, who was acting solely
from a sense of duty; with her school-girl face, that was a combination
rather too ridiculous for any man to stand. To cut the story short, I
left her then and there. That night I slept at a hotel, and the next day
I sailed; I had changed my plan of travel, in order that she should not
know for some time where I was; but I think I frightened her
sufficiently about following me before I left her. I not only expressly
forbade it, but I told her that she wouldn't be received in case she
should try it; there would be standing orders to that effect left with
the servants. I should never touch any more of her money, I told her (I
never have to this day); she could set going any story she pleased about
me, and I wouldn't contradict it; that would leave her very easy; on my
side I should simply say nothing, and I should cause no scandal, she
might be sure of that So I went off. On the other side I found a letter
from her--she didn't know my address, but she had sent it to my lawyer;
I've brought that letter along for you to see, it will give you a better
idea of her, as she was at the time, than any of my descriptions." And
he took from his pocket-book an old envelope, and tossed it across.
Winthrop opened the envelope; it contained a small sheet of paper, upon
which, in a youthful immature handwriting, these words were written:
"MY DEAR LANSE,--I have stayed here by myself all day. And I have
been very unhappy. I have not let anybody know that you were gone.
"I feel as though I must have done wrong, and yet I don't know how.
"Perhaps you will come back. I shall hope that you will. I will
wait here for your answer.
"I will come to you at any time if--you know what. And I hope you
will soon send for me.
"Your affectionate wife,
"MARGARET."
"You see there's no trace of jealousy," Lanse commented, in his
generalizing way; "she wasn't jealous, because she wasn't in love with
me--never had been. Of course she _thought_ she loved me--she never
would have married me otherwise; but the truth was that at that time she
had no more conception of what real love is than a little snow image:
that was one of the reasons why I had first liked her. I've no doubt she
_was_ horribly miserable when she wrote that letter, as she says she
was. But there was no love in her misery, it was all duty; I grant you
that with her that was a tremendously strong feeling. Well, I answered
her letter, I told her she had better go and live with Aunt Katrina as
before, that that was the best place for her. I told her that I should
stay where I was for the present, and on no account was she to try to
follow me; that was the one thing I would not endure; I had to frighten
her about that, because she had so much obstinacy--steadfastness if you
like--that if I had not done so, and effectually, she would certainly
have started in pursuit--prayer-book in hand, poor child! She wrote to
me once more, repeating her offer to come whenever I should wish it; but
I didn't wish it then, and didn't answer. Eight years have passed, and I
haven't answered yet. But now I think I shall try it."
Winthrop had sat gazing at the little sheet, with the faded girlish
handwriting. Hot feelings were surging within him, he felt that he must
take a firm hold of himself; this made his manner calm. "What do you
want of her?" he said. "Aunt Katrina couldn't get on a day without her."
"Aunt Katrina would give her up to me," said Lanse, securely. (And
Winthrop knew that this was true.) "What do I want of her? I want to
have a home of my own again, a place where I can be comfortable; I want
to have a place where I can keep all my shoes. I am not as young as I
once was; I don't mind telling _you_ that I've had one or two pretty
serious attacks--rheumatism threatening the heart. It's time to be old,
to take in sail; I'm a reformed character, and I don't see why Margaret
shouldn't come and carry on the good work--especially as she has
promised. The one danger is that she may have begun to--But I hardly
think that."
"That she may have begun to hate you?" said Winthrop. "Yes, I should
think that highly probable." He still held the poor little letter, the
childlike, bewildered appeal of the deserted young wife.
"No, I didn't mean that," Lanse answered; "I meant that she might have
begun to care for some one else; really care, you know. But I don't
believe it. If it were only that she had begun to hate me, that would be
nothing; she would think it very wrong to hate me (though she might not
be able to help it), and that would make her come back to me all the
quicker."
Winthrop looked at him from under his tilted hat--he had tilted it
forward over his eyes. "I should think it would make you sick to ask
her," he said--"sick with shame!"
"It isn't the least shameful, it's the right thing to do," responded
Lanse. "But which side are you on, Ev? You seem to be all over the
field."
"Never mind which side I'm on. You can't take her up and drop her in
that way."
"You've got it mixed. I dropped her eight years ago; _now_ I'm taking
her up again. And if she is as I think she is, she will be glad to
come."
"Oh!" said Winthrop, with angry scorn.
"She'll be glad, because she's my wife--she's a stickler for that sort
of thing. She is a very good woman; that's the advantage of having a
really good woman for your wife--you can rely upon her whether she likes
you or not--likes you very much, I mean. But I begin to think you don't
know her as well as I do, in spite of the time you have had."
"Know her? I don't know her in the least! I have never known her--I see
that now."
At this moment they heard the dip of an oar, and stopped. Coming down
the narrow stream behind them, appeared a rude craft manned by a very
black boy and a very white baby. The boat was a long, rough dug-out, and
the boy was paddling; his passenger, a plump child of about three, had
the bleached skin of the Florida cracker, and flaxen hair of the palest
straw-color. An immense calico sun-bonnet lay across its knee, and,
after a slow stare with twisted neck at the two strangers, it lifted and
put on this penthouse; to put it on was probably its idea of "manners."
The penthouse, in fact, represented the principal part of its attire,
there was nothing else but a little red petticoat.
But if the passenger was dignified, the oarsman was not; delighted to
see anybody, the little darky had showed his white teeth in a perpetual
grin from the moment the canoe had appeared in sight.
Lanse always noticed children. "Where have you been, Epaminondas?" he
said, with pretended severity. "What are you doing here?"
Epaminondas, at the first suggestion of conversation, had stopped
paddling. He accepted with cheerfulness the improvised name. "Ben atter
turkles, boss. But I 'ain't fin' none."
"What is the name of that young lady you have with you?"
"Gin," answered Epaminondas, with an even more extensive smile than
before.
"The whole of it, I mean; I know there's more."
"Trufe, boss, der sholy is," responded Epaminondas, impressed by this
omniscience. "Gin's wat dey calls her mosely; but Victoryne John
Mungumry Gin--dat's de hull ob it. Victoryne en John Mungumry is folks
wat her ma knew whar she come fum, up in Alabawm, en she wanted to
membunce 'em someways, so she called Gin atter 'em. En Gin--dat's
_Virginny_--wuz de name ob her daddy's folks, dey tole me."
"I am surprised that her family should allow Miss Montgomery to be out
without her nurse," Lanse went on.
"She 'ain't got no nuss," Epaminondas answered. "En _I_ hev to tote her
mos' er der time, en she's hebby--she am dat! En so _ter-day_ I 'lowed
I'd rudder take her in de boat a wiles." He looked anxiously at Lanse as
he made this explanation; he was a thin little fellow of about ten, and
Miss Montgomery was decidedly solid.
"I'm inclined to think, my man, that you're out without leave; I advise
you to go home as fast as you can. And mind you keep the boat straight."
"Yas, boss," answered Epaminondas, glad to escape, and plying his paddle
again.
He gave a "Ki!" of delight as a silver coin fell at his feet. "Don't
stop to pick it up now," said Lanse. "Go on with Miss Montgomery;
restore her to her parents as soon as possible."
Epaminondas bent to his oar; the two men looked after him as the boat
went on its way towards the outer creek.
Suddenly, "Good God!" cried Lanse, springing to his feet.
He had to unloose the rope; but he did that in an instant, and, seizing
the paddle, he sent the canoe flying down-stream after the dug-out.
Epaminondas, toiling at his oar, had not gone thirty feet when Lanse had
seen a large moccasin drop from a branch above directly into the long
narrow boat as it passed beneath; the creature fell midway between the
children, who occupied the two ends.
Quick as a flash the little negro had jumped overboard. But that was
instinct; he would not desert the white child, and swam on, holding by
the boat's side and screaming shrilly.
Meanwhile Miss Montgomery sat composedly in her place; she did not
appear at all disturbed.
Winthrop had no oar, so he could not help. Lanse, standing up, forced
the canoe through the water rapidly; but before he could bring it up
where he could seize the child, the little darky, who had not ceased to
swim round and round the drifting craft, announced with a yell, as his
curly black head peered for one instant over the side, that the snake
was coiling for a spring.
Then Lanse gave a mighty plunge into the stream, and, keeping himself up
with one hand, snatched the girl and dragged her overboard by main force
with the other, handing her in safety to Winthrop, who had taken the
paddle and kept the canoe along. Lanse and the little darky then swam
ashore, and stepped into the canoe again from the roots of a large tree,
which served them for a landing.
They were both wet through, of course. But Epaminondas was amphibious,
his single garment, a pair of trousers, could be as well dried upon his
small person as upon a bush. With Lanse it was different. But at present
Lanse was excited, nothing would do but to go after that snake which was
now luxuriously voyaging down the stream in a boat of its own; taking
the paddle, he sent the canoe in chase.
Standing up as he drew near, he announced that the moccasin was
motionless in the bottom of the dug-out.
His next announcement was that it was "rather a pretty fellow."
Then, still standing up and gazing, "_I_ can't kill the poor creature,"
he said; "I don't suppose he meant any harm when he dropped--had no idea
there was a boat there." Sending the canoe towards the land again, he
went ashore and found, after some search, a long branch; with this he
paddled back, and then, brandishing it at arm's-length, he tilted the
dug-out, by its aid, so far over on one side, that the moccasin,
perceiving that the element he preferred was conveniently near, with
silent swiftness joined it. Through all this scene, Miss Montgomery,
plump and dry--Lanse had held her above the water--remained serenely
indifferent; she sat in her sun-bonnet on Winthrop's knee, and preserved
her dignity unbroken.
"Shucks!" said Epaminondas (now that the enemy had departed),
expectorating, with an air of experience, into the stream; "I is seed
'em twicet ez bigger lots er times!"
Lanse, resuming his seat, wiped his forehead. His leap had been a strong
exertion, and already his face showed the fatigue; he was a heavy man,
and out of practice in such gymnastics.
"Have you any more notions to carry out?" inquired Winthrop. "I've been
spinning back and forth in this boat about as long as I care for."
"Come, now, wasn't that a good deed?" asked Lanse (Lanse always wanted
praise). "I call it brutal to kill a poor creature simply because he's
got no legs."
"You didn't happen to have your revolver with you, I suppose," Winthrop
answered, refusing to bestow the applause.
"Never carried one in my life; cowardly things!" responded Lanse, in a
disgusted tone. He was hard at work paddling, in order to keep off a
chill.
Epaminondas was put ashore at his own landing on the outer creek, and
departed up a sandy path, leading Miss Montgomery, his pockets
unwontedly heavy with coin. He looked back as long as he could see them,
throwing up and waving his ragged straw hat.
But Miss Montgomery never turned; she plodded steadily homeward on her
fat white legs--all of her that could be seen below the sun-bonnet.
Lanse's efforts to avoid a chill were apparently successful that night.
But the next morning he sent for Winthrop at an early hour. Winthrop
found him with a strange pallor on his face, he said he was in great
pain. A physician staying in the house was summoned; it was the
rheumatism Lanse had spoken of; but this time it did not merely threaten
the heart, it had attacked it.
For twelve hours there was danger. Then there was a lull. The lull was
followed by something which had the appearance of a partial paralysis of
the lower limbs. Lanse's head was now clear, but he was helpless. The
physician said that he could not be moved at present; in two weeks or so
he should be better able to name a day for that.
To Winthrop, in confidence, he said that in two weeks or so he should be
better able to tell whether there was a chance that the present benumbed
condition would wear off; it _might_ be that Lanse would never be able
to sit erect again.
"A pretty fix, isn't it?" Lanse said, on the morning of the second day,
as, opening his eyes, he found himself alone with his cousin.
"Apparently I'm in for it this time; not going to die, but laid up with
a vengeance. Well, the ship's fast in port at last. I suppose _now_
you've no objection to bringing Margaret over--provided, of course, she
will come?"
Great was Katrina Rutherford's joy and triumph when she heard that her
"boy," her Lanse, was so near her; "only over on the river, a short
day's journey from here." She had "always known" that he would come, and
now it was proved that she had been right; she _hoped_ they appreciated
it (Her "they" meant Winthrop and Margaret.) Spare Margaret? Of course
she could spare her. Margaret's place was with her husband; and
especially now was it her place if he were not well (Aunt Katrina had
not been told how ill Lanse was). It was a great mistake, besides, to
suppose that Margaret was so necessary to her; Margaret was not in the
least necessary, that was one of their fancies; Celestine was much more
useful; Looth too. But the point now was, not to talk about who was
useful, the point was to have Margaret _go_; what was she waiting for,
Aunt Katrina would like to be informed.
Winthrop, upon reaching East Angels, had asked for Margaret.
"I want to speak to you," he said; "it won't take long, but we mustn't
be interrupted. Any empty room will do."
His manner had changed; he did not wait for her answer, but led the way
himself across the hall to the "boudoir" of the Old Madam, now never
used; nothing had been altered there since the Old Madam's departure,
even Mrs. Thorne, with her persistent desire to make everything serve
some present use, had left this room untouched.
Winthrop closed the door, they stood there among the Old Madam's stiff
chairs; everything was covered with embroidery, her own work; there was
a fierce-looking portrait of her on the wall.
"Lanse is here," said Winthrop; "I mean over on the river. He is ill. He
wants you to come to him."
At his first words Margaret had given a great start. For a moment she
did not speak. Then she stammered, "Did you say--did you say he was
ill?" She spoke almost inaudibly.
"It's something like paralysis. I don't know whether it's really that;
but at any rate he's helpless."
"Has he asked for me?"
"He has sent me to bring you."
"Did he give you a letter--a note?"
"No; he told me to bring you."
"Are you _sure_ he told you that?"
"Good heavens! if I were _not_ sure I should be a great deal better off.
Why do you keep asking me? Isn't it bad enough for me to have to say it
at all? But he _is_ ill, and that makes everything different. I couldn't
have stood it otherwise."
"Stood--"
"Stood your going to him."
"I must go to him if he is ill."
"Ill--yes; that's the only thing that--" He stopped, and stood looking
at her.
"I am afraid he is very ill."
"Yes, he is very ill. But I'm not thinking about Lanse now. I know
everything, Margaret--everything except why you have wished, why you
have been determined, that I should think of you in the way I
have,--that is, with such outrageous, such cruel wrong. Lanse has told
me the whole story of his leaving you, _not_ your leaving him. And
before that, Garda had told me what really happened that afternoon in
the woods. Why have you treated me in this way! Why?"
Margaret, whiter than he had ever seen her, stood before him, her hands
tightly clasped. She looked like a person strained up to receive a blow.
"If you could only know how I feel when I think what you have been
through, and what the truth really was," Winthrop went on; "when I
remember my own stupidity, and dense obstinacy, all those years. I can
never atone for that, Margaret; never."
Lanse's wife put out her hand, like a person who feels her way, as she
went towards the door. "Don't stop me," she said; "I cannot talk now."
Her voice was so strained and husky that he hardly knew it.
She went hastily out.