"I cannot let you go alone," said Evert Winthrop, decidedly.
He was speaking to Margaret. They were in the East Angels drawing-room,
Betty Carew hovering near, and agreeing with perfect sincerity now with
one, now with the other, in the remarkable way which was part of the
breadth of her sympathy.
"But it's not in the least necessary for you to go," Margaret repeated.
"Even if the storm should break before I reach the river, the carriage
can be made perfectly tight."
"From the look of the sky, I am almost sure that we shall have a blow
before the rain," Winthrop responded; "in the face of such a
probability, I couldn't allow you to start across the barrens
alone--it's absurd to suppose I should."
Margaret stood hesitating. "You want me to give it up--postpone it. But
I cannot get rid of the idea that something has happened--I have had no
letter for so long; even if Lanse had not cared to write himself, one of
the men, Elliot or Dodd, would have done so, it seems to me, under any
ordinary circumstances."
"Lanse probably keeps them too busy."
"They always have their evenings."
But Winthrop showed scanty interest in the evenings of Elliot and Dodd.
"For myself, I can't pretend to be anxious," he said--"I mean about
Lanse; I am only anxious about you."
"But if I don't go now, I can't go until to-morrow noon; before that
time I shouldn't meet a boat that stops at our landing. That would make
a delay of twenty-four hours." She looked at him as she said this, with
a sort of unconscious appeal.
"I doubt whether anything very exciting could happen over there in twice
twenty-four; it isn't an exciting place."
"Of course you think me obstinate. But I cannot help feeling that I
ought to go."
"_Perfectly_ natural," said Betty. "I should feel just the same in your
place--I know I should--not hearing for _so_ long."
"It's that--the silence," said Margaret. "I have been disturbed about it
for several days."
"Go, by all means, if you feel in that way," said Winthrop. "I haven't
the least desire to prevent it--as you seem to think; I only say that I
shall go too."
"Yes; and that is what I don't want." She turned away and stepped out on
the balcony to scan the sky.
A dark haze edged the eastern horizon. It was far away at present, lying
low down on the sea, but it would come, it was already coming, westward;
a clear, empty-looking space of cold pearl-hued light preceded it. Here
on the lagoon the atmosphere was breathlessly still, not a sound of any
kind stirred the warm silence. "Perhaps it will be only a rain," said
Margaret, rather helplessly. She looked very uncomfortable.
"Yes, I reckon that's all it _will_ be," said Betty, who had followed
her to the balcony door. "And then, too, if it _should_ be anything
more, Mr. Winthrop will be with you, of course; that is, in case you
decide to go; and if you don't go, why then he won't, you know; so
either way, it's all for the best."
Margaret turned and came back into the drawing-room. Winthrop was
standing by the table where she had left him; his eyes met hers, she saw
that he would not yield. "I don't dare give it up, I don't dare wait,"
she broke out with sudden agitation. "Something has happened, nothing
less could have kept both of the men from writing, when I gave them my
express orders. I don't understand why you don't agree with me."
"You see probabilities, and Lanse isn't a devotee of probabilities, as a
general thing. Didn't the last letter say that he had begun to walk a
little?--with the aid of two canes? By this time it is one cane, and he
is camping out. And he has carried off the whole force of the house to
cook for him."
Betty thought this an excellent joke, and laughed delightedly over it.
"If he is camping out, it is quite time I was back," answered Margaret,
trying to speak lightly. She took up her gloves. "Good-by, Aunt Betty;
you will write to me?"
"Yes, indeed, I will," said Betty, kissing her. "Poor dear, you're like
Mahomet's coffin, aren't you? suspended between heaven and--and the
other place. And I'm _so_ glad you've decided as you have, because you
will be _much_ easier in your mind, though of course, too, Mr. Winthrop
was _quite_ right of course, about being afraid for you in case you were
alone, for sometimes we _do_ have the most dreadful gusts, and the
pine-trees are blown down all _over_ the barrens and right across the
roads; but then, all the same, if you _hadn't_ decided, you would be
_so_ uncomfortable, like the old man and his son and the donkey, who
never got anywhere, you know, because they tried to please too many
people, or was it that they had to carry the donkey at last? at any
rate, certainly, there's no donkey _here_. Well, good-by, dear; I shall
be so _dreadfully_ anxious about you."
"I am quite sure"--this was called down the stairs after Margaret had
descended--"I'm quite sure, dear, that it will be _nothing_ but a rain."
A carriage was waiting at the lower door; Winthrop's man was to drive;
but the horses were not his; they were a pair Margaret had sent for.
Margaret took her place, and Winthrop followed her; Betty, who had now
hurried out to the balcony, waved her handkerchief in farewell as long
as she could see them.
Margaret had been at East Angels for nearly a month, called there by a
sudden illness which had attacked Mrs. Rutherford. It was not a
dangerous illness; but it was one that entailed a good deal of
suffering, and Margaret had been immediately summoned.
By this time everybody in Gracias knew how dependent "dear Katrina" was
in reality upon her niece, in spite of her own majestic statements to
the contrary. No one was surprised therefore, when, after the new
illness had declared itself, and Mrs. Rutherford had said, plaintively,
that she should think Margaret would feel that she _ought_ to be there,
Betty immediately sat down and wrote a note.
After two weeks of suffering, Mrs. Rutherford had begun to improve. She
had now almost attained her former comparatively comfortable condition,
and Margaret was returning to the house on the river.
The light carriage crossed the barren rapidly; the same hushed silence
continued, the pine-trees which Betty had seen in a vision, prostrate,
did not stir so much as one of their green needles. Margaret and
Winthrop spoke occasionally, but they did not talk; anything they should
say would necessarily be shared by the man who was driving. But
conversation between them was not much more free when the steamer was
taking them up the river. They sat on the deck together at some distance
from the other passengers, but their words were few; what they said had
even a perfunctory sound. They exchanged some remarks about Garda which
contained rather more of animation.
Garda's last letter to Margaret had borne at the head of the page the
magic word "Venice." Garda had appeared to think life there magical
indeed. "She admires everything; she is delightfully happy," was
Margaret's comment.
"How does she say it?"
"You have heard her talk."
"Not as Mrs. Lucian Spenser. And from Venice!"
"I shall tell her to write her next letter to you."
"I have no doubt she would. I see you are afraid to quote."
"Afraid?" said Margaret, in a tone of cold inquiry. And then, with the
same cold intonation, she repeated two or three of Garda's joyous
phrases.
"Yes, she is happy! Of course it's magnanimous in me to say so, but I
owe her no grudge; on the contrary, it has been refreshing to see, in
this nineteenth century, a girl so frankly in love. She would have
married Lucian Spenser just the same if they neither of them had had a
cent; she would have made any sacrifice for him--don't you think so?"
"Yes; but it wouldn't have been a sacrifice to her."
"Bravo! I gave you such a chance to say insidious things."
Margaret smiled a little at this suggestion. Then, in the silence that
followed, the old look came back to her face--a look of guarded reserve,
which, however, evidently covered apprehension.
She had, indeed, been in great dread. The dread was lest the agitation
which had overpowered her during that last conversation she had had with
Winthrop before she went back to her husband, should reappear. This
brief journey of theirs together was the first perfect opportunity he
had had since then to call it forth again; up to to-day there had been
no opportunity, she had prevented opportunity. But now she was at his
mercy; any one of a hundred sentences which he could so easily say,
would suffice to bring back that emotion which suffocated her, and made
her (as she knew, though he did not) powerless. But, so far, he had said
none of these things. She was grateful to him for every moment of the
respite.
Thus they sat there, appearing no doubt to the other passengers a
sufficiently happy and noticeably fortunate pair.
For Winthrop had about him a certain look which, in America, confers
distinction--that intangible air that belongs to the man who, well
educated to begin with, has gone forth into the crowded course, and
directed and carried along his fortunes by his own genius and energy to
the goal of success. It is a look of power restrained, of comprehension;
of personal experience, personal knowledge; not theory. The unsuccessful
men who met Winthrop--this very steamer carried several of them--were
never angry with him for his good-fortune; they could see that he had
not always been one of the idle, though he might be idle now; they could
see that he knew that life was difficult, that he had, as they would
have expressed it, "been through it himself," and was not disposed to
underrate its perplexities, its oppressions. They could see, too, not a
few of them, poor fellows! that here was the man who had not allowed
himself to dally with the inertia, the dilatoriness, the self-indulgent
weakness, folly, or worse, which had rendered their own lives so
ineffectual. They envied him, very possibly; but they did not hate him;
for he was not removed from them, set apart from them, by any bar; he
was only what they might themselves have been, perhaps; at least what
they would have liked to be.
And the women on board all envied Margaret. They thought her very fair
as she sat there, her eyes resting vaguely on the water, her cheeks
showing a faint, fixed flush, the curling waves of her hair rippling
back in a thick mass above the little ear. Everything she wore was so
beautiful, too--from the hat, with its waving plume, and the long soft
gloves, to the rich shawl, which lay where it had fallen over the back
of her chair. They were sure that she was happy, because she looked so
fortunate; any one of them would have changed places with her blindly,
without asking a question.
The steamer stopped at the long pier which was adorned with the little
post-office. The postmaster had made a dim illumination within his
official shanty by means of a lantern, and here Margaret waited while
the boat was made ready by the negroes who were to row them down the
five additional miles of coast which Lanse had considered the proper
space between himself and the hotel, to keep him from feeling "hived
in." The night was very dark, the water motionless, the men rowed at a
good speed; the two passengers landed at the little home-pier in safety,
and the negroes turned back.
As soon as Margaret had ascended the winding path far enough to come
within sight of the house, "No lights!" she said.
"That's nothing," Winthrop answered; "Lanse is probably outside
somewhere, smoking." Then, as the path made another turn, "If there are
no lights in front, there are enough at the back," he said.
From the rear of the house light shone out in a broad glare from an open
door. Margaret hurried thither. But the kitchen was empty; Dinah, the
old cook, her equally ancient cousin Rose, and Primus, the black boy,
all three were absent. Rapidly Winthrop went through the house, he found
no one; Lanse's room, as well as the parlor and dining-room, appeared
not to have been used that day, while the smaller rooms occupied by the
two men who were in attendance upon him had an even more deserted air.
"Their trunks are gone," said Margaret, who met Winthrop here. "It is
all so strange!" she murmured, looking at him as if for some solution,
her eyes dark in the yellow light of the lamp she held.
Winthrop agreed with her in thinking it strange; but he did not tell her
so. They went back to the kitchen, none of the servants had returned.
"They are probably somewhere about the grounds; but you must sit down
and rest while I go and look for them; you are tired."
"No, I'm not tired," answered Margaret, contradicting this statement.
"Come," he said, authoritatively. Taking the lamp from her, he led the
way towards the parlor which she had made so pretty.
She followed him, and sank into the easy-chair he drew forward. "Don't
wait," she said.
"But if you feel ill--"
"It's nothing, I'm only nervous."
"I shall probably bring them back in five minutes."
But twenty minutes passed before he returned with Dinah and Rose, whom
he had found some distance down the shore. The two old women were much
excited, and voluble. Their story was that "Marse Horrel" must be
"lorse;" he had started early that morning in his canoe to go up the
Juana, and had not returned; when it grew towards evening, as he had
never before been out so long, they had become alarmed, and had sent
Primus over to East Angels; the steamer that had carried him, and the
one that had brought "Mis' Horrel" back, must have passed each other on
the way. They did not send Primus to the hotel, because "Marse Horrel,"
he "'spizes monstons fer ter hev de hotel fokes roun';" they evidently
stood in awe of anything "Marse Horrel" should "'spize." And they did
not send Primus up the Juana, because "Prime, he sech a borned fool,"
they "dassent" trust only to that. So not knowing what else to do, they
had sent him to East Angels for orders; of course they had no idea that
"Mis' Horrel" was on her way back.
Where were the two men? Dodd had been gone a week, "Marse Horrel" had
dismissed him; he said he was so well now that he did not need the two.
And Elliot? "Marse Horrel" had sent him "day befo' yesserday" up the
river on an "arr'nd," they did not know what; he was to return, they did
not know when.
"Something has happened to Lanse," said Margaret, drawing Winthrop away
a few paces when at last she had extracted these facts from the mass of
confusing repetitions, ejaculations, and long, unintelligible phrases in
which Dinah and Rose had enveloped them. The little old creatures, who
were of exactly the same height, wore scarlet handkerchiefs bound round
their heads in the shape of high cones; as they told their story,
standing close together, their skinny hands clasped upon their breasts,
their great eyes rolling, they might have been two African witches, just
arrived on broomsticks from the Cameroons.
"The nearest house is the hotel," said Winthrop; "of course that boat is
beyond call." But there was a chance that it might not be, and he
hurried down to the landing; Margaret followed.
There was no sound of oars. He hailed loudly, once, twice; no one
answered. "I shall have to go to the hotel myself," he said.
"That would take too long, it's five miles; it would be at least two
hours before a boat and men from there could get here, and in that two
hours you could find Lanse yourself, and bring him in."
"You speak as though you knew where he was."
"So I do, he is in the Monnlungs swamp. For a long while he has been in
the habit of going up there every day; I have been with him a number of
times, that is, I have followed in the larger boat with one of the men
to row. Lanse is there now, and something has happened to him; either
the canoe has been wrecked, or else he has hurt himself in some way so
that he can't paddle; the great thing is to get him in before the storm
breaks; we can't possibly wait to send to the hotel."
The two negresses who had left them, now returned, each carrying a
light; apparently they supposed that great illumination would be
required, for they had brought out the two largest parlor-lamps, and now
stood holding them carefully.
"Bring your lamps this way, since you've got them," said Winthrop. He
went towards the boats.
"That is the best," said Margaret, touching the edge of one of them with
the tip of her slender boot.
The negresses stood on the low bank above, by the light of the great
globes they held, Winthrop examined the canoe. It was in good order, the
paddle was lying within.
"Now tell me how to get there," he said.
"Oh, I forgot, you don't know the way!" Margaret exclaimed, a sudden
realization that was almost panic showing itself in her voice.
"No, I don't know it. But probably you can tell me."
She stood thinking. "No, it's impossible. Dark as it is, you might not
even find the mouth of the Juana, there are so many creeks. And all the
false channels in the swamp--No, I shall have to go with you; I will
take Rose, possibly she can be of use."
But quickly old Rose handed her great lamp to Dinah, and jerked herself
down on her thin knees. "Please, missy, _no_. Not inter de Munloons in
de _night, no_! _Ghossesses_ dar!" She brought this out in a high shrill
voice, her broad flat features working in a sort of spasm, her great
eyes fixed beseechingly on her mistress's face.
"You, then, Dinah," said Margaret, impatiently. But in spite of her
rheumatic joints, Rose was on her feet in an instant, and had taken the
lamps, while Dinah, in her turn, prostrated herself.
"You're perfectly absurd, both of you!" Margaret exclaimed.
"Poor old creatures, you're rather hard on them, aren't you?" said
Winthrop from the boat.
"Yes, I'm hard!" She said this with a little motion of her clinched hand
backward--a motion which, though slight, was yet almost violent.
"We must lose no more time," she went on. "Go to the house, Rose--I
suppose you can do that--and bring me the wraps I usually take when I go
out in the canoe, the lantern and some candles----"
"No," said Winthrop, interposing; "let her bring pitch-pine knots, or,
better still, torches, if they happen to have them."
It appeared that "Prime" always kept a supply of torches ready, and old
Rose hurried off.
Margaret stepped into the boat; she stood a moment before taking her
seat "I _wish_ I could go by myself," she said.
"You know how to paddle, then?" Winthrop asked, shortly.
"No, that's it, I don't; at least I cannot paddle well. I should only
delay everything, it would be ridiculous." She seated herself, and a
moment later Rose appeared with the wraps and a great armful of torches.
Both of the old women were quivering with wild excitement; agitated by
gratitude at being spared the ordeal of the haunted swamp by night, they
were equally agitated by the thought of what their mistress would have
to encounter there; they shuffled their great shoes against each other,
they mumbled fragments of words; they seemed to have lost all control of
their mouths, for they grinned constantly, though their breath came
almost in sobs. As Winthrop pushed off, suddenly they broke out into a
loud hymn:
"Didn't my Lawd delibber Dan-yell, Dan-yell?
Didn't my Lawd delibber _Dan_-yell?"
For a long distance up the stream this protective invocation echoed
after the voyagers, and the two grotesque figures holding the lamps
remained brightly visible on the low shore.
"Turn in now, and coast along close to the land," said Margaret; "it's
so dark that even with that I am almost afraid I shall miss the mouth."
But she did not miss it. In ten minutes she said, "Here it is;" and she
directed him how to enter.
"I should never have found it myself; it's so narrow," Winthrop
commented, as he guided the canoe towards an almost imperceptible
opening in the near looming forest.
"That was what I couldn't guard you against."
But the mouth was the narrowest part; inside the stream widened out, and
was broad and deep. Winthrop sent the boat forward with strong strokes,
the pine torch which Margaret had fastened at the bow cast a short ray
in advance.
"I think we shall escape the storm," she said.
"It's holding off wonderfully. But don't be too sure."
They did not speak often. Winthrop was attending to the boat's course,
Margaret had turned and was sitting so that she could scan the water and
direct him a little. Her nervousness had disappeared; either she had
been able to repress it, or it had faded in the presence of the
responsibility she had assumed in undertaking to act as guide through
that strange water-land of the Monnlungs, whose winding channels she had
heretofore seen only in the light of day. Even in the light of day they
were mysterious; the enormous trees, thickly foliaged at the top, kept
the sun from penetrating to the water, the masses of vines shut out
still further the light, and shut in the perfumes of the myriad flowers.
Channels opened out on all sides. Only one was the right one. Should she
be able to follow it? the landmarks she knew--certain banks of shrubs, a
tree trunk of peculiar shape, a sharp bend, a small bay full of
"knees"--should she know these again by night? There came to her
suddenly the memory of a little arena--an arena where the flowering
vines hung straight down from the tree-tops to the water all round, like
tapestry, and where the perfumes were densely thick.
"Are you cold?" said Winthrop. "You can't be--this warm night." The
slightness of the canoe had betrayed what he thought was a shiver.
"No, I'm not cold."
"The best thing we can do is to make the boat as bright as possible," he
went on. "But not in front, that would only be blinding; the light must
be behind us." He took the torch from the bow, lighted three others, and
stack them all into the canoe's lining of thin strips of wood at the
stern. Primus had made his torches long; it would be an hour before they
could burn down sufficiently to endanger the boat.
Thus, casting a brilliant orange-hued glow round them, lighting up the
dark water vistas to the right and left, as they passed, they penetrated
into the dim sweet swamp.