Evert Winthrop had felt that her words were a prayer, that she was
praying still.
Against what especial danger she was thus invoking aid, he did not know;
before he could speak, old Rose had opened the door, and Margaret,
springing up, was going forward to meet the Rev. Mr. Moore, who with his
usual equable expression entered, hat in hand, to pay Mrs. Harold a
short visit; he had been obliged to come over to the river that morning
on business, and had thought that he would take the occasion for a
little social pleasure as well.
Margaret put out her hands eagerly; "It's wonderful--your coming now!
You will stay with me, won't you?--I am in great trouble."
Mr. Moore took her hand; all the goodness of his nature came into his
long narrow face, making it lovely in its sympathy as he heard her
appeal. She was clinging to him--she had put her other hand on his arm.
"You will stay?" she repeated urgently.
"If I can be of any use to you, most certainly I will stay."
Upon hearing this, she made an effort to recover herself, to speak more
coherently. "I shall need your advice--there are so many things I must
decide about. Mr. Winthrop will tell you--but why should I leave it to
him? I will tell you myself. My husband has gone north, he is going
abroad again. You will understand--it was so sudden. I did not know--"
She made another effort to steady her voice. "If you will stay with me
for a day or two, I will send over to Gracias for anything you may
need."
"I will stay gladly, Mrs. Harold."
"Oh, you are good! But I always knew you were. And now for a few
minutes--if you will excuse me--I have only just heard it--I will come
back soon." And with swift step she hastened from the room.
Mr. Moore, his face full of sympathy, turned to Winthrop.
But Evert Winthrop's expression showed only anger; he walked off, with
his back turned, and made no reply.
"Is it true, then?" said Mr. Moore, infinite regret in his mild tones.
Winthrop was standing at the window, he bit his lips with impatience; he
was in no mood for what he would have called "the usual platitudes," and
especially platitudes about Lansing Harold.
It could not be denied that Mr. Moore's conversation often contained
sentences that were very usual.
"Perhaps he will return," pursued the clergyman, hopefully. "Influences
might be brought to bear. We may be able to reach him?" And again he
looked at Winthrop inquiringly.
But Winthrop had now forgotten his presence, at this very moment he was
leaving the room; he was determined to see Margaret and speak to her, if
but for a second. He found Rose, and sent her with a message; he himself
followed the old woman up the stairs, and stood waiting in the upper
hall as she knocked at Margaret's closed door.
But the door did not open; in answer to Rose's message delivered shrilly
outside the door, Margaret replied from within, "I can see no one at
present."
Rose came back. "She can't see nobody nohow jess _dis_ minute, marse,"
she answered, in an apologetic tone. Then, imaginatively, "Spec she's
tired."
"Go back and tell her that I'm waiting here--in the hall, and that I
will keep her but a moment. There is something important I must say."
Rose returned to the door. But the answer was the same. "She done got
_mighty_ tired, marse, sho," said the old servant, again trying to
clothe the refusal in polite terms, though unable to think of a new
apology.
"Her door is locked, I suppose?" Winthrop asked. Then he felt that this
was going too far; he turned and went down the stairs, but with a
momentary revival in his breast all the same of the old despotic
feeling, the masculine feeling, that a woman should not be allowed to
dictate to a man what he should say or not say, do or not do; in
refusing to see him even for one moment, Margaret was dictating.
He walked down the lower hall, and then back again. Happening to glance
up, he saw that old Rose was still standing at the top of the stairs;
she dropped one of her straight courtesies as he looked up--a quick
ducking down of her narrow skirt; she was much disturbed by the direct
refusal which she had had to give him.
"I can't stay here, if they are going to watch me," he thought,
impatiently. He turned and re-entered the sitting-room.
Mr. Moore was putting more wood on the fire. His mind was full of
Margaret and her troubles; but the fire certainly needed replenishing,
it would do no one any good to come back to a cold room, Mrs. Harold
least of all; Winthrop therefore found him engaged with the coals.
Mr. Moore went on with his engineering feats. He cherished no resentment
because Winthrop had left him so suddenly. Still, he had observed that
such sudden exits were sometimes an indication of temper; in such cases
there was nothing better than an unnoticing, and if possible an
occupied, silence; so he went on with his fire.
"It's most unfortunate that there's no one who has any real authority
over her," Winthrop began, still smarting under the refusal. Margaret
had chosen the clergyman as her counsellor; it would be as well, then,
to indicate to that gentleman what course should be pursued.
"You have some plan to recommend to her?" said Mr. Moore, putting the
tongs away and seating himself. He held out his long hands as if to
warm them a little by the flame, and looked at Winthrop inquiringly.
"No, I don't know that I have. But she is sure to be obstinate in any
case." He too sat down, and stared moodily at the flame.
"You think it will be a great grief to her," observed the clergyman,
after a while. "No doubt--no doubt."
"No grief at all, as far as that goes. Lanse has always treated her
abominably." He paused. Then continued, as if there were now good
reasons for telling the whole tale. "Before he had been married a year,
he left her, she did not leave him, as my aunt supposes; he went abroad,
and would not allow her to come to him. There had never been the least
fault on her side; there hasn't been up to this day."
"I cannot understand such fickleness, such dark tendencies towards
change," said Mr. Moore, in rebuking wonder.
"As far as regards change, I ought to say, perhaps, that there hasn't
been much of that," Winthrop answered. "What took him abroad was an old
interest--something he had felt long before his marriage, and felt
strongly; he has never changed in that respect."
"Do you allude--is it possible that you are alluding to an interest in a
_person_?" asked Mr. Moore, in a lowered tone.
"It certainly wasn't a thing; I hardly think you would call a beautiful
French woman of rank that, would you?"
Mr. Moore looked at him with a stricken face. "A beautiful French woman
of rank!" he murmured.
"That's what is taking him abroad now, this second time. She threw him
over once, but she has evidently called him back; in fact, he admits it
in his letter to me."
"Oh, sin! sin!" said Middleton Moore, with the deepest sadness in his
voice. He leaned his head upon his hand and covered his eyes.
"I suppose so," answered Winthrop. "All the same, she is the only person
Lanse has ever cared for; for her and her alone he could be, and would
be if he had the chance, perhaps, unselfish; I almost think he could be
heroic. But, you see, he won't have the chance, because there's the
husband in the bush."
"Do you mean to say that this wretched creature is a _married_ woman?"
demanded the clergyman, aghast.
"Oh yes; it was her marriage, her leaving him in the lurch, that made
Lanse himself marry in the first place--marry Margaret Cruger."
"This is most horrible. This man, then, this Lansing Harold, is an
incarnation of evil?"
"I don't know whether he is or not," Winthrop answered, irritably. "Yes,
he is, I suppose; we all are. Not you, of course," he added, glancing at
his companion, and realizing as he did so that here was a man who was an
incarnation of good. Then the opposing feeling swept over him again,
namely, that this man was good simply because he could not be evil; it
was not that he had resisted temptation so much as that he had no
capacity for being tempted. "An old woman," he thought.
He himself was very different from that, he knew well what temptation
meant! A flush crossed his face. "Perhaps Lanse can't help loving her,"
he said, flinging it out obstinately.
"A man can always help a shameful feeling of that sort," the clergyman
answered, with sternness. He drew up his tall figure, his face took on
dignity. "We are not the beasts that perish."
"We may not be altogether beasts, and yet we may not be able to help
it," Winthrop answered, getting up and walking across the room.
Margaret's little work-table stood there, gay with ribbons and fringes;
mechanically he fingered the spools and bright wools it held.
"At least we can control its manifestations," replied Middleton Moore,
still with a deep severity of voice and eyes.
"You would like to have all sinners of that disposition (which doesn't
happen to be yours) consumed immediately, wouldn't you? for fear of
their influencing others," said Winthrop, leaving the work-table and
walking about the room. "In the days of the burnings, now, when it was
for strictly wicked persons of that tendency, I suspect you would have
brought a few fagots yourself--wouldn't you?--even if you hadn't taken a
turn at the bellows."
Mr. Moore turned and surveyed him in unfeigned astonishment.
"I beg your pardon," said the younger man, "I don't know what I'm
saying. I'll go out for a while, and try the fresh air."
When he came back half an hour later, Margaret had returned.
"Ah! you have had a walk? The air is probably pleasant," said the
clergyman, welcoming him kindly. He wished to show that he had forgotten
the bellows. "I was on the point of saying to Mrs. Harold, as you came
in, that in case she should be thinking of leaving this house, I will
hope most warmly that she will find it consistent with her plans to
return to us at Gracias."
"I should much rather stay here," responded Margaret. "I could have
Dinah's son Abram to sleep in the house, if necessary."
"You could never stay here alone, you ought not to think of it," said
Winthrop. "We know better than you do about that." He had seated himself
at some distance from her. Mr. Moore still kept his place before the
fire, and Margaret was beside him; she held a little fan-shaped screen
in her hand to shade her face from the glow.
"I am sure Mr. Moore will say that it is safe," she answered.
"I included him; I said 'we,'" said Winthrop, challengingly.
Mr. Moore extended his long legs with a slightly uneasy movement. "I
regret to say that I fear Mr. Winthrop is right; it would not be safe at
present, even with Abram in the house. The river is no longer what it
was" (he refrained from saying "your northern steamers have made the
change;") "the people who live in the neighborhood are respectable, but
the increased facilities for traffic have brought us dangerous
characters."
"Of course you will go back to East Angels," Winthrop began.
"I think not. If I cannot stay here, I shall go north."
"North? Where?"
"There are plenty of places. There is my grandmother's old house in the
country, where I lived when I was a child; it is closed now, but I could
open it; I should like to see the old rooms once more." She spoke
quietly, her manner was that she was taking it for granted that the
clergyman knew everything, that Winthrop had told him all. She was a
deserted wife, there was no need for any of them to go through the form
of covering that up.
"That would be a perfectly crazy idea," began Winthrop. Then he stopped.
"We should be exceedingly sorry to lose you, Mrs. Harold--Penelope would
be exceedingly sorry," said Mr. Moore, in his amiable voice. "I can
understand that it would afford you much pleasure to revisit your
childhood's home. But East Angels, too--after so long a stay there, may
we not hope that it presents to you a friendly aspect?"
"I prefer to go north," Margaret answered.
Mr. Moore did not combat this decision; he did not, in truth, know quite
what to advise just at present; it required thought. Here was a woman
who had been cruelly outraged by the scandalous, by the incredibly
abandoned conduct of the worst of husbands. She had no mother to go to
(the clergyman felt this to be an unspeakable misfortune), but she was
not a child; they could not dictate to her, she was a free agent. But
women--women of refinement--were generally timid (he glanced at
Margaret, and decided that she was timid also); she might talk a little
about her house at the north, but probably it would end in her returning
to East Angels after all.
"If I find that I don't care for the country-house, the life there, I
can go abroad," Margaret continued. She rose and went out.
This was not much like returning to East Angels!
"Is she thinking, do you suppose, of going to him?" asked the clergyman,
in a cautious voice, when the door was closed.
"I don't know what she is thinking of. She is capable of the most
mistaken ideas!" Winthrop answered.
"She is possessed of a wonderful sense of duty, if she does go; I mean,
in case she is acquainted with the cause of his departure?"
"She is acquainted with everything."
Margaret came back and sat down again. "You decidedly think, then, that
I cannot stay here?" she said to the clergyman.
"Do you wish to stay so very ranch?" he asked, kindly.
"Yes, I should much rather stay, much rather make no change; this is my
home."
"How can you talk in that way?" said Winthrop. He had risen again, and
begun to walk up and down the room; as he spoke, he stopped his walk and
stood before her. "You came here against your will; you disliked the
place intensely; you said so of your own accord, I heard you." "I know I
have said so. Many times. Still, I should like to stay now."
"You cannot. Even Mr. Moore tells you that."
"Yes," said the clergyman, conscientiously, "I must say it though I do
not wish to; the place is unusually lonely, it stands quite by itself;
it would be unwise to remain."
"I must give it up, I see," Margaret answered; "I am sorry. But at least
I can retain the house; I should like to keep it open, too; the servants
could stay here, I suppose."
Winthrop turned and looked at her, a quick surprised suspicion in his
glance.
"I could do that, couldn't I?" she repeated, addressing Mr. Moore.
Again the clergyman looked uncomfortable. He crossed his legs, and
extending the pendent foot a little in its long, thin-soled boot, he
looked at it and moved it to and fro slightly, as if he had been called
upon to give an opinion upon the leather. "I fear," he said, as the
result of his meditation, "that it might not be altogether prudent. The
negroes have much hospitality; with a large house at their command, and
nobody near, I fear they might be tempted to invite their friends to
visit them."
"The place would swarm with them," said Winthrop.
"At any rate, I shall keep the house even if I close it," said Margaret.
"It must be ready for occupancy at any time."
"Then you are thinking of coming back?" Winthrop asked. His face still
showed an angry mistrust.
"I may come back. At present, however, I shall go north; and as I prefer
to go immediately, I shall set about arranging the rooms here so that I
can leave them. It will not take long, two days, or three at most; it
would be a great kindness, Mr. Moore, if you would stay with me until I
leave--by next Saturday's steamer, probably."
"I hardly think you will be able to accomplish so much in so short a
time," answered the clergyman, a good deal bewildered by this display of
energy. To Mr. Moore's idea, a woman who had been deserted by her
husband, even though that husband had been proved to be abnormally
vicious, could not well be in the mood for the necessary counting of
chairs, for the proper distribution of gum-camphor among carpets and
curtains, all so important.
Then, reading again the deep trouble in Margaret's face, under all the
calmness of her manner, he dismissed his objections, and said, heartily,
"In any case, I will stay with you as long as you wish."
"Possibly one of your difficulties is that I am here," said Winthrop to
Margaret. "You cannot expect me to leave you entirely, as long as you
are still in this house, I am, after all, your nearest relative; but of
course I could stay at the hotel." He spoke with extreme coldness.
Margaret, however, did not try to dissipate it by asking him to remain.
He showed that he felt this, for he said, "Perhaps I had better go up at
once and see to getting quarters there."
She did not answer. He walked about aimlessly for a moment or two, and
then left the room.
"Will you go over the house with me now, Mr. Moore--I mean this
afternoon?"
"Certainly. It would be better, I think, to make a list," Mr. Moore
answered, in an interested voice. Mr. Moore enjoyed lists; to him an
index was an exciting object; in devising catalogues, or new
alphabetical arrangements, he had sometimes felt a sense of pleasure
that was almost dissipation.
"You will have three enemies to encounter," he began with much
seriousness. "They are, first, the Mildew. Second, the Moth. Third, the
Damp; the Mouse, so destructive in other climates, will trouble you
little in this. We shall need red pepper."