"Did you ever hear of anything so absurd?" said Aunt Katrina. "How she
will look at sea!--Those prunello gaiters of hers on deck when the wind
blows!"
"Jolly old soul," commented Lanse. He was playing solitaire, and had
paused reflectively with a card in his hand while he gazed at the
spread-out piles before him. "Jolly old soul!--I am glad she is going to
see something at last, before she dies."
"What expressions you do use, Lanse! one would think she was ninety. As
for seeing, she'll see nothing but Garda Thorne, and have her hands full
at that."
"Her eyes, you mean," said Lanse, slipping his card deftly upon a pile
which contained already its legal three, and fitting the edges
accurately as he did so to those of the card beneath, in order to cheat
himself with the greater skill.
Aunt Katrina's comments were based upon some recent tidings. Betty had
journeyed down to East Angels that afternoon in the black boat of Uncle
Cato to convey to her dearest Kate a wonderful piece of news: Garda had
suddenly decided to go abroad for the winter--to Italy, and she had
written from New York, where she was staying with Lish-er and Trude, to
beg Betty to come north immediately and go with her, "like the dear,
kind old aunt" that she was. Betty's mind, driven into confusion by this
sudden proposal, was a wild mixture of the sincerest regrets at leaving
dear Kate, of the sincerest gratification at this proof of Garda's
attachment, and the sincerest (and most dreadful) apprehensions
concerning the ocean passage.
Garda's second visit at East Angels--a very short one--had terminated
only six weeks before; at that time she had no intention of going to
Italy. This, then, was some sudden new idea, and Lanse had amused
himself imagining causes for it. He imagined them on such a scale of
splendor, however, that Aunt Katrina declared at last that she could
listen to no more of them; they were too ridiculously silly.
She brought herself to listen, however, when, four months later, Betty,
having survived a recrossing of the ocean, came down to East Angels,
with the lion carpet-bag, to tell "everything" to her friend.
Poor Betty had been so homesick in foreign lands that Garda had not had
the heart to detain her longer. "And she said that she had hoped I would
stay with her a long time, perhaps always," narrated Betty. "And of
course I enjoyed being in New York ever so much, of course; and Rome
too--Rome was so instructive. But then you know, as I told the dear
child, Rome is _not_ my home, nor can I make it so at my age, of
course."
"It's not age; it's experience," said Kate.
"Very likely you're right, Kate; but then, you know, I've had so little
experience; since I came from Georgia with Mr. Carew, ever so many years
ago, I've never put my foot outside of Florida until now, and I suppose
I've grown like those Swiss exiles we read about, who can't hear that
call for cows, you know, that Ranz something, without getting _so_
homesick, though to everybody else it's a dreadfully yelling
sound,--though I ought to say, too, that as we've next to no cows in
Florida, the comparison isn't a _very_ good one; but then there were
next to no cows in Rome either, for that matter, though it was there
that a cow brought up little Castor and Pollux, who built the city--no,
no, I'm mistaken, that was Romulus and Remus; Castor and Pollux tamed
the horses on the Quirinal; but in either case it shows that the milk
must have been good, because they were so strong, you know."
"_Are_ we talking of milk, Elizabeth?" asked Kate, in despair.
"Of course not," answered Elizabeth, good-naturedly; "how could you
think so? I know you never cared for milk in the least, Kate, and I
shouldn't be likely, therefore, to bring it up.--And right there in the
Forum I'd see my own flower-garden. And in the Colosseum I'd see our
little church here, and even hear the bell."
"Absurd!" said Kate.
"I reckon it was absurd," Betty agreed, though wiping her eyes at the
same time. "And at the Vatican, there among the statues, Kate--do you
know I was always seeing likenesses to you."
"Oh, well--_that_," responded Kate, as if there might be grounds for
associations of that nature. "And Garda Thorne, by this time, I suppose,
is living there _quite_ alone?" she went on, comfortably.
"Oh no; she has a companion, Madame Clementer."
"Clementi," said Lanse; "I know her--an American, Miss Morris. He ran
through all her money."
"Yes, that is the one; the Bogarduses arranged it by letter; they know
her very well."
"She's a cousin of theirs, and a very nice woman; about fifty-five.
Nothing could be more respectable," Lanse went on, glancing with an
amused eye at Aunt Katrina's unwilling face. "You were there some time,
Mrs. Carew; I suppose you saw some men?"
"The population seemed to me to consist principally of men," Betty
answered, naively; "the streets were always crowded with them."
"That's because the Italian women don't knock about. But some of these
men came to see you, I suppose?"
"Oh, you mean gentlemen? Yes, a good many came; but for my part, _I_ was
always gladdest to see Adolfo Torres. _He_ wasn't so foreign."
"Is _he_ there?" said Lanse, with a delighted laugh; "has he followed
her all that distance? Bravo for Adolfo!"
"I don't see where he got the money to go," remarked Aunt Katrina, with
one of her well-bred sniffs.
Betty flushed at this. "Mr. Torres has property, Kate," she said, with
dignity. Then her usual humble sincerity came back to her. "I don't
reckon it's much," she went on. "I've no idea where he stayed, nor
anything about it; but I'm sure, whenever he came to see _us_, he always
looked like a dignified gentleman."
"Naturally," said Lanse. "Because that is what he is. Well, I give him
my vote."
As this conversation was beginning, word was brought to Margaret that
Mr. Winthrop was in the drawing-room, and wished to see her. Celestine
was the messenger.
"Has he come to stay? You and Looth must put the east room in order,
then," said the mistress of the house. "Have you told the others?"
"Yes'm," said Celestine, disappearing.
When Margaret entered the drawing-room, twenty minutes later, Winthrop
was there alone. Celestine had told nobody. Minerva Poindexter,
meanwhile, sweeping a remote corridor, had had a tussle with her
conscience; and gagged it.
"No one here?" said Margaret in surprise. "Where are the others?"
"I didn't come to see the others," Winthrop answered.
Though many months had elapsed since their last meeting, no greeting
passed between them beyond this; they did not even shake hands. She had
seen upon entering that angry feelings had possession of him, that this
time he would not go through any of the forms. This made her only the
more anxious to keep to them strictly herself.
"I hope you have come to stay with us a while," she said.
He paid no attention to this. "Shall we go out--to the garden, or
somewhere? I wish to see you alone."
"We couldn't well be more alone than this, could we?" she answered,
looking about the room.
"But they may interrupt us. If they do, I shall ask you very soon to
come out, and you must come." He crossed the room and closed the door.
"You got my letter?"
"I was answering it when you came."
"I didn't want a written answer. It came over me, after I had sent mine,
that I knew just what you would write in reply--the very words. Not that
you have written so often; in two years and a half I think three notes
of six lines each would about sum it up. But I know every written phrase
of yours just the same; so I have come to get an answer in person--a
more sensible and reasonable one."
She did not say, "There will be nothing more reasonable." It was what
was in her thoughts; but it seemed wiser not to express her thoughts
now.
"How changed you are!" he said; "even in eighteen months so much
changed."
"No one here sees such a change." She faced his gaze proudly.
"The same old look! Of course they don't; so long as you keep everything
going smoothly and everybody comfortable, they don't want to see any;
they never will see one till you're in your coffin."
He was still gazing at her. "Arrange your life as you like," he went on,
abruptly, "but at least come away from here. You can do that. And I
shall insist upon it."
The fear of him that she had felt from the time of entering was
increasing. He had never looked quite as he did at this moment; his
voice had never had quite these tones before. The long months that had
stretched into years had made no difference, then; everything was to be
as hard, perhaps harder than ever!
Her fear caused her to answer with something like appeal. "But I do not
wish to go away. I like it much better here than I should like being in
New York. It is quiet; I am of some use; I am--I am really contented
here."
"Since when have you learned to speak so falsely? You are probably
afraid of me! You see, and correctly, that I am not to be put off this
time, as I was when I came before--put off with a little preaching, a
few compliments and exhortations. You are afraid I shall smash the
pretty glass walls you have built up round your sham life here, your
charming domestic life, your happy home circle."
"I don't think you have any right to take that tone."
"Yes, I have; the right of our love."
"We must forget that. We are not growing any younger; at least I am not.
Men are different, perhaps."
Winthrop laughed. "Very well done, Margaret. But not well enough. You
are trying to pretend that you have outlived it; and that I have. But
our two faces contradict that; yours is wasted and drawn, and look at
me--have I the appearance of a man who is even moderately happy?"
She had not trusted herself to look at him much; she remembered too
vividly Garda's description--"changed," "bitter," "hard." But
involuntarily now she did look at him. And she saw all that Garda had
described; and more.
"What is it you wish me to do?" she asked, hurriedly.
"Come away from here."
"But where?"
"Anywhere you like.--Where I could see you sometimes."
"No--no."
"Very well, then; anywhere you like. And I won't see you."
"It wouldn't do me any good!" These words burst from her almost
unconsciously. She dropped into the nearest chair.
He came and seated himself near her in silence.
"You saw Garda before she went abroad?" she said, beginning again.
"Yes."
"She wished to see you, I know."
"How you say that--how timidly! Garda, at least, is not troubled by
timidity."
"Perhaps you will go abroad again yourself?"
"Not to see Mrs. Lucian Spenser! Would you like to have me go?" he
added.
"Yes."
"I am very much obliged to you. It's a plan, is it?--you wouldn't have
spoken of her otherwise. I see; I am growing older, I'm lonely, I'm sad;
perhaps I'm wicked. A 'home,' therefore, is the thing I need--you women
think so much of a home--and so you've planned this. It's very
ingenious. But unfortunately I don't fall in with it. Don't waste any
more time talking of Garda," he said, sharply.
Margaret's head was bent.
"It isn't possible that you have thought I _could_ care for her,
Margaret--such a woman as that. Why, you're trembling" (he rose and
pulled down her shielding hand), "you're relieved! You have really
dreamed, then, that it might happen!"
"It makes me hate myself," he went on, a mist showing itself in his
eyes--"to see your unselfishness; you have thought of this because you
believe that it would be better for me, that I should be happier. And if
you had succeeded, if it could really have come about, how you would
have lived up to it! To the very last hour of your life you wouldn't
have swerved."
He looked at her; he seemed to be studying her. Then he grew sarcastic
again, perhaps on account of her continued silence. "Garda, on her side,
is perfectly capable of having a real affection for me for a while--real
while it lasts; she hasn't any especial mission on her hands just now,
so that would have done very well. You planned it together, I suppose.
You are certainly a wonderful pair! May I ask how far did the plan
extend? You would have pampered me up between you (she temporarily); you
would have arranged what was 'best' for my life, like two Sunday-school
teachers over a case of reform! Once and for all, Margaret, let us put
Edgarda Thorne aside; she has nothing whatever to do with the matters
that lie between you and me; she is no more to me than an old glove."
He walked about the room impatiently. "Of course I might lie to you," he
went on; "I might say that if you persist in your present
course--keeping me entirely off, separating your life utterly from
mine--I should go to the bad. But it wouldn't be true; I shall not go to
the bad, unless becoming hard and disagreeable is that. Later, if you
still go on in this way, I shall become callous and selfish
probably--self-indulgent. I shall never be vicious or low-lived, I hope;
but I am not a woman, I can't live on air--as you will do. Don't see me
at fifty-five--I'll give you _that_ advice! For _you_ will always remain
the same; with the exception of growing paler and thinner, you'll be the
same till you die; and I really think it would be a greater blow to you
than even what we're bearing now to find me like that--selfish, fond of
my ease, slow to disturb myself for anybody, mightily taken up with my
dinner!--But you don't believe in the least what I am saying to you; I
can't bring it before you. I love you--love you at this moment with
every fibre of my being." He sat down and folded his arms doggedly. "But
I shall not stay sentimental; no man does after a certain age, though
women always expect it, as you expect it now."
"What do you intend to do?" he continued, as she did not answer any of
this.
"Just what I have been doing."
"You have no mercy, then?" He looked at her with angry gloom.
"If I can bear it, surely you can."
"No, that doesn't follow. Women are better than men; in some things they
are stronger. But that's because they are sustained--the ones of your
nature at least--by their terrible love of self-sacrifice; I absolutely
believe there are women who _like_ to be tortured!"
"Yes--sometimes we like it," answered the woman he spoke to, a
beautiful, mysterious, exalted expression showing itself for a moment in
her eyes.
He sprang from his chair. But the look of his face as he came towards
her, frightened her, brought her back to the actual present; moving
hurriedly, she put her hand upon the cord of the bell.
"No, not that, that's cruel, that humiliates me--don't, don't. See, it
isn't necessary, I shall be perfectly quiet and reasonable now. Here are
two chairs; come and sit down. Now listen. I will do all that is proper
here--see the people, and make a little visit; then I will go back to
New York. After that, in due time, you must tell them that you are tired
of Florida, that you need a change; you certainly do need a change, as a
plain matter-of-fact; and I see no reason, in any case, for your
spending your entire life here. Of course it will be an uphill
undertaking to get Aunt Katrina started; she will believe that it would
kill her instantly. But it won't kill her; she is stronger than she
thinks. As for Lanse, he can make the journey up as well as he made it
down; he's certainly no worse. Both of them, if you are firm, will end
by doing as you wish, because you are indispensable to their comfort.
The thing is that you _must_ hold firm. Once established in New York, or
near there, I could see you now and then--I mean see you all; Lanse
would ask nothing better than to have me about again. I speak in all
honor, Margaret--I'm not a vile hypocrite, whatever else I may be. I am
growing older; see, I will take your view of that, you are growing older
too; why shouldn't we, then, see each other in this way at intervals?
where would be the harm? It would brighten our lives a little; and as
for the 'home' you wished me to have, its good influences and all that,
I could find them there."
"I shall never see you again," Margaret answered, strangely. She had not
seated herself in the chair he had placed for her; she stood with her
hand resting upon its back.
"What do you mean?"
"All you have said I believe; I believe you would keep to it, carry it
out. But with me it would be different--it would be too much pain; I
would far rather not see you at all. I love you too much," she added. A
burning blush covered her face and throat as she met his eyes. Then it
faded suddenly to so deathly a white that his old fear rushed back upon
him. He had almost forgotten this fear in the lapse of time; but these
terrible waves of color and of pallor, these overwhelming emotions that
made her unable to stand--they brought back to him the old conviction,
"She has no strength, she will not be able to endure it; she will die!"
He took her in his arms and laid her down upon the cushions of a couch,
made sick at heart as he did so by the lightness of her weight. Anything
but that--that she should go from earth forever; anything but that!
As he bent over her, his heart full of his dread, she looked up; she saw
his fear.
"Why--I am not dying," she said, reassuringly, smiling for an instant
with almost a mother's sweetness; "it is nothing,--only the faintness
that very often seizes me; it has been so all my life, it amounts to
nothing. And now will you go? And promise me not to come back?"
"Margaret--that is too much."
"It is the only way; surely I have shown you--told you--in all its
shame, my weakness." And again came the burning blush.
He had knelt down beside her. "Weakness!" He bowed his head upon her
hand.
"Go," she repeated softly.
"I cannot go!"
She tried to rise, but he prevented her. "Margaret!" he said.
"And must I always be the one?" She did rise, she moved from his
grasping hands. "You talk about my dying--_that_ would make me die, to
have you pursue me, ungenerously, brutally, when I have already such
hard pain to bear." With a step that swayed with her exhaustion she went
towards the door. "I can only appeal to you, Evert," she said when she
had reached it, looking back at him over her shoulder--"I can only
appeal to you not to try to see me again. It will be the same with me
always, and so I appeal to you for always. I shall never change; and I
should never yield; so you can see that it will only make me suffer
more."
She turned the latch. "Perhaps, sometime--the years that we give up to
duty here--" She went hastily out.
They never met again.
EPILOGUE.
It was eight years later at East Angels. Penelope and Middleton had come
down for an afternoon visit; Betty was already there, Betty was
generally there.
Dr. Kirby had just gone; he had brought to them the surprising tidings
that Garda had turned her back upon her many admirers, and was about to
bestow her hand upon Adolfo Torres.
The Doctor having gone, "I'll believe it when I see it!" Kate declared.
"But, Kate dear, you can't see all the way to Paris," said Betty.
That same evening, Margaret was sitting beside the lamp in the
drawing-room, embroidering something which took her close attention.
Lanse had had his sofa drawn up to the open door of the little high
balcony; he was smoking and looking out upon the moonlight.
He, too, spoke of the rumor about Garda. "I wonder why Evert didn't try
for her?" he said.
His wife made no reply.
"Never married all this time--yet he was the very fellow for it! Steady,
you know; good; a little stupid. It's outrageous the way he treats
us--never coming here!"
Lanse was still crippled; but his face remained handsome. Save for his
crippled condition, he appeared well and strong.
After a while he turned from the moonlight and sat idly watching his
wife's hand move over her work. "Do you know that you've grown old,
Madge, before your time?"
"Yes, I know it."
"Well--you're a good woman," said Lanse.
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's East Angels, by Constance Fenimore Woolson