was a prized privilege, but to-day it did not attract; she turned away,
and a few moments after I saw her going down to the end of the
plank-walk, where she stood gazing wistfully toward the ocean. There she
staid all day, going into camp with Drollo, and refusing to come to
dinner in spite of old Dominga's calls and beckonings. At last the
patient old grandmother went down herself to the end of the long walk
where they were, with some bread and venison on a plate. Felipa ate but
little, but Drollo, after waiting politely until she had finished,
devoured everything that was left in his calmly hungry way, and then sat
back on his haunches with one paw on the plate, as though for the sake
of memory. Drollo's hunger was of the chronic kind; it seemed impossible
either to assuage it or to fill him. There was a gaunt leanness about
him which I am satisfied no amount of food could ever fatten. I think he
knew it too, and that accounted for his resignation. At length, just
before sunset, the boat returned, floating up the marsh with the tide,
old Bartolo steering and managing the brown sails. Felipa sprang up
joyfully; I thought she would spring into the boat in her eagerness.
What did she receive for her long vigil? A short word or two; that was
all. Christine and Edward had quarreled.
How do lovers quarrel ordinarily? But I should not ask that, for these
were no ordinary lovers: they were extraordinary.
"You should not submit to her caprices so readily," I said the next day
while strolling on the barren with Edward. (He was not so much cast
down, however, as he might have been.)
"I adore the very ground her foot touches, Kitty."
"I know it. But how will it end?"
"I will tell you: some of these days I shall win her, and then--she will
adore me."
Here Felipa came running after us, and Edward immediately challenged her
to a race: a game of romps began. If Christine had been looking from her
window she might have thought he was not especially disconsolate over
her absence; but she was not looking. She was never looking out of
anything or for anybody. She was always serenely content where she was.
Edward and Felipa strayed off among the pine-trees, and gradually I lost
sight of them. But as I sat sketching an hour afterward Edward came into
view, carrying the child in his arms. I hurried to meet them.
"I shall never forgive myself," he said; "the little thing has fallen
and injured her foot badly, I fear."
"I do not care at all," said Felipa; "I like to have it hurt. It is _my_
foot, isn't it?"
These remarks she threw at me defiantly, as though I had laid claim to
the member in question. I could not help laughing.
"The other lady will not laugh," said the child proudly. And in truth
Christine, most unexpectedly, took up the _rôle_ of nurse. She carried
Felipa to her own room--for we each had a little cell opening out of the
main apartment--and as white-robed Charity she shone with new radiance,
"Shone" is the proper word; for through the open door of the dim cell,
with the dark little face of Felipa on her shoulder, her white robe and
skin seemed fairly to shine, as white lilies shine on a dark night. The
old grandmother left the child in our care and watched our proceedings
wistfully, very much as a dog watches the human hands that extract the
thorn from the swollen foot of her puppy. She was grateful and asked no
questions; in fact, thought was not one of her mental processes. She did
not think much; she felt. As for Felipa, the child lived in rapture
during those days in spite of her suffering. She scarcely slept at
all--she was too happy: I heard her voice rippling on through the night,
and Christine's low replies. She adored her beautiful nurse.
The fourth day came: Edward Bowne walked into the cell. "Go out and
breathe the fresh air for an hour or two," he said in the tone more of a
command than a request.
"The child will never consent," replied Christine sweetly.
"Oh, yes, she will; I will stay with her," said the young man, lifting
the feverish little head on his arm and passing his hand softly over the
bright eyes. "Felipa, do you not want me?" said Christine, bending
down.
"He stays; it is all the same," murmured the child.
"So it is.--Go, Christine," said Edward with a little smile of triumph.
Without a word Christine left the cell. But she did not go to walk; she
came to my room, and, throwing herself on my bed, fell in a moment into
a deep sleep, the reaction after her three nights of wakefulness. When
she awoke it was long after dark, and I had relieved Edward in his
watch.
"You will have to give it up," he said as our lily came forth at last
with sleep-flushed cheeks and starry eyes shielded from the light. "The
spell is broken; we have all been taking care of Felipa, and she likes
one as well as the other."
Which was not true, in my case at least, since Felipa had openly derided
my small strength when I lifted her, and beat off the sponge with which
I attempted to bathe her hot face, "They" used no sponges, she said,
only their nice cool hands; and she wished "they" would come and take
care of her again. But Christine had resigned _in toto_. If Felipa did
not prefer her to all others, then Felipa should not have her; she was
not a common nurse. And indeed she was not. Her fair face, ideal grace,
cooing voice, and the strength of her long arms and flexible hands, were
like magic to the sick, and--distraction to the well; the well in this
case being Edward Bowne looking in at the door.
"You love them very much, do you not, Felipa?" I said one day when the
child was sitting up for the first time in a cushioned chair.
"Ah, yes; it is so strong when they carry me," she replied. But it was
Edward who carried her.
"He is very strong," I said.
"Yes; and their long soft hair, with the smell of roses in it too," said
Felipa dreamily. But the hair was Christine's.
"I shall love them for ever, and they will love me for ever," continued
the child. "Drollo too." She patted the dog's head as she spoke, and
then concluded to kiss him on his little inch of forehead; next she
offered him all her medicines and lotions in turn, and he smelled at
them grimly. "He likes to know what I am taking," she explained.
I went on: "You love them, Felipa, and they are fond of you. They will
always remember you, no doubt."
"Remember!" cried Felipa, starting up from her cushions like a
Jack-in-a-box. "They are not going away? Never! never!"
"But of course they must go some time, for--"
But Felipa was gone. Before I could divine her intent she had flung
herself out of her chair down on the floor, and was crawling on her
hands and knees toward the outer room. I ran after her, but she reached
the door before me, and, dragging her bandaged foot behind her, drew
herself toward Christine. "You are _not_ going away! You are not! you
are not!" she sobbed, clinging to her skirts.
Christine was reading tranquilly; Edward stood at the outer door mending
his fishing-tackle. The coolness between them remained, unwarmed by so
much as a breath. "Run away, child; you disturb me," said Christine,
turning over a leaf. She did not even look at the pathetic little bundle
at her feet. Pathetic little bundles must be taught some time what
ingratitude deserves.
"How can she run, lame as she is?" said Edward from the doorway.
"You are not going away, are you? Tell me you are not," sobbed Felipa in
a passion of tears, beating on the floor with one hand, and with the
other clinging to Christine.
"I am not going," said Edward. "Do not sob so, you poor little thing!"
She crawled to him, and he took her up in his arms and soothed her into
stillness again; then he carried her out on the barren for a breath of
fresh air.
"It is a most extraordinary thing how that child confounds you two," I
said. "It is a case of color-blindness, as it were--supposing you two
were colors."
"Which we are not," replied Christine carelessly. "Do not stray off into
mysticism, Catherine."
"It is not mysticism; it is a study of character--"
"Where there is no character," replied my friend.
I gave it up, but I said to myself: "Fate, in the next world make me one
of those long, lithe, light-haired women, will you? I want to see how it
feels."
Felipa's foot was well again, and spring had come. Soon we must leave
our lodge on the edge of the pine-barren, our outlook over the
salt-marsh, with the river sweeping up twice a day, bringing in the
briny odors of the ocean; soon we should see no more the eagles far
above us or hear the night-cry of the great owls, and we must go without
the little fairy flowers of the barren, so small that a hundred of them
scarcely made a tangible bouquet, yet what beauty! what sweetness! In my
portfolio were sketches and studies of the salt-marsh, and in my heart
were hopes. Somebody says somewhere: "Hope is more than a blessing; it
is a duty and a virtue." But I fail to appreciate preserved hope--hope
put up in cans and served out in seasons of depression. I like it fresh
from the tree. And so when I hope it _is_ hope, and not that well-dried,
monotonous cheerfulness which makes one long to throw the persistent
smilers out of the window. Felipa danced no more on the barrens; her
illness had toned her down; she seemed content to sit at our feet while
we talked, looking up dreamily into our faces, but no longer eagerly
endeavoring to comprehend. We were there; that was enough.
"She is growing like a reed," I said; "her illness has left her weak."
"--Minded," suggested Christine.
At this moment Felipa stroked the lady's white hand tenderly and laid
her brown cheek against it.
"Do you not feel reproached?" I said.
"Why? Must we give our love to whoever loves us? A fine parcel of
paupers we should all be, wasting our inheritance in pitiful small
change! Shall I give a thousand beggars a half hour's happiness, or
shall I make one soul rich his whole life long?"
"The latter," remarked Edward, who had come up unobserved.
They gazed at each other unflinchingly. They had come to open battle
during those last days, and I knew that the end was near. Their words
had been cold as ice, cutting as steel, and I said to myself, "At any
moment." There would be a deadly struggle, and then Christine would
yield. Even I comprehended something of what that yielding would be.
"Why do they hate each other so?" Felipa said to me sadly.
"Do they hate each other?"
"Yes, for I feel it here," she answered, touching her breast with a
dramatic little gesture.
"Nonsense! Go and play with your doll, child." For I had made her a
respectable, orderly doll to take the place of the ungainly fetich out
on the barren.
Felipa gave me a look and walked away. A moment afterward she brought
the doll out of the house before my very eyes, and, going down to the
end of the dock, deliberately threw it into the water; the tide was
flowing out, and away went my toy-woman out of sight, out to sea.
"Well!" I said to myself. "What next?"
I had not told Felipa we were going; I thought it best to let it take
her by surprise. I had various small articles of finery ready as
farewell gifts, which should act as sponges to absorb her tears. But
Fate took the whole matter out of my hands. This is how it happened: One
evening in the jasmine arbor, in the fragrant darkness of the warm
spring night, the end came; Christine was won. She glided in like a
wraith, and I, divining at once what had happened, followed her into her
little room, where I found her lying on her bed, her hands clasped on
her breast, her eyes open and veiled in soft shadows, her white robe
drenched with dew. I kissed her fondly--I never could help loving her
then or now--and next I went out to find Edward. He had been kind to me
all my poor gray life; should I not go to him now? He was still in the
arbor, and I sat down by his side quietly; I knew that the words would
come in time. They came; what a flood! English was not enough for him.
He poured forth his love in the rich-voweled Spanish tongue also; it has
sounded doubly sweet to me ever since.
"Have you felt the wool of the beaver?
Or swan's down ever?
Or have smelt the bud o' the brier?
Or the nard in the fire?
Or ha' tasted the bag o' the bee?
Oh so white, oh so soft, oh so sweet is she!"
said the young lover; and I, listening there in the dark fragrant night,
with the dew heavy upon me, felt glad that the old simple-hearted love
was not entirely gone from our tired metallic world.
It was late when we returned to the house. After reaching my room I
found that I had left my cloak in the arbor. It was a strong fabric; the
dew could not hurt it, but it could hurt my sketching materials and
various trifles in the wide inside pockets--_objets de luxe_ to me,
souvenirs of happy times, little artistic properties that I hang on the
walls of my poor studio when in the city. I went softly out into the
darkness again and sought the arbor; groping on the ground I found, not
the cloak, but--Felipa! She was crouched under the foliage, face
downward; she would not move or answer.
"What is the matter, child?" I said, but she would not speak. I tried to
draw her from her lair, but she tangled herself stubbornly still farther
among the thorny vines, and I could not move her. I touched her neck; it
was cold. Frightened, I ran back to the house for a candle.
"Go away," she said in a low hoarse voice when I flashed the light over
her. "I know all, and I am going to die. I have eaten the poison things
in your box, and just now a snake came on my neck and I let him. He has
bitten me, and I am glad. Go away; I am going to die."
I looked around; there was my color-case rifled and empty, and the other
articles were scattered on the ground. "Good Heavens, child!" I cried,
"what have you eaten?"
"Enough," replied Felipa gloomily. "I knew they were poisons; you told
me so. And I let the snake stay."
By this time the household, aroused by my hurried exit with the candle,
came toward the arbor. The moment Edward appeared Felipa rolled herself
up like a hedgehog again and refused to speak. But the old grandmother
knelt down and drew the little crouching figure into her arms with
gentle tenderness, smoothing its hair and murmuring loving words in her
soft dialect.
"What is it?" said Edward; but even then his eyes were devouring
Christine, who stood in the dark vine-wreathed doorway like a picture in
a frame. I explained.
Christine smiled. "Jealousy," she said in a low voice. "I am not
surprised."
But at the first sound of her voice Felipa had started up, and,
wrenching herself free from old Dominga's arms, threw herself at
Christine's feet. "Look at _me_ so," she cried--"me too; do not look at
him. He has forgotten poor Felipa; he does not love her any more. But
_you_ do not forget, señora; _you_ love me--_you_ love me. Say you do,
or I shall die!"
We were all shocked by the pallor and the wild, hungry look of her
uplifted face. Edward bent down and tried to lift her in his arms; but
when she saw him a sudden fierceness came into her eyes; they shot out
yellow light and seemed to narrow to a point of flame. Before we knew it
she had turned, seized something, and plunged it into his encircling
arm. It was my little Venetian dagger.
We sprang forward; our dresses were spotted with the fast-flowing blood;
but Edward did not relax his hold on the writhing, wild little body he
held until it lay exhausted in his arms. "I am glad I did it," said the
child, looking up into his face with her inflexible eyes. "Put me
down--put me down, I say, by the gracious señora, that I may die with
the trailing of her white robe over me." And the old grandmother with
trembling hands received her and laid her down mutely at Christine's
feet.
* * * * *
Ah, well! Felipa did not die. The poisons racked but did not kill her,
and the snake must have spared the little thin brown neck so
despairingly offered to him. We went away; there was nothing for us to
do but to go away as quickly as possible and leave her to her kind. To
the silent old grandfather I said: "It will pass; she is but a child."
"She is nearly twelve, señora. Her mother was married at thirteen."
"But she loved them both alike, Bartolo. It is nothing; she does not
know."
"You are right, lady; she does not know," replied the old man slowly;
"but _I_ know. It was two loves, and the stronger thrust the knife."
"BRO."
To him that hath, we are told,
Shall be given. Yes, by the Cross!
To the rich man Fate sends gold,
To the poor man loss on loss.
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.
Two houses, a saw-mill, and a tide-water marsh, with a railroad-track
crossing it from northeast to southwest; on the other side the sea. One
of the houses was near the drawbridge, and there the keeper lived, old
Mr. Vickery. Not at all despised was old Mr. Vickery on account of his
lowly occupation: the Vickerys had always lived on Vickery Island, and,
although they were poor now, they had once been rich, and their name was
still as well known as the sun in Port Wilbarger, and all Wilbarger
district. Fine sea-island cotton was theirs once, and black hands to sow
and gather it; salt-air made the old house pleasant. The air was still
there, but not the cotton or the hands; and, when a keeper was wanted
for the drawbridge of the new railroad, what more natural than that one
should be selected who lived on the spot rather than a resident of Port
Wilbarger, two miles away?
The other house was on Wilbarger Island, at the edge of the town, and,
in itself uninteresting and unimportant, was yet accepted, like the
plain member of a handsome family, because of its associations; for here
lived Mrs. Manning and her daughter Marion.
The saw-mill was on the one point of solid mainland which ran down into
the water cleanly and boldly, without any fringe of marsh; the
river-channel was narrow here, and a row-boat brought the saw-miller
across to the Manning cottage opposite three times each day. His name
was Cranch, Ambrose Cranch, but everybody called him "Bro." He took his
meals at the cottage, and had taken them there for years. New-comers at
Wilbarger, and those persons who never have anything straight in their
minds, supposed he was a relative; but he was not--only a friend. Mrs.
Manning was a widow, fat, inefficient, and amiable. Her daughter Marion
was a slender, erect young person of twenty-five years of age, with
straight eyebrows, gray eyes, a clearly cut, delicate profile, and the
calmness of perfect but unobtrusive health. She was often spoken of as
an unmoved sort of girl, and certainly there were few surface-ripples;
but there is a proverb about still waters which sometimes came to the
minds of those who noticed physiognomy when they looked at her, although
it is but fair to add that those who noticed anything in particular were
rare in Wilbarger, where people were either too indolent or too
good-natured to make those conscientious studies of their neighbors
which are demanded by the code of morals prevailing on the coast farther
north.
Port Wilbarger was a very small seaport, situated on the inland side of
a narrow island; the coastwise steamers going north and south touched
there, coming in around the water-corner, passing the Old Town, the
mile-long foot-bridge, and stopping at the New Town for a few moments;
then backing around with floundering and splashing, and going away
again. The small inside steamers, which came down from the last city in
the line of sea-cities south of New York by an anomalous route
advertised as "strictly inland all the way," also touched there, as if
to take a free breath before plunging again into the narrow, grassy
channels, and turning curves by the process of climbing the bank with
the bow and letting the stern swing round, while men with poles pushed
off again. It was the channel of this inside route which the
railroad-drawbridge crossed in the midst of a broad, sea-green prairie
below the town. As there was but one locomotive, and, when it had gone
down the road in the morning, nothing could cross again until it came
back at night, one would suppose that the keeper might have left the
bridge turned for the steamers all day. But no: the superintendent was a
man of spirit, and conducted his railroad on the principle of what it
should be rather than what it was. He had a hand-car of his own, and
came rolling along the track at all hours, sitting with dignity in an
arm-chair while two red-shirted negroes worked at the crank. There were
several drawbridges on his route, and it was his pleasure that they
should all be exactly in place, save when a steamer was actually passing
through; he would not even allow the keepers to turn the bridges a
moment before it was necessary, and timed himself sometimes so as to
pass over on his hand-car when the bow of the incoming boat was not ten
yards distant.
But, even with its steamers, its railroad, and railroad superintendent
of the spirit above described, Port Wilbarger was but a sleepy,
half-alive little town. Over toward the sea it had a lighthouse and a
broad, hard, silver-white beach, which would have made the fortune of a
Northern village; but when a Northern visitor once exclaimed,
enthusiastically, "Why, I understand that you can walk for twenty miles
down that beach!" a Wilbarger citizen looked at him slowly, and
answered, "Yes, you can--if you _want_ to." There was, in fact, a kind
of cold, creeping east wind, which did not rise high enough to stir the
tops of the trees to and fro, but which, nevertheless, counted for a
good deal over on that beach.