Two weeks later Mrs. Kip gave an afternoon party for the Indians.
Captain March had not been struck by her idea that the sight of "a
lady's quiet home" would have a soothing effect upon these children of
the plains. Mrs. Kip had invited the whole band, but the captain had
sent only a carefully selected half-dozen in charge of the interpreter.
And he had also added, uninvited, several soldiers from the small force
at his disposal. Mrs. Kip was sure that these soldiers were present
"merely for form." There are various kinds of form. Captain March,
having confided to the colonel who commanded at the other end of the
sea-wall, that he could answer for the decorum of his six "unless the
young ladies get hold of them," a further detachment of men had arrived
from St. Francis Barracks; for the colonel was aware that the party was
to be largely feminine. The festivities, therefore, went on with double
brilliancy, owing to the many uniforms visible under the trees.
These trees were magnificent. Mrs. Kip occupied, as tenant, the old
Buckingham Smith place, which she had named Andalusia. Here, in addition
to the majestic live-oaks, were date-palms, palmettoes, magnolias,
crape-myrtles, figs, and bananas, hedges of Spanish-bayonet, and a
half-mile of orange walks, which resembled tunnels through a
glossy-green foliage, the daylight at each end looking like a far-away
yellow spot. All this superb vegetation rose, strangely enough to
Northern eyes, from a silver-white soil. It was a beautiful day, warm
and bright. Above, the sky seemed very near; it closed down over the
flat land like a soft blue cover. The air was full of fragrance, for
both here and in the neighboring grove of Dr. Carrington the
orange-trees were in bloom. Andalusia was near the San Sebastian border
of the town, and to reach it on foot one was obliged to toil through a
lane so deep in sand that it was practically bottomless.
There was no toil, however, for Mrs. Horace Chase; on the day of the
party she arrived at Andalusia in a phaeton drawn by two pretty ponies.
She was driving, for the ponies were hers. Her husband was beside her,
and, in the little seat behind, Walter Willoughby had perched himself.
It was a very early party, having begun with a dinner for the Indians at
one o'clock; Mr. and Mrs. Chase arrived at half-past two. Dressed in
white, Mrs. Kip was hovering round her dark-skinned guests. When she
could not think of anything else to do, she shook hands with them; she
had already been through this ceremony eight times. "If I could only
speak to them in their own tongue!" she said, yearningly. And the long
sentences, expressive of friendship, which she begged the interpreter to
translate to them, would have filled a volume. The interpreter, a very
intelligent young man, obeyed all her requests with much politeness.
"Tell them that we _love_ them," said Mrs. Kip. "Tell them that we think
of their _souls_."
The interpreter bowed; then he translated as follows: "The white squaw
says that you have had enough to eat, and more than enough; and she
hopes that you won't make pigs of yourselves if anything else is
offered--especially Drowning Raven!"
The Chases and Walter Willoughby had come to the Indian party for a
particular purpose, or rather Walter had asked the assistance of the
other two in carrying out a purpose of his own, which was to make Mrs.
Kip give them a ball. For Andalusia possessed a capital room for
dancing. The room was, in fact, an old gymnasium--a one-story building
near the house. Mrs. Kip was in the habit of lending this gymnasium for
tableaux and Sunday-school festivals; to-day it had served as a
dining-room for the Indians. Walter declared that with the aid of flags
and flowers the gymnasium would make an excellent ball-room; and as the
regimental band had arrived at St. Francis Barracks that morning for a
short stay, the mistress of Andalusia must be attacked at once.
"We'll go to her Indian party, and compliment her out of her shoes," he
suggested. "You, Mrs. Chase, must be struck with her dress. I shall
simply make love to her. And let me see--what can you do?" he went on,
addressing Chase. "I have it; you can admire her chiefs."
"Dirty lot!" Chase answered. "I'd rather admire the hostess."
But the six Indians were not at all dirty; they had never been half so
clean since they were born; they fairly shone with soap and ablutions.
Dressed in trousers and calico shirts, with moccasins on their feet, and
their black hair carefully anointed, they walked, stood, or sat in a
straight row all together, according to the strongly emphasized
instructions which they had received before setting out. Two old
warriors, one of them the gluttonous Drowning Raven reproved by the
interpreter, grinned affably at everything. The others preserved the
dignified Indian impassiveness.
Soon after his arrival, Walter, who had paid his greetings upon
entering, returned to his fair hostess. "I hear you have a rose-tree
that is a wonder, Mrs. Kip; where is it?"
Mrs. Kip began to explain. "Go through the first orange-walk. Then turn
to the right. Then--"
"I am afraid I can't remember. Take me there yourself," said Walter,
calmly.
"Oh, I ought to be here, I think. People are still coming, you know,"
answered the lady. Then, as he did not withdraw his order, "Well," she
said, assentingly.
They were absent twenty minutes.
When they returned, the soft brown eyes of the widow had a partly
pleased, partly deprecatory expression. Another young man in love with
her! What could she do to prevent these occurrences?
Walter, meanwhile, had returned to Mr. and Mrs. Chase. "It's all right,"
he said to Ruth. "The ball will come off to-morrow night. Impromptu."
"Well, you _have_ got cheek!" commented Chase.
Mrs. Kip herself soon came up. "Ruth, dear, do you know that the
artillery band is only to stay a short time? My gymnasium has a capital
floor; what do you say to an impromptu dance there to-morrow night? I've
just thought of it; it's my own idea entirely."
"Now what made her lug in that unnecessary lie at the end?" inquired
Chase, in a reasoning tone, when their hostess, after a few minutes more
of conversation, had returned to her duties. "It's of no importance to
anybody whose idea it was. That's what I call taking trouble for
nothing!"
"If you believe your lie, it's no longer a lie," answered Walter; "and
she believes hers. A quarter of a minute after a thing has happened, a
woman can often succeed in convincing herself that it happened not
_quite_ in that way, but in another. Then she tells it in _her_ way
forever after."
Chase gave a yawn. "Well, haven't you had about enough of this fool
business?" he said to his wife, using the words humorously.
"I am ready to go whenever you like," she answered. For if he allowed
her to arrange their days as she pleased, she, on her side, always
yielded to his wishes whenever he expressed them.
"I'll go and see if the ponies have come," he suggested, and he made his
way towards the gate.
"You don't give us a very nice character," Ruth went on to Walter.
"About fibs, do you mean? I only said that you ladies have very powerful
beliefs. Proof is nothing to you; faith is all. There is another odd
fact connected with the subject, Mrs. Chase, and that is that an
absolutely veracious woman, one who tells the exact, bare, cold truth on
all occasions and nothing more; who never exaggerates or is tempted to
exaggerate, by even a hair's-breadth--who is never conscious that she is
coloring things too rosily--such a woman is somehow a very uninteresting
person to men! I can't explain it, and it doesn't seem just. But it's
so. Women of that sort (for they exist--a few of them) move through life
very admirably; but quite without masculine adorers." Then he stopped
himself. "I'm not here, however, to discuss problems with her," he
thought. "Several hours more of daylight; let me see, what can I suggest
next to amuse her?"
This young man--he was twenty-seven--had had an intention in seeking St.
Augustine at this time; he wished to become well acquainted, if possible
intimate, with the enterprising member of his uncle's firm. He had some
money, but not much. His father, the elder Walter, had been the one
black sheep of the Willoughby flock, the one spendthrift of that
prudent family circle. After the death of the prodigal, Richard and
Nicholas had befriended the son; the younger Walter was a graduate of
Columbia; he had spent eighteen months in Europe; and when not at
college or abroad, he had lived with his rich uncles. But this did not
satisfy him, he was intensely ambitious; the other Willoughbys had no
suspicion of the reach of this nephew's plans. For his ambitions
extended in half a dozen different directions, whereas what might have
been called the family idea had moved always along one line. Walter had
more taste than his uncles; he knew a good picture when he saw it; he
liked good architecture; he admired a well-bound book. But these things
were subordinate; his first wish was to be rich; that was the
stepping-stone to all the rest. As his uncles had children, he could not
expect to be their heir; but he had the advantage of the name and the
relationship, and they had already done much by making him, nominally at
least, a junior partner in this new (comparatively new) firm--a firm
which was, however, but one of their interests. The very first time that
Walter had met the Chase of Willoughby & Chase he had made up his mind
that this was the person he needed, the person to give him a lift.
Richard and Nicholas were too cautious, too conservative, for daring
enterprises, for outside speculations; in addition, they had no need to
turn to things of that sort. Their nephew, however, was in a hurry, and
here, ready to his hand, appeared a man of resources; a man who had
made one fortune in a baking-powder, another by the bold purchase of
three-quarters of an uncertain silver mine, a third by speculation on a
large scale in lumber, while a fourth was now in progress, founded (more
regularly) in steamers. At present also there was a rumor that he had
something new on foot, something in California; Walter had an ardent
desire to be admitted to a part in this Californian enterprise, whatever
it might be. But Chase's trip to Europe had delayed any progress he
might have hoped for in this direction, just as it had delayed the
carrying out of the Asheville speculation. The Chases had returned to
New York in November. But immediately (for it had seemed immediately to
the impatient junior partner) Chase had been hurried off again, this
time to Florida, by his silly wife. Walter did not really mean that Ruth
was silly; he thought her pretty and amiable. But as she was gay,
restless, fond of change, she had interfered (unconsciously of course)
with his plans and his hopes for nearly a year; to call her silly,
therefore, was, in comparison, a mild revenge. "What under heaven is the
use of her dragging poor Chase 'away down South to the land of the
cotton,' when she has already kept him a whole summer wandering about
Europe," he had said to himself, discomfited, when he first heard of the
proposed Florida journey. The next day an idea came to him: "Why
shouldn't I go also? Chase will be sure to bore himself to death down
there, with nothing in the world to do. And then I shall be on hand to
help him through the eternal sunshiny days! In addition, I may as well
try to make myself agreeable to his gadding wife; for, whether she knows
it as yet or not, it is evident that _she_ rules the roost." He
followed, therefore. But as he came straight to Florida, and as Mr. and
Mrs. Chase had stopped _en route_ at Baltimore, Washington, Richmond,
Charleston, and Savannah, Walter had been in St. Augustine nearly two
weeks before they arrived.
So far, all had turned out as he had hoped it would. This was not
surprising; for young Willoughby was, not merely in manner, but also in
reality, a good-natured, agreeable fellow, full of life, fond of
amusement. He was ambitious, it is true. But he was as far as possible
from being a drudging money-maker. He meant to carry out his plans, but
he also meant to enjoy life as he went along. He had noticed, even as
far back as the time of the wedding, that the girl whom Horace Chase was
to marry had in her temperament both indolence and activity; now one of
these moods predominated, now the other. As soon, therefore, as Mr. and
Mrs. Chase were established in their St. Augustine house, he let himself
go. Whenever the young wife's mood for activity appeared to be
uppermost, he opened a door for it; he proposed an excursion, an
entertainment of some sort. Already, under his leadership, they had
sailed down the Matanzas River (as the inlet is called) to see the old
Spanish lookout; they had rowed up Moultrie Creek; they had sent horses
across to Anastasia Island and had galloped for miles southward down the
hard ocean beach. They had explored the barrens; they had had a
bear-hunt; they had camped out; they had caught sharks. On these
occasions they had always been a party of at least four, and often of
seven, when Mrs. Franklin and Dolly, Mrs. Kip and Commodore Etheridge
joined in the excursion. Dolly in particular had surprised everybody by
her unexpected strength; she had accompanied them whenever it had been
possible. When it was not, she had urged her mother to take the vacant
place. "Do go, His Grand, so that you can tell me about it. For it does
amuse me so!"
Walter's latest inspiration, the ball at Andalusia, having been
arranged, he now suggested that they should slip out unobserved and
finish the afternoon with a sail. "I noticed the _Owl and the Pussycat_
moored at the pier as we came by," he said. "If she is still there, Paul
Archer is at the club, probably, and I can easily borrow her."
"Anything to get away from these Apaches," Chase answered. "And I'm a
good deal afraid, too, of that Evangeline Taylor! She has asked me three
times, with such a voice from the tombs, if I feel well to-day, that she
has turned me stiff."
"Why on earth does that girl make such _awful_ face?" inquired Walter.
Ruth gave way to laughter. "I can never make you two believe it, but it
is really her deep sense of duty. She thinks that she ought to look
earnest, or intelligent, or grateful, or whatever it may be, and so she
constantly tries new ways to do it."
"What way is it when she glares at a fellow's collar for fifteen minutes
steadily," said Walter; "at close range?"
"She _never_ did!" protested Ruth.
"Yes--in the tea-room; _my_ collar. And every now and then she gave a
ghastly smile."
"She didn't know it was your collar; she was simply fixing her eyes upon
a point in space, as less embarrassing than looking about. And she
smiled because she thought she ought to, as it is a party."
"A point in space! My collar!" grumbled Walter.
At the gate they looked back for a moment. The guests, nearly a hundred
in number, had gathered in a semicircle under a live-oak; they were
gazing with fresh interest at the Indians, who had been drawn up before
them. The six redskins were still in as close a row as though they had
been handcuffed together; the serious spinsters had failed entirely in
their attempts to break the rank, and have a gentle word with one or two
of them, apart. The Rev. Mr. Harrison, who was to make an address, now
advanced and began to speak; the listeners at the gate could hear his
voice, though they were too far off to catch the words. The voice would
go on for a minute or two, and pause. Then would follow the more
staccato accents of the interpreter.
"The horse-joke comes in, Walter, when that interpreter begins," said
Chase. "Who knows what he is saying?"
The interpreter, however, made a very good speech. It was, perhaps, less
spiritual than Mr. Harrison's.
It turned out afterwards that the thing which had made the deepest
impression upon the Apaches was not the "lady's quiet home," nor the
Sunday-school teachers, nor the cabinet-organ, nor even the dinner; it
was the extraordinary length of "the young-squaw-with-her-head-in-the-sky,"
as they designated Evangeline Taylor.
Ruth drove her ponies down to the Basin. The little yacht called the
_Owl and the Pussycat_ was still moored at the pier; but Paul Archer,
her owner, was not at the club, as Walter had supposed; he had gone to
the Florida House to call upon some friends. Commodore Etheridge was in
the club-room; he was forcing himself to stay away from Andalusia, for
he had an alarming vision of its mistress, dressed in white, with the
sunshine lighting up her sea-shell complexion and bringing out,
amorously, the rich tints of her hair. Delighted to have something to
do, he immediately took charge of Walter.
"Write a line, Mr. Willoughby; write a line on your card, and our porter
shall take it to the Florida House at once. In the meanwhile Mr. and
Mrs. Chase can wait here. Not a bad place to wait in, Mrs. Chase?
Simple, you see. Close to nature. And nature's great restorer" (for two
of the club-men were asleep).
The room was close to restorers of all sorts, for the land front was let
to a druggist. The house stood on the wooden pier facing the little
Plaza, across whose grassy space the old Spanish cathedral and the more
modern Episcopal church eyed each other without rancour. The Plaza's
third side was occupied by the post-office, which had once been the
residence of the Spanish governor.
The club-room was a large, pleasant apartment, with windows and verandas
overlooking the water. There was a general straightening up of lounging
attitudes when Mrs. Chase came in. Etheridge had already introduced
Horace Chase to everybody at the club, and Chase, in his turn, had
introduced almost everybody to his wife. The club, to a man, admired
Mrs. Chase; while she waited, therefore, she held a little court. The
commodore, meanwhile, kindly took upon himself, as usual, the duty of
entertaining the Bubble.
"Mr. Willoughby need not have gone to the Florida House in person; our
porter could perfectly well have taken a note, as I suggested. Capital
fellow, our porter; I never come South, Mr. Chase, without being struck
afresh with the excellence of the negroes as servants; they are the best
in the world; they're born for it!"
"That's all right, if they're willing," Chase answered. "But not to
force 'em, you know. That slave-market in the Plaza, now--"
"Oh Lord! Slave-market! Have _you_ got hold of that story too?"
interposed Etheridge, irritably. "It was never anything but a
fish-market in its life! But I'm tired of explaining it; that, and the
full-length skeleton hanging by its neck in an iron cage in the
underground dungeon at the fort--if they're not true, they ought to be;
that's what people appear to think! '_Si non ee veero, ee ben
trovatoro_,' as the Italians say. And speaking of the fort, I suppose
you have been to that ridiculous Indian party at Andalusia to-day? Mrs.
Kip must have looked grotesque, out-of-doors? In white too, I dare say?"
"Grotesque? Why, she's pretty," answered Chase.
"Not to my eye," responded Etheridge, determinedly. "She has the facial
outlines of a frog. Do you know the real reason why I didn't marry? I
couldn't endure, sir, the prospect of an old woman's face opposite mine
at table year after year. For our women grow old so soon--"
As he brought this out, a dim remembrance of having said it to Horace
Chase before came into his mind. Had he, or had he not? Chase's face
betrayed nothing. If he had, what the devil did the fellow mean by not
answering naturally, "Yes, you told me?" Could it be possible that he,
Anthony Etheridge, had fallen into a habit of repeating?--So that people
were accustomed--? He went off and pretended to look at a file of
porpoises, who were going out to sea in a long line, like so many fat
dark wheels rolling through the water.
Chase, left alone, took up a newspaper. But almost immediately he threw
it down, saying, "Well, I didn't expect to see _you_ here!"
The person whom he addressed was a stranger, who came in at this moment,
brought by a member of the club. He shook hands with Chase, and they
talked together for a while. Then Chase crossed the room, and, smiling a
little as he noted the semicircle round his wife, he asked her to come
out and walk up and down the pier while they waited for Willoughby. Once
outside, he said:
"Ruthie, I want to have a talk with Patterson, that man you saw come in
just now. I'm not very keen about sailing, anyhow. Will you let me off
this time?"
"Oh yes; I don't care about going," Ruth answered.
"You needn't give it up because I do," said her husband, kindly; "you
like to sail. Take the ancient swell in my place. He will be delighted
to go, for it will make him appear so young. Just Ruth, Anthony, and
Walter--three gay little chums together!"
As Chase had predicted, the commodore professed himself "enchanted." He
went off smilingly in Paul Archer's yacht, whose device of an owl and
pussycat confounded the practically minded, while to the initiated--the
admirers of those immortal honey-mooners who "ate with a runcible
spoon"--it gave delight; a glee which was increased by the delicate
pea-green hue of the pretty little craft.
But in spite of his enchantment, the commodore soon brought the boat
back. He had taken the helm, and, when he had shown himself and his
young companions to everybody on the sea-wall; when he had dashed past
the old fort; and then, putting about, had gone beating across the inlet
to the barracks, he turned the prow towards the yacht club again. It was
the hour for his afternoon whist, and he never let anything interfere
with that.
The excursion, therefore, had been a short one, and, as Walter walked
home with Mrs. Chase, she lingered a little. "It's too early to go in,"
she declared. As they passed the second pier, a dilapidated construction
with its flooring gone, she espied a boat she knew. "There is the
_Shearwater_ just coming in. I am sure Mr. Kean would lend it to us.
Don't you want to go out again?"
The _Shearwater_ was an odd little craft, flat on the water, with a
long, pointed, covered prow and one large sail. Ruth knew it well, for
Mr. Kean was an old friend of the Franklin's, and, in former winters, he
had often taken her out.
"My object certainly is to please her," Walter said to himself. "But she
_does_ keep one busy. Well, here goes!"
Mr. Kean lent his boat, and presently they were off again.
"Take me as far as the old light-house," Ruth suggested.
"Easy enough going; but the getting back will be another matter,"
Walter answered. "We should have to tack."
"I like tacking. I insist upon the light-house," Mrs. Chase replied,
gayly.
The little boat glided rapidly past the town and San Marco; then turned
towards the sea. For the old light-house, an ancient Spanish beacon, was
on the ocean side of Anastasia.
"We can see it now. Isn't this far enough?" Walter asked, after a while.
"No; take me to the very door; I've made a vow to go," Ruth declared.
"But at this rate we shall never get back. And when we do, your husband,
powerfully hungry for his delayed dinner, will be sharpening the
carving-knife on the sea-wall!"
"He is more likely to be sharpening pencils at the Magnolia. He is sure
to be late himself; in fact, he told me so; for he has business matters
to talk over with that Mr. Patterson."
Walter had not known, until now, the name of the person who had carried
off Chase; he had supposed that it was some ordinary acquaintance; he
had no idea that it was the Chicago man whose name he had heard
mentioned in connection with Chase's California interests. "David
Patterson, of Chicago?" he asked. "Is he going to stay?"
"No; he leaves to-morrow morning, I believe," replied Ruth, in an
uninterested tone.
"And here I am, sailing all over creation with this insatiable girl,
when, if I had remained at the club, perhaps Chase would have introduced
me; perhaps I might even have been with them now at the Magnolia,"
Walter reflected, with intense annoyance.
At last she allowed him to put about. The sun was sinking out of sight.
Presently the after-glow gave a second daylight of deep gold. Down in
the south the dark line of the dense forest rose like a range of hills.
The perfume from the orange groves floated seaward and filled the air.
"I used to believe that I liked riding better than anything," remarked
Ruth. "But ever since that little rush we had together in the dugout--do
you remember? the night we arrived?--ever since then, somehow, sailing
has seemed more delicious! For one thing, it's lazier."
They were seated opposite each other in the small open space, Walter
holding the helm with one hand, while with the other he managed the
sail, and Ruth leaning back against the miniature deck. Presently she
began to sing, softly, Schubert's music set to Shakespeare's words:
"'Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus 'gins arise--'"
"Not the lark already?" asked Walter.
He was exerting all his skill, but their progress was slow; the
_Shearwater_ crossed and recrossed, crossed and recrossed, gaining but a
few feet in each transit.
"'Arise! arise!
My lady sweet, arise!'"
sang Ruth.
"Do you think I could get a rise out of those Minorcans?" suggested her
companion, indicating a fishing-boat at a little distance. "Perhaps they
could lend me some oars. I was a great fool to come out without them!"
"Oh, don't get oars; that would spoil it. The tide has turned, and the
wind is dying down; we can float slowly in. Everything is exactly right,
and I am perfectly happy!"
Walter, his mind haunted by that vision of Chase and Patterson at the
Magnolia, did not at first take in what she had said. Then, a minute or
two afterwards, her phrase returned to him, and he smiled; it seemed so
naive. "It's delightful, in a discontented world, to hear you say that,
Mrs. Chase. Is it generally, or in particular, that you are so blissful?
St. Augustine? or life as a whole?"
"Both," replied Ruth, promptly. "For I have everything I like--and I
like so many things! And everybody does whatever I want them to do. Why,
you yourself, Mr. Willoughby! Because I love to dance, you have arranged
that ball for to-morrow night. And when I asked you to take me out this
second time in the _Shearwater_, you did it at once."
"Ah, my lady, with your blue eyes and dark lashes, you little know why!"
thought Walter, with an inward laugh.
At last he got the boat up to the dilapidated pier again. It was long
after dark. He took her to her door, and left her; she must explain her
late arrival in her own way. Women, fortunately, are excellent at
explanations.
But Chase was not there.
Twenty minutes afterwards he came in, late in his turn. "You didn't have
dinner, Ruthie? I'm sorry you waited; I was detained."
"I was very late myself," Ruth answered.
"Even now I can't stay," Chase went on, hurriedly; "I came back to tell
you, and to get a few things. I am going up to Savannah with Patterson
for three or four days, on business. We are to have a special--a mule
special--this evening, and hit a steamer. You'd better have your mother
to stay with you while I'm away."
"Yes. To-morrow."
"She could come to-night, couldn't she?"
"Yes; but it's late; I won't make her turn out to-night. With seven
servants in the house, I am not afraid," Ruth answered.
"I only thought you might be lonely?"
"I'll sing all my songs to Petie Trone, Esq."
He laughed and kissed her.
"You must come back soon," she said.
When he had gone she went up-stairs and changed her dress for a long,
loose costume of pale pink tint, covered with lace; then, returning, she
rang for dinner. Here, as in New York, there was a housekeeper, who
relieved the young wife of all care. The dinner, in spite of the long
postponement, was excellent; it was also dainty, for the housekeeper had
learned Mrs. Chase's tastes. Mrs. Chase enjoyed it. She drank a glass of
wine, and dallied over the sweets and the fruit. Afterwards, in the
softly lighted drawing-room, she amused herself by singing half a dozen
songs. Petie Trone, Esq., the supposed audience, was not fond of music,
though the songs were sweet; he slinked out, and going softly up the
stairs, deposited himself of his own accord in his basket behind the
cheval-glass in the dressing-room. At eleven his mistress came up; she
let Felicite undress her, and brush with skilful touch the long, thick
mass of her hair. When the maid had gone, she read a little, leaning
back in an easy-chair, with a shaded lamp beside her; then, letting the
novel slip down on her lap, she sat there, looking about the room. Miss
Billy Breeze had marvelled over the luxurious toilet table at
L'Hommedieu; here the whole room was like that table. Presently its
occupant put out her hand, and drew towards her a small stand which held
her jewel-box. For she already had jewels, as Chase liked to buy them
for her. He would have covered his wife with diamonds if Mrs. Franklin
had not said (during that first visit at Asheville after the marriage),
"Ruth is too young to wear diamonds, Mr. Chase; don't you think so?"
Chase did not think so; but he had deferred to her opinion--at least, he
supposed himself to be deferring to it when he bought only rubies and
sapphires and pearls. His wife now turned over these ornaments. She put
on the pearl necklace; then she took it off, and held it against her
cheek. But she did not spend as much time as usual over the jewels.
Often she entertained herself with them for an hour; it had been one of
her husband's amusements to watch her. To-night, putting the case aside,
she strolled to the window, opened it and looked out. The stars were
shining brilliantly overhead; she could hear the soft lapping of the
water against the sea-wall. From Anastasia came at intervals the flash
of the light-house. "I was over there at sunset," she said to herself as
she watched the gleam. Then closing the window, she walked idly to and
fro, with her hands clasped behind her. "How happy I am!" she thought;
or rather she did not think it, she felt it. She had no desire to sleep;
the door of the bedroom stood open behind her, but she did not go in.
She sat down on the divan, and let her head fall back among the
cushions: "Everything is perfect--perfect. How delightful it is to
live!"