Two days after the Indian party at Andalusia, the excursion which Mrs.
Kip had called a "boat-drive" came off. Horace Chase was still absent;
he had telegraphed to his wife that he could not return before the last
of the week. As all the preparations had been made, the excursion was
not postponed on his account. Nor was there any reason why it should be.
It was not given in honor of his wife, especially; Ruth, after sixteen
months of marriage, could hardly be called a bride. In addition, the
little winter colony had learned that an hour or two of their leisurely
pleasure-making was about as much as this man of affairs could enjoy
(some persons said "could endure"); after that his face was apt to
betray a vague boredom, although it was evident that (with his usual
careful politeness) he was trying to conceal it.
Walter Willoughby, meanwhile, was making the best of an annoying
situation. He had lost the chance of being introduced to David
Patterson, and with it the opportunity of learning something definite,
at last, about Chase's Californian interests, and this seemed to him a
great misfortune. But there was no use in moaning over it; the course to
follow was not still further to lose the five days of Chase's absence
in sulking, but to employ them in the only profitable way that was left
open (small profit, but better than nothing)--namely, in cementing still
further a friendly feeling between himself and Chase's wife, that
butterfly young wife who had been the cause of so many of his
disappointments. "Every little helps, I suppose," he said to himself,
philosophically. "And as the thing she likes best, apparently, is to go
and keep going, why, I'll take her own pace and outrace her--the little
gad-about!" For, to Walter's eyes, Ruth appeared very young; mentally
unformed as yet, child-like. His adjective "little" could, in truth,
only be applied to her in this sense, for in actual inches Mrs. Chase
was almost as tall as he was. Walter was of medium height, robust and
compact. He had a well-shaped, well-poised head, which joined his strong
neck behind with no hollow and scarcely a curve. His thick, dark hair
was kept very short; but, with his full temples and facial outlines,
this curt fashion became him well. He was not called handsome, though
his features were clearly cut and firm. His gray eyes were ordinarily
rather cold. But when he was animated--and he was usually very
animated--young Willoughby looked full of life. He was fond of pleasure,
fond of amusement. But this did not prevent his possessing, underneath
the surface, a resolute will, which he could enforce against himself as
well as against others. He intended to enjoy life. And as, according to
his idea, there could be no lasting enjoyment without freedom from the
pinch of anxiety about material things, he also intended to get
money--first of all to get money. "For a few years, while one is young,
to have small means doesn't so much matter," he had told himself. "But
when one reaches middle age, or passes it, then, if one has children,
care inevitably steps in. There are anxieties, of course, which cannot
be prevented. But this particular one can be--with a certain amount of
energy, and also of resolute self-control in the beginning. The
'have-a-good-time-while-you-are-young' policy doesn't compensate for
having a bad time when you are old, in my opinion. And it's care that
makes one old!"
Horace Chase had left St. Augustine on Monday. The next evening, at Mrs.
Kip's impromptu ball in the gymnasium, the junior partner of Willoughby,
Chase, & Company devoted his time to Mrs. Chase with much skill. His
attentions remained unobtrusive; he did not dance with her often. The
latter, indeed, would not have been possible in any case; for Mrs. Chase
was surrounded, from first to last, by all that St. Augustine could
offer. Graceful as she was in all her movements, Ruth's dancing was
particularly charming. And it was also striking; for, sinuous, lithe,
soon excited, she danced because she loved it, danced with unconscious
abandon. That night, her slender figure in the white ball dress, that
floated backward in the rapid motion, her happy face with the starry
eyes and beautiful color coming and going--this made a picture which
those who were present remembered long. At ten o'clock she had begun to
dance; at two, when many persons were taking leave, she was still on the
floor; with her circle of admirers, it was now Mrs. Chase who was
keeping up the ball. Her mother, who was staying with her during her
husband's absence, had accompanied her to Andalusia. But there was no
need to ask whether Mrs. Franklin was tired; Mrs. Franklin was never
tired in scenes of gayety; she was as well entertained as her daughter.
Walter had danced but twice with Mrs. Chase during the four hours. But
always between her dances he had been on hand. If she had a fancy for
spending a few moments on the veranda, he had her white cloak ready; if
she wished for an ice, it appeared by magic; if there was any one she
did not care to dance with, she could always say that she was engaged to
Mr. Willoughby. It was in this way, in fact, that Mr. Willoughby had
obtained his two dances. The last dance, however, was all his own. It
was three o'clock; even the most good-natured chaperons had collected
their charges, and the music had ceased. "How sorry I am! I do so long
for just one waltz more," said Ruth.
She spoke to her mother, but Walter overheard the words. He went across
to the musicians (in reality he bribed them); then returning, he said:
"I've arranged it, Mrs. Chase. You are to have that one waltz more." A
few of the young people, tempted by the revived strains, threw aside
their wraps and joined them, but practically they had the floor to
themselves. Walter was an expert dancer, skilful and strong; he bore his
partner down the long room, guiding her so securely that she was not
obliged to think of their course; she could leave that entirely to him,
and give herself up to the enjoyment of the motion. As they returned
towards the music for the third time, she supposed that he would stop.
But he did not; he swept her down again, and in shorter circles that
made her, light as she was on her feet, a little giddy. "Isn't this
enough?" she asked. But apparently he did not hear her. The floor began
to spin. "Please stop," she murmured, her eyes half closing from the
increasing dizziness. But her partner kept on until he felt that she was
faltering; then, with a final bewildering whirl, he deposited her safely
on a bench, and stood beside her, laughing a little.
There was no one near them; Mrs. Franklin, Mrs. Kip, and the few who
still remained, were at the other end of the room. Ruth, after a moment,
began to laugh also, while she pressed her hands over her eyes to help
herself see more clearly. "What possessed you?" she said. "Another
instant and I should certainly have fallen; I couldn't see a thing!"
"No, you wouldn't have fallen, Mrs. Chase; I could have held you up
under any circumstances. But I wanted to make you for once acknowledge
that we are not all so lethargic as you constantly accuse us of being."
"Accuse?" said Ruth, surprised. She was still panting.
"Yes, you accuse the whole world; you do nothing _but_ accuse. You are
never preoccupied yourself, and so preoccupation in others seems to you
stupidity. You are never tired; so the rest of us strike you as owlish
and lazy."
"Oh, but I'm often lazy myself," protested Ruth.
"Precisely. No doubt when you go in for being lazy at all, you carry it
further than any poor, dull, reasonable man would ever dream of doing,"
Walter went on. "I dare say you are capable of lying motionless on a
sofa, with a novel, for ten hours at a stretch!"
"Ten hours? That's nothing. Ten days," answered Ruth. "I have spent ten
days at L'Hommedieu in that way many a time; Maud Muriel used to call it
'lucid stupor.'"
"Lucid?" said Walter, doubtfully. "Do you think you can walk?" he went
on, as her mirth still continued. "Because the music really has stopped
this time, and I see your mother's eyes turning this way. Your laughs
are perfectly beautiful, of course. But do they leave you your walking
powers?"
The musicians, seeing them rise, began suddenly to play again (for his
bribe had been a generous one), and he took her back to her mother in a
rapid _deux temps_.
"Splendid! I like dancing better than anything else in the world," Ruth
declared.
"I thought it was sailing? However, whatever it is, please make use of
me often, Mrs. Chase. When I've nothing to do I become terribly
low-spirited: for my uncles are bent upon marrying me!"
"Have they selected any special person?" inquired Mrs. Franklin,
laughing, as he helped her to put on her cloak.
"I think they have their eye on a widow, a widow of thirty-seven with a
fortune," answered Walter, with exaggerated gloom.
"Will she have you?"
"Never in the world!" Walter declared; "that's just it! Why, therefore,
should my uncles force me forward--such a tender flower as I am--to
certain defeat? It is on that account that I have run away. I have come
to hide in Florida--under your protection, Mrs. Chase."
The meeting-place for the water-party the next day was St. Francis
Barracks--the long, brown structure with pointed gables and deep shady
verandas, which stood on the site of an old Spanish monastery, at the
south end of the sea-wall. The troops stationed at St. Francis that
winter belonged to the First Artillery; to-day the colonel and his
family, the captain and his wife, and the two handsome lieutenants took
part in the excursion; there were fifty people in all, and many yachts,
from the big _Seminole_ down to the little _Shearwater_. Walter had _The
Owl and the Pussycat_, and with him embarked Mrs. Franklin with her two
daughters, Miss Franklin and Mrs. Chase; Mrs. Lilian Kip; and Commodore
Etheridge. At two o'clock the little fleet sped gayly down the Matanzas.
"Matanzas, Sebastian, St. Augustine," said Walter; "these names are all
in character. It's an awful misfortune for your husband's budding summer
resort in the North Carolina mountains, Mrs. Chase, that its name
happens to be Asheville, after that stupid custom of tacking the French
'ville' to some man's name; (for I take it that Ashe is a name, and not
cinders). In this case, the first settlers were more than usually
asinine; for they had the beautiful Indian 'Swannanoa' ready to their
hands."
"Oh, but first settlers have no love for Indian names," commented Dolly.
"How can they have? The Indians and the great forest--these are their
enemies. To me there is something touching in our Higgsvilles and
Slatervilles. I see the first log cabins in the little clearing; then a
short, stump-bedecked street; then two or three streets and a
court-house. The Higgs or the Slater was their best man, their leader,
the one they looked up to. In North Carolina alone there are one hundred
and ten towns or villages with names ending in 'ville.'"
"North Carolina? Oh yes, I dare say!" remarked Etheridge.
"And two hundred and forty-one in New York," added Dolly.
"Well, we make up for it in other ways," said Mrs. Franklin. "If the men
name the towns, the women name the children; I have known mothers to
produce simply from their own imaginations such titles as Merilla, and
Idelusia, for their daughters. I once knew a girl who had even been
baptized Damask Rose."
"What did they call her for short?" inquired Walter.
"Oh, Mr. _Willoughby!_" said Lilian Kip, shocked.
"Damask's mother was trying to solace herself with names, I fancy," Mrs.
Franklin went on, "because by the terms of her husband's will (she was a
widow), she forfeited all she had if she married again."
"How outrageous?" exclaimed Mrs. Kip, bristling into vehemence. "If a
woman has been a good wife to one man, is that any reason why she should
be denied the _privilege_ of being a good wife to another?"
"Privilege?" repeated Dolly.
"Surely there is no greater one," said Mrs. Kip, with a sigh. "Love is
so beautiful! And it is such a benefit! The more one loves, the better,
I think. And the more _persons_ one loves, the more sweet and generous
one's nature becomes. If any one has been bereaved, I am always _so_
glad to hear that they are in love again. Even if the love is
unreturned" (here she gave a little swallow), "I still think it in
itself the greatest blessing we have; and the most improving."
After a friendly race towards the south, the fleet turned and came back;
the company disembarked and walked across the narrow breadth of
Anastasia Island to the ocean beach, where, at the Spanish light-house,
the collation was to be served later in the day. The old beacon stood,
at high tide, almost in the water; for, in two hundred years, the ocean
had encroached largely upon the shore. Its square stone tower, which had
been topped in the Spanish days with an iron grating and a bonfire, now
displayed a revolving light, which flashed and then faded, flashed and
faded, signalling out to sea the harbor of St. Augustine. Under the
tower stood a coquina house for the keeper, and the whole was fortified,
having a defensive wall, with angles and loop-holes. Nothing could have
been more beautiful than the soft sapphire tint of the ocean, whose long
rollers, coming smoothly in, broke with a musical wash upon the broad
white beach which, firm as a pavement, stretched towards the south in
long curves. Not a ship was in sight. Overhead sailed an eagle. "Oh, why
did we land so soon?" said Ruth, regretfully. "We might have stayed out
two hours longer. For we are not to have the supper--or is it the
dinner?--at any rate, it's chowder--until sunset."
"We can go out again, if you like," said Walter.
Here Etheridge came up. The implacably clear light which comes from a
broad expanse of sea was revealing every minute line in Mrs. Franklin's
delicate face. "How wrinkled she looks!" was his self-congratulatory
thought. "Even fifteen years ago she was finished--done!" Then he
added, aloud: "I think I'll accompany you, if you _are_ going out again.
The afternoon promises to be endlessly long here, with nothing to do but
gawp for sea-beans, or squawk poetry!" This strenuous description of
some of the amusements already in progress on the beach showed that, in
the commodore's plans, something had gone wrong.
"Are you really going, commodore?" asked Mrs. Franklin. "Then I'll put
Ruth in your charge."
"Put me in it, too," said Dolly. "I should much rather sail than sit
here."
"Oh no, Dolly. You never can take that walk to the landing a second time
so soon," said the mother.
And so it proved. Dolly started. But, after a few steps, she had to give
it up. "I should think _you_ would like to go, His Grand?" she
suggested.
"I can't. I have promised to see to the chowder," answered Mrs.
Franklin. "Sailing and sea-beans and poetry are all very well. But I
have noticed that every one grows gloomy when the chowder is bad!"
Etheridge, Ruth, and Walter Willoughby, therefore, recrossed the island
and embarked. The commodore took the helm.
"What boat is that ahead of us?" asked Walter. "Some of our people? Has
any one else deserted the sea-beans?"
"I dare say," replied Etheridge, carelessly.
The commodore could manage a boat extremely well; the _Owl and the
Pussycat_ flew after that sail ahead, in a line as straight as a
plummet.
"Why, it's Mrs. Kip," said Ruth, as they drew nearer. She had recognized
the gypsy hat in the other boat.
"Yes, with Albert Tillotson," added Walter.
"What, that donkey?" inquired Etheridge, with well-feigned surprise (and
an anger that required no feigning). "He can no more manage a boat than
I can manage a comet! Poor Mrs. Kip is in actual danger of her life. The
idea of that Tom Noddy of a Tillotson daring to take her out! I must run
this boat up alongside, Mr. Willoughby, and get on board immediately.
Common humanity requires it."
"The commodore's common humanity is uncommonly like jealousy," said
Walter to Ruth when the _Owl_ had dropped behind again after this
manoeuvre had been successfully executed. "He is a clever old fellow!
Of course he knew she was out, and he came with us on purpose. We'll
keep near them, Mrs. Chase, and watch their faces; it will be as good as
a play."
To his surprise, Ruth, who was generally so ready to laugh, did not pay
heed to this. "I am glad he has gone," she said; "for now we need not
talk--just sail and sail! Let us go over so far--straight down towards
the south." Her eyes had a dreamy expression which was new to him.
"What next!" thought her companion. He glanced furtively at his watch.
"I can keep on for half an hour more, I suppose."
But when, at the end of that time, he put about, Ruth, who had scarcely
spoken, straightened herself (she had been lying back indolently, with
one hand behind her head), and watched the turning prow with regret.
"_Must_ we go back so soon? Why?"
"To look for sea-beans," answered Walter. "Are you aware, Mrs. Chase, of
the awful significance of that New England phrase of condemnation, 'You
don't know beans'? It will be said that _I_ don't know if I take you any
farther. For the tide will soon turn, and the wind is already against
us."
But his tasks were not yet at an end; another idea soon took possession
of his companion's imagination.
"How wild Anastasia looks from here! I have never landed at this point.
Can't we land now, just for a few moments? It would be such fun."
"Won't it be more than fun, Mrs. Horace? A wild-goose--? Forgive the
pun."
On Anastasia there are ancient trails running north and south. Ruth,
discovering one of these paths, followed it inland. "I wish we could
meet something, I wish we could have an adventure!" she said. "There are
bears over here; and there are alligators too at the pools. Perhaps this
trail leads to a pool?" The surmise was correct; the path soon brought
them within sight of a dark-looking pond, partly covered with lily
leaves. Ruth, who was first (for the old Indian trail was so narrow that
they could not walk side by side), turned back suddenly. "There really
_is_ an alligator," she whispered. "He is half in and half out of the
water. I am going to run round through the thicket, so as to have a
nearer view of him." And hurrying with noiseless steps along the trail,
she turned into the forest.
He followed. "Don't be foolhardy," he urged. For she seemed to him so
fearless that there was no telling what she might do.
But when they reached the opposite side of the pool no alligator was
visible, and Ruth, seating herself in the loop of a vine, which formed a
natural swing, laughed her merriest.
"You are an excellent actress," he said. "I really believed that you had
seen the creature."
"And if I had? They don't attack people; they are great cowards."
"I have an admirable air of being more timid than she is!" he thought,
annoyed.
They returned towards the shore along a low ridge. On their way he saw
something cross this ridge about thirty feet ahead of them--a slender
dark line. He ran forward and looked down (for the ridge was four feet
high).
"Come quickly!" he called back to Ruth. "Your alligator was a base
invention. But here is something real. He is hardly more than an
infant," he continued, his eyes still fixed on the lower slope. "But he
is of the blood royal, I can tell by the shape of his neck. I'll get a
long branch, Mrs. Chase, and then, as you like adventures, you can see
him strike." Where they stood, they were safe, for the snake (it was a
young rattlesnake) would not come up the ascent; when he moved, he would
glide the other way into the thicket. Hastily cutting a long wand from a
bush, he gave it to her. "Touch him," he directed; "on the body, not on
the head. Then you will see him coil!" He himself kept his eyes
meanwhile on the snake; he did not look at her. But the wand did not
descend. "Make haste," he urged, "or he will be off!"
The wand came down slowly, paused, and then touched the reptile, who
instantly coiled himself, reared his flat head, and struck at it with
his fangs exposed. Walter, excited and interested, waited to see him
strike again. But there was no opportunity, for the wand itself was
dropping. He turned. Ruth, her face covered with her hands, was
shuddering convulsively.
"The snake has gone," he said, reassuringly; "he went off like a shot
into the thicket, he is a quarter of a mile away by this time." For he
was alarmed by the violence of the tremor that had taken possession of
her.
In spite of her tremor, she began to run; she hurried like a wild
creature along the ridge until she came to a broad open space of white
sand, over which no dark object could approach unseen; here she sank
down, sobbing aloud.
He was at his wits' end. Why should a girl, who apparently had no fear
of bears or alligators, be frightened out of her senses by one small
snake?
"Supposing she should faint--that Dolly is always fainting! What on
earth could I do?" he thought.
Ruth, however, did not faint. But she sobbed and sobbed as if she could
not stop.
"It's just like her laughing," thought Walter, in despair. "Dear Mrs.
Chase," he said aloud, "I am distracted to see how I have made you
suffer. These Florida snakes do very little harm, unless one happens to
step on them unawares. I did not imagine, I did not dream, that the mere
sight--But that makes no difference; I shall never forgive myself;
never!"
Ruth looked up, catching her breath. "It was so dreadful!" she murmured,
brokenly. "Did you see its--its mouth?" She was so white that even her
lips were colorless; her blue eyes were dilated strangely.
He grew more and more alarmed. Apparently she saw it, for she tried to
control herself; and, after two or three minutes, she succeeded. "You
must not mind if I happen to look rather pale," she said, timidly. "I am
sometimes very pale for a moment or two. And then I get dreadfully red
in the same way. Dolly often speaks of it. But it doesn't mean anything.
I can go now," she added, still timidly.
"She thinks I am vexed," he said to himself, surprised. He was not
vexed; on the contrary, in her pallor and this new shyness she was more
interesting to him than she had ever been before. As he knew that they
ought to be on their way back, he accepted her offer to start, in spite
of her white cheeks. But her steps were so weak, and she still trembled
so convulsively, that he drew her hand through his arm and held it.
Giving her in this way all the help he could, he took her towards the
shore, choosing a route through open spaces, so that there should be no
vision of any gliding thing in the underbrush near by. When they were
off again, crossing the Matanzas on a long tack, she was still very
pallid. "I haven't been clever," he thought. "At present she is unnerved
by fright. But by to-morrow it will be anger, and she will say that it
was my fault." While thinking of this, he talked on various subjects.
But it was a monologue; for a long time Ruth made no answer. Then
suddenly the color came rushing back to her cheeks. "_Please_ don't
tell--don't tell any one how dreadfully frightened I was," she pleaded.
"I never tell anything; I have no talent for narrative," he answered,
much relieved to see the returning red. "But I am dreadfully cut up and
wretched about that fright I was stupid enough to give you. I wish I
could make you forget it, Mrs. Chase; forget it forever."
"On the contrary, I am afraid I shall remember it forever," Ruth
answered. Then she added, still timidly, "But you were so kind--It won't
be _all_ unpleasant."
"What a school-girl it is!" thought Walter. "And above all things, what
a creature of extremes! She must lead Horace Chase a life! However, she
is certainly seductively lovely."