THE RACES, AND THE MOTTO.
It so happened that Lance, up to this point in his sojourn with the
Floyds, had never, to his knowledge, seen Adela Reefe, although she had
come once or twice to the house while he was there. On a single occasion
he had ridden with Jessie to the cottage at the headland, and had met
"the De Vine boys." Becoming interested in Sylvester and his ambitions,
he had stopped to see him at other times in the course of his excursions
roundabout, and had also received one or two visits from him at
Fairleigh Park. He had, to be sure, heard something of Adela Reefe; but
the fact that he lacked the smallest idea as to what she looked like was
the absent link in his knowledge, which made it impossible to guess who
the mysterious girl of the night encounter might be. In fact, he never
so much as thought of Adela, and he gave up the riddle as one not likely
to be solved. But an event was now approaching which brought him sudden
enlightenment.
The date of the races to be held at Newbern had been fixed--somewhat
early in the season, it is true--for a time shortly after the
occurrences which I have already described; and this affair was the
excuse for a general rally of inhabitants from the surrounding
districts. Colonel Floyd meant to attend it, with a large part of his
household, and Lance, as a matter of course, was going with him.
Dennis De Vine had also looked forward to the festival as the excuse for
a great holiday. It had been his intention to take Aunty Losh, Adela,
and Sylv in his dug-out sloop, and sail a hundred miles up the Neuse
River, to the scene of the merrymaking. But the quarrel with Sylv, which
had come so near to a fatal result, threw a cloud over him, and for a
time threatened to mar the pleasure of this prospect.
The day after that incident Dennis disappeared from the cabin, and was
not seen there again until evening. He was supposed to be out fishing,
and did, I believe, actually pass his time in sailing outside the
network of sandy spits and islands, as if engaged in trolling for
bluefish; but when he returned he brought but few trophies of the hook.
I know that during the afternoon he beached his boat on the inner shore
beyond Ocracoke, and took to wandering disconsolately along the dreary
dunes. The hour of sunset approached as he found himself near the old
graveyard of Portsmouth. It was a rough, melancholy, neglected spot; and
the thick-sown graves lay near the racing tides that the land which held
the dead was gradually crumbling away, and delivered to the sea, from
time to time, its mournful burden of forgotten humanity.
Dennis, while trudging unconsciously hither, had been lost in mingled
reflections upon the quarrel--alternately grateful for his escape from
crime, and remorseful for the passionate temper which had almost swept
him on, without premeditation, to the consummation of a terrible deed.
All at once he became aware that he stood at the edge of this grim and
pathetic graveyard. A shudder ran through him.
"To think," he muttered, "that I was nigh on to bringin' Sylv to such a
place as this! And then how would I ha' felt? Oh, God, forgive me! We
die soon enough, the best way we can fix it. Why should one man want to
kill another?"
Near the water the ground was ragged and worn away, where the chafing of
the tides had carried it off piecemeal; and from the gaunt earth several
coffins projected, which were soon to fall a prey to the waves. Dennis
gazed upon them with a fascinated horror, and as he looked it seemed to
him that in the mouldering receptacle of death nearest to him he could
see something bright shining through the crevices of the boarding that,
warped by long inhumation, leaned partly open. For a moment the wild
fancy presented itself that impossible wealth, in the shape of sparkling
jewels, had been buried with the unknown inmate of the coffin. He bent a
little closer to examine it. At that instant the bank beneath crumbled
slightly--some of the sandy soil slipped into the water--and a fresh
breeze, sweeping in from the sea, shook the side-plank so that it fell,
disclosing the dusty and shapeless contents. Sweat started to the brow
of Dennis; he beheld there a row of toads, sitting inert and hideous
inside the coffin, with glittering eyes.
No more awful example of the ghastiliness of burial could have
confronted him than that. The sight redoubled the agony he was already
suffering, and with a staggering motion he turned to retrace his steps.
Dennis was not a reflective man; perhaps he had never before meditated
very deeply on the transitoriness of life, and the thousand ways in
which oblivion is forever clutching at us, obliterating the few poor
traces of our existence that are left when we depart from this world.
But the conjunction of circumstances, bringing such a sight to him at
that precise moment, wrought powerfully on his mind. "If I could only
change!" he said to himself, as he plodded back to his boat. "If I could
only be better!"
Yet he was by no means certain that he could improve.
Throughout the next few days he devoted himself to Sylv with a careful
tenderness that was almost pathetic. He offered to do him little
services; he tried to exhibit an interest in Sylv's reading; he was
anxious not to have Slyv expose himself to any undue fatigues or risks
or dangers. He would not let him go out in the boat.
"'Pears like you thought you was married a'ready and Sylv was your
baby," Aunty Losh observed, with kindly sarcasm, noticing his unwonted
solicitude. "But I'm glad on't, Dennie. Bein' as you're older'n him, it
ar' right, and I'm glad on't." And thereupon she again betook herself to
"paddling" snuff, with a pleasant sense of duty performed.
Sylv understood his brother's contrition, but did his best to banish all
remembrance of their saturnine controversy in the wood. "How 'bout
Beaufort," he asked, as the time approached for making the final
arrangements; "have you seen Deely?"
Now, the truth was that neither of them had seen Deely for several days;
she had stayed at home punctiliously, dreading to meet Sylvester by
chance, and dreading still more to see Dennis, after what she had
overheard.
"No," said Dennis; "but I will see her."
Accordingly he went over to the so-called Doctor Reefe's house at
Hunting Quarters, the next day. Adela was at home, but she came out of
the house to receive him, and did not ask him in.
"I'm not going," she said at first, facing him with a reserved majesty
like that of some wild princess.
"Why not?" he inquired, his eyes still downcast.
"Because I'm afraid. Something might happen."
Dennis shot a swift, indignant glance at her. "What'd happen, I'd like
to know?"
"I didn't mean anything," said Adela. "I'm not going; that's what." She
saw that she had been too abrupt, and she was determined not to disclose
that she knew anything of the altercation.
But Dennis besought her in every way he could think of. "I won't talk to
you so, like I did last time," he said, penitently. "I know I'm a rough
kind o' fellow. I ain't got no temper--or mebbe I got too much. But I'm
sorry for what I done, and sorry for mor'n what you know, Deely. I'll
promise to be good if ye'll go."
And so, at last, she consented.
Old Reefe regarded the races as a matter of business, being in the
habit, I regret to say, of selling considerable quantities of his
untrustworthy herb-medicines on these occasions. He was peculiar and of
a solitary turn, and had his own way of going to Newbern. He started
three or four days in advance, on foot, and did more or less peddling in
the sparsely settled country through which he passed. This arrangement
was also quite satisfactory to Dennis. His sloop was made out of two
large hollowed cypress logs--as is the custom in those latitudes, where
the hard knocks that boats must endure on the shoals soon wear out any
lighter craft--and the accommodations aboard were limited; there was
really no room for "ole man Reefe."
To people leading so plain and secluded a life as that of the shore, you
may imagine what a change and what an outlook of wild excitement this
extensive trip to Newbern afforded. Adela was always interested in the
boat; Dennis had given her lessons in sailing, and often let her take
the helm. Once on board, her old delight returned; doubts and troubles
vanished, and it was soon a gay party that sat beneath the sail, now
briskly speeding midway up the five-mile-wide current, now tacking from
side to side.
An informal, impromptu sort of fair clustered around the races,
embracing booths and stalls for the sale of various trumpery, with
perhaps a circus in a tent, or merely a nomadic little "show,"
consisting chiefly of over-colored pictures, that hung upon the canvas
wall, flapping and trembling in the breeze as if frightened by their own
mendacity. Then, as I have said, "Doctor" Reefe went about, lean and
sombre, with grayish hair straggling round his dark cheeks, to hawk his
"great Indian remedies," although it did not appear that there were any
Indians to be remedied. Adela, who possessed a knack for making
ornamental baskets and bead-work, likewise availed herself of the brief
season to sell some of her pretty wares, in a modest and desultory way.
Lance, Jessie, and Colonel Floyd occupied themselves at first with
looking at the trotters and watching the false starts, the true starts,
the judges incessantly ringing a bell in the most confusing way, and the
fine, steady rush of the horses around the track, with small sulkies and
eager drivers apparently glued to their haunches. But after a time, when
a number of heats had been run, there was an intermission, and Lance and
Jessie began to stroll about in the crowd, examining the limited means
of entertainment, while the colonel talked with some of his cronies
among the horse-owners. Blacks and whites were slowly sauntering from
point to point, chiefly in separate groups, and our friends kept on the
edge of the white crowd. There was a fresh odor of bruised grass in the
air, from the treading of many feet, and the beating of a drum sounded
from the small tent where an outrageous effigy of the Great Giant of
Tartary alternately swelled out threateningly and crumpled itself up
ineffectually, as the gusts of wind came and went that fluttered the
streamers above him.
Here and there a game of some sort was in progress, though without
enlisting much energy from the participants, except in one
instance. The exception was due to a newly introduced sport--that of
"egg-jumping"--the point of which was that each contestant, in trying to
make the longest jump, should carry an egg in either hand. The natural
tendency to close the fingers at the moment of leaping was relied on to
make jumpers crush the eggs; and most of them came to grief in that way,
for a failure to bring either egg intact through the experiment ruined
the competitors chance for that time. The enterprising individual who
presided over this game had put up several cheap prizes, among which was
a brilliant neckerchief for feminine adornment, and charged each person
who entered the sum of five cents, the low rate being due to the fact
that the eggs consumed were no longer marketable; and their condition
was supposed to increase the dismay of the defeated.
The men toed a chalk line on the grass, and jumped from it successively.
The line never lacked for the boots of some ambitious contestant ready
to make his attempt; and as Lance reached the spot with his companion,
the stalwart form of Dennis De Vine was discovered there, gathering
itself together for a saltatory effort. He had set his heart on winning
the neckerchief for Adela; but, with the eyes of the spectators upon
him, he was conscious of being in an absurd position, and his greatest
difficulty seemed to be to suppress a smile that was broadening on his
lips. Twice or thrice he seemed on the point of jumping, but each time
he paused to give way to a bashful guffaw and stamp his bouts on the
ground with humorous emphasis. Finally he nerved himself, and,
readjusting the fragile burdens in either fist, made his spring. For an
instant the sunlight showed brightly on his ruddy cheeks and red hair as
he flew from the line, rising a few inches from the sod. Then he landed
suddenly, several feet away, slipped, and went down, with the yolks
gushing in yellow spurts from the shells. A roar of laughter rose from
the crowd.
Dennis looked a little angry, but hastened to rub off the egg-yolks on
the grass, and, producing another five cents, took his stand at the line
again. He waited for one or two companions in misfortune to repeat his
failure; but there was no awkward merriment about him, this time. He was
too intent upon success. Holding the new eggs firmly and lightly,
swinging his arms and then keeping them well up as he started, he made
his second energetic venture; and when his feet struck the turf he
raised the two small white objects triumphantly. They were unbroken.
He was rewarded with plaudits and shouts of approbation--the length of
the jump was respectable--and, with a reluctant flourish of the
kerchief, the proprietor of the game awarded him that prize.
"Good for you, Dennie!" cried a deep and rather musical voice near
Lance.
He turned, and recognised Sylv. "Why, how are you?" he asked, cordially.
He would have stepped toward him and shaken hands, but Sylv merely took
off his hat, bowing, and gave no sign of expecting further advances. The
truth was, he was afraid of Jessie, whose notions of caste made her
think it proper to keep these folk at a distance in public places.
"Come," she said to her lover; "let us be going back to the racecourse."
"I wanted to speak a moment with De Vine," Lance objected, mildly. "I
intend to make him part of my schemes; don't you see?"
"Oh, well, not here; not now," said Jessie. "He's not your friend, if he
_is_ to be your workman. And this is hardly the place."
"Very well," he assented, though not wholly pleased.
But by this time Dennis had elbowed his way through the press of
onlookers, bearing his prize like a victorious banner, and Jessie all at
once became interested in seeing what he would do with it. "Look!" she
exclaimed, abandoning her position of careful reserve. "He's going to
give it to his sweetheart--Adela Reefe. Don't you remember my telling
you about her? She's really a handsome girl--very handsome. And that
reminds me--I _must_ buy one of her baskets or boxes. She'd be
dreadfully disappointed if I didn't."
The result was that Jessie impulsively carried him off in pursuit of
Dennis, whom Sylv also followed.
Old Reefe, mounted on a box under the spreading branches of a tree, not
far away, was dispensing his medicaments with an impressively stoical
air, now and then addressing the bystanders in a curiously grave manner,
quite at variance with the usual volubility of nostrum-dealers; and near
him Adela was moving to and fro with a bundle of her handiwork on her
arm, waiting for purchasers, but never soliciting them. Aunty Losh
smoked her pipe serenely in the background, beneath the shade of the
trees.
Lance and Jessie witnessed the pleasant little scene that was enacted,
of Dennie's presenting the scarf loyally to his lady-love, and her
unfeigned satisfaction in receiving it, while Sylv stood apart for a
moment, and then came up to take a share in describing his brother's
achievement. They all three broke into smiles and laughter at the
recital.
But Lance stood motionless with astonishment. "Is _that_ Adela Reefe?"
he inquired.
"Certainly," Jessie assured him. "Why shouldn't she be?"
Lance was too much surprised to answer. It appeared to him certain, at
the very first glance, that this was the same young woman who had of
late been so often in his mind; and, as she looked so much like his
recollection of her, the resemblance to Jessie which he had before
imagined also struck him now. But he could not as yet be quite sure that
it existed. He waited until they came nearer before making up his mind
on this point.
Meanwhile Jessie pressed forward, and he with her. She greeted Adela
with smiles, nodded with the affability of a natural superior to Dennis,
and congratulated them both on his success, in a way that made them feel
that she had bestowed a favor. She then began to examine Adela's
stock-in-trade, holding up the different articles that took her fancy,
turning them this way and that, and bringing out their meek decorative
value by the sunniness of the light from her own eyes. "This is pretty.
_That's_ remarkably good!" she said, like a connoisseur inspecting rare
bric-a-brac. "Oh, I _must_ have this box of bark and moss! And that
belt--just see how quaint it is, Ned."
Lance quietly received each piece that she selected, and kept every one;
so that when she had done choosing and he had paid for them, Adela
conceived that it would be unnecessary to sell anything more that day.
The belt which Lance was called upon to admire especially was made of
simple undressed leather, but it was embroidered with a design in
varicolored beads, so original and ingenious that the thing became
positively charming. Through the pattern there ran a series of angular
lines that suggested an inscription; as this, however, seemed to be only
a whim of the designer, and was illegible, it fell into the general plan
of ornament, with an effect like that of hieroglyphics. Miss Jessie's
cavalier glanced at it hastily, as they moved away, and was decidedly
pleased with the acquisition. But he had no time to consider it, and he
was, moreover, exceedingly occupied with the result of the closer
scrutiny he had given to Adela.
It had confirmed his idea that there was a degree of likeness in her
features to Jessie's; and the fact so impressed him, that he forgot to
seize the chance which had offered of a chat with Sylv. He said to the
young man only: "I want to see you soon, De Vine, about an important
matter. Come up to the manor when you can."
It was impossible to keep the subject out of his mind, as he returned to
the racecourse with Jessie; and it recurred again and again that night,
which he passed, with the Floyds, in the house of friends at Newbern. A
whole rout of bewildering surmises and baffled guesses beset him. If
Adela really looked at all like his Jessie, why, he asked himself, had
not others discovered it? Why hadn't Jessie herself remarked the fact?
But then, on the other hand, the thing was so unlikely, and the
positions of the two women were so far apart, that no one here would be
apt to notice or for a moment consider such a supposition.
It was not until they were once more, at Fairleigh Park that he looked a
second time at the belt which they had bought From Adela. Sitting with
Jessie and her father, in the evening, when they were talking over the
experience on the rail and at the races, he glanced over the various
purchases which had been made, most of them of a more ambitious sort;
but when they came to the belt, he studied it with a good deal of care,
feeling an interest both in its novelty and in the maker.
Did he dream, or was this another illusion? The angular pattern in the
midst of the design, which he had before noticed, unexpectedly assumed a
meaning to his eyes. The more sharply he scanned it, the less he doubted
his senses, for the beaded lines took with increasing clearness the
forms of letters; and, on tracing these out, one after another, he saw
that they composed a series of words arranged in coherent
order--briefly, a motto.
I am not afraid of being old-fashioned. Therefore I shall ask my reader
if he ever came upon any sight--ever was smitten, either in thought or
in reading, by any feeling that set a thousand flame-points tingling
around his brain, and sent irresistible waves of cold, nervous thrill
down his spine. By this I do not mean a thrill of horror, but of supreme
and overwhelming emotion that instantly suggests your being in the grasp
of some more than human power--the power of endless, ideal forces,
directed upon the human organism from without, as the harper's hand is
directed with omnipotent sweep upon the strings of his instrument. If my
reader, as aforesaid, has had such experience, he will understand the
strange, exalting shock of wonder and awe that vibrated through Lance's
system when he discerned in the wording on the belt:
"I journey whither I cannot see.
'Tis strange that I can merry be."
The old motto of Wharton Hall, in Surrey, England, was perfectly
familiar to him, because he had visited the place with his father, on
one of their journeys abroad, and having noted down the lines, which
still remained engraven on the wall, he had committed them to memory.
And here was the last half of that quatrain, obscurely inscribed--as if
the embroiderer had hardly understood their full significance--on the
handiwork of Adela Reefe. Could there be anything more astounding than
this? Did Adela know the origin of those verses? And if she did, what
momentous secret did the fact involve?
The next moment, naturally enough, a simple and matter-of-fact solution
occurred to him. Adela might have learned the motto from the Floyds.
"Do you see how it reads?" he asked, holding up the bead-work so that
Jessie could survey the whole pattern.
"No," said she.
He pointed out the letters with his finger, and gradually spelled the
inscription through, until she caught its purport.
"How very odd!" she exclaimed, at the end. But the look with which she
accompanied the remark showed that the verses touched no chord of memory
or knowledge in her mind. "Where do you suppose the girl got the idea?"
she concluded.
The quivering sensation which Lance had felt, at first, renewed itself.
He laid the belt down, and, as he did so, his hands trembled.
"Do _you_ know anything about this motto?" he said, appealing to the
colonel.
But the colonel was also a blank on the subject.
Lance, therefore, was reduced to telling them where he had seen it. In
doing this he was quite methodical, but he could not conceal the
peculiar agitation which affected him.
Both the colonel and his daughter were much impressed by his strange
disclosure, and were utterly at a loss to account for the reappearance
of the traditional rhymes in a way so unlooked for; but they did not
take the mystery so much to heart as Lance did.
"It's not only extraordinary, but incredible," he affirmed. "I must see
that girl and ask her about it."