DENNIE'S TROUBLE.
With heavy hearts both Lance and Sylv accomplished their journey to
Beaufort late that afternoon; and on the way Lance explained to his
companion the new light in which Adela must be regarded.
Sylv, however, said little, and appeared anxious to reach home, where he
could consult with Dennie.
He found his brother busily engaged in completing a ditch across the
neck of the headland, which he had finally, in deference to the wishes
of Aunty Losh, undertaken to dig, to the end that her live-stock might
be kept from straying over to the mainland. "I am fearsome o' the
tides," said Dennie, as he had said long ago; "but aunty wants this hyar
for to be done, and so I am doin' on it."
The docile, plodding industry of his brother smote upon Sylv with a
singular reproach. He could not throw off the conviction that he himself
had been essentially idle in his devotion to book-learning, while Dennie
had remained so faithful to the dull duties at home.
"Dennie," he said, "I got some good news for you."
"Ye mean that ar?" queried Dennie, halting in his toil, with his shovel
in the loose ground. "I ain't had no good news for a long sight, Sylv.
What mout it be?"
"Deely's coming back to you."
Dennie stood stock still and wiped the sweat from his brow. Then he
touched his grimy knuckles to his eyelids; but, without betraying
emotion in any other way, except by the softening of his voice, he said:
"I'm glad on't, Sylv. Ar' she a-comin' back because she want to?"
"Yes; oh yes! There couldn't be any other reason, could there, Dennie?"
"Well, I warn't right sure," said Dennie. "No; I reckon they aren't no
other reason." Seizing the shovel, he made a few more plunges with it
into the soil. "Well, I'm right glad on't, Sylv. When ar' she comin'?"
"Now, I'll tell you how it is," Sylv returned, assuming an expository
manner. "Deely thinks you've been a right good boy, and she allows she
was impatient with you. But, then, you were impatient too. She's made up
her mind to let go the rest of her school term, and she's waiting for
you now up at the city. All you've got to do is to go there and get
her."
Dennie abandoned his work for the moment, and gazed at his brother
affectionately. "Thank ye kindly, Sylv. Ye been a good brother to me.
Oh, it don't 'pear true! I don't make out how it's so; but I waited and
sarved kind o'patient, Sylv, and all to once it comes out squar'.
Deely's been fair to me, old man, and so ha' you been. Wall, it's more'n
I desarve."
With the guilty knowledge of a hidden love for Adela in his heart, Sylv
would rather have faced the threatening muzzle of his brother's gun, as
it had once been pointed at him, than to have stood up before the glance
of trust and affection which Dennie now directed toward him. But, thank
Heaven, his conscience was clean. He had not betrayed the trust. He had
preserved his honor, and had left Adela free.
"Don't think about what you deserve," he said, "but just you go and do
what she expects you to. You go up there and fetch her back."
"Did she ask ye to tell me that, Sylv?"
"Yes."
"Then I'll do it! But I ar' got to dig this hyar ditch first off, don't
you see I have? 'Cause I tole aunty I would, and she'd be a heap sight
put out if I didn't. But ye'll go up to the city with me, won't ye,
Sylv? I'd feel lonesome and quar' ef ye didn't."
"I'm right sorry, Dennie; but I can't. I've got to do some work for Mr.
Lance, and I ought not to go back."
However, when Dennie was ready to take his departure Sylv came to him
with a sealed letter. "I can't go with you, Dennie," he repeated; "but
there's a few words I wanted to say to Deely, and you might as well
carry them, I thought."
Dennie conscientiously dumped the missive into his hat; and, with a last
joyous whisk of his red beard, took leave of his brother.
His impatience to see Adela caused him to spurn the faithful dug-out as
a means of travel, and he went by rail.
In the long months of separation from his sweetheart he had succeeded in
carrying out a great self-improvement. The hope of making himself worthy
to recover her was the mainstay of his gallant persistence in this work,
and it had wrought a wonderful effect. He was still the same Dennie--his
temperament could not be remodelled--but from being irascible,
hot-headed, untrustworthy, he had come to exercise a self-control that
made him seem uncommonly gentle. What he gained in that direction he had
to hold by untiring vigilance and firm will; but a succession of
victories convinced him that now, when the reward was held out to him,
he could prove his fitness to receive it.
A driving rain poured down upon North Carolina as he left the coast. The
sea showed its white teeth at Hatteras and all along the sandy spits and
islands that fringe that shore. Every one said that still uglier weather
was likely to come soon. But to Dennie the drenching showers and the
hurly-burly of the winds only enhanced the gladness in his heart. He
basked in the delicious glow of cosiness which children feel when snugly
housed from pelting storms that they can watch at ease. The slow-paced
cars seemed to him to glide ahead with wonderful swiftness--his own
happy anticipation lent speed to the wheels--and the humming rails
echoed and rang again with one continual song of hope, hope, hope.
How many fond, encouraging things he would say to Adela! How bright he
would make the prospect for her! He would show her, beyond question,
that she need never undergo any trials or troubles which he could
prevent.
It was not so easy to do all this, at first, as he had imagined it would
be. On meeting, they were both rather quiet. Dennie took her hand
bashfully: he discovered all at once that he was in the presence of a
superior being. The muscles of his right arm, also, appeared to succumb
to a peculiar disorder, and would not act when he wanted to throw that
arm around her waist. Good Lord! was he afraid? Had he been afraid to
clasp her in his arm a year before? But gradually this paralytic attack
wore itself out: he sat down beside her, and presently his right hand
was visible to his own eyes, resting easily at a point on the right side
of her belt.
"I'm glad to be with ye again, Deely," he said, carefully eliminating as
much of the gruffness as he could from his strong out-of-doors voice.
But the hearty gruffness that remained was, somehow, very agreeable to
Adela. "Dear old Dennie," she said, in a gentle, musing way, as if she
were speaking of him to some third person.
"And ye're glad, too, be ye, Deely?" he asked, gazing at her
indulgently, but with some vestiges of anxious doubt.
"Yes, Dennie, I'm glad to be with you; you're so good now. And I like to
see you happy."
"That's a puss," said the big fellow, but instantly felt astonishment at
his own familiarity. Finding, too, that he was instinctively patting her
with his hand, he promptly stopped, because it struck him that his hand
was too rough, and he might hurt or crush her. He drew it softly away to
a more normal position. "Why, they tell me," he resumed, "that ye're a
great lady now--a sort o' prin_cess_, or su'thin' that way, I didn't
know for sure ye'd want to see me or have me hangin' round ye no more."
And then he laughed at the deceptiveness and the wild humor of his own
speech.
"Oh, Dennie," she implored, "don't talk about that! What difference does
it make?"
"Ye needn't bat yer eyes," he replied. "I ain't 'shamed on it, if ye
ain't. Why Sylv, he said how ye war just as good as Miss Jessie, 'cause
ye war born away back out'n the same family; leastways, some one else
did the bornin' for ye, them ar times. But I--well, _I_ allays thought
ye war a heap sight better'n Miss Jessie or any one else."
"I know that, Dennie. You always loved me true. Oh, it was wrong for me
to come away from you so!"
Adela leaned her head upon him, and began to sob slightly. This
proceeding was to totally unlooked for, that Dennie was amazed.
"Thar, thar," he said, "ye'd oughtn't for to cry when I come back to ye.
No; ye had the right on't, Deely. I warn't fit, then, and I wouldn't ha'
been a fip better ef ye hadn't ha' left me be. It ar' all right, I tell
ye. But fust, when I saw ye just now, thinks I, ye've changed so, and ye
look so sort o' ironed up all careful, ye won't care nothin' for a old
rough boy like Dennie no more. But if ye're goin' to cry, Deely, why, I
want for to stop ye; and I do think it war all right, your leavin' me."
"Oh no, no," she reaffirmed, still weeping. "I did you a great wrong,
Dennie!"
Dennie's face became apprehensive for a moment; but that look quickly
dissolved, and he permitted himself a subdued laugh. "It are enough to
make a man laugh," he said, in excuse, "to think o' my forgivin' ye; but
if ye feel ye done wrong, why, I'll say I forgive ye, Deely. I do
forgive ye, right free."
She had made the only confession she could. Indeed, what was there to
reveal, except that in her long companionship with Sylv she had learned
to love him, before she comprehended what was happening, and that she
had honestly, at a fearful cost, stifled that love so far as might be,
in order to remain true to the man she had promised to wed? But to tell
this would in itself be to dishonor her vow.
She looked up to Dennie with streaming eyes, and her hand sought his.
"Thank you, thank you!" she murmured. "I have suffered a great deal
here, Dennie--away from you. I know you have suffered too. But you are
generous and kind; and now I hope we can forget all the pain."
Dennie, in listening to her, was strongly impressed with the feeling
that he was hearing something read from a book, so sharp was the
contrast between her utterance and his. But the contents of the
supposititious book were very soothing and acceptable. He turned quickly
to her, and for the first time since his arrival they embraced each
other with thorough self-forgetfulness.
"But, Deely," he said, "I ain't like ye ar'. I ain't got l'arnin' the
way ye have now. Don't ye reckon that ar'll disapp'int ye?"
"No; not a bit," she answered, warmly; "you'll be kind and good to me,
Dennie, and I will be a good wife to you. All I want is for you to take
me away from here. Take me home!"
There was an almost desperate energy in her voice. The truth was,
Dennie's presence acted upon her as a restorative, and awakened many
memories of the simple and happier time when they had played together
and grown up together and carried on their courtship by the shore.
Despite her love for Sylv--or perhaps in consequence of it--she threw
herself upon Dennie's protection with an eagerness she would not have
believed possible until she met him face to face. His big figure, his
glowing cheeks, his heavy hands and rough accent--all brought to her a
whiff of the salt air in which she had been born and bred. Her secret
misery was dulled by his trusting companionship; she was lulled into
reveries of some existence of comparative peace, in which she would be
able to fulfil her ideal of duty and find her recompense in so doing.
"Take ye home, dear girl! Why, that's what I'm wantin' to do," he
rejoined, tenderly. And, fired by the thought, he went on to tell her
where they would make the home; how Sylv and he were going to take part
in Lance's wide-reaching plans; how he would perhaps have something to
do with the paper-mill or the market gardens that were to replace the
swamp; and how happy she and he could be.
Adela entered eagerly into all these glowing particulars. A new life
opened before her, which she believed would be beautified with all sorts
of unexpected happiness; and she was filled with thanksgiving because
she had clung resolutely to her plighted troth.
"We'll go to-morrow!" cried Dennie, with enthusiasm. "D'ye think ye can
make out to be ready, Deely?"
"I could be ready to-day," she replied, "if there's a train."
Dennie, wonderful to relate, had provided himself with a time-table,
though the "summer arrangement" of the railroad to Beaufort was not
complicated. He resorted to his hat to find it. But as he plucked the
printed slip from its place in the inner band of the hat his eye lighted
on Sylv's letter. Until that moment he had entirely forgotten that he
was a usurper of the postal function.
"Dog-gone it!" he exclaimed, "I come mighty near not givin' you this.
It's from Sylv."
Adela stripped away tho yellow envelope with startled haste; and on a
poor sheet of blue-ruled note-paper she read these words:
"DEAR DEELY: I did not mean to write anything, but the feeling
comes over me that I ought to say good-by to you and Dennie. I
have decided that my life here has been a failure, and I am
going away. I shall not come back. Mr. Lance thinks I have gone
to do something for him, but it is no use to look for me,
because no one can find me.
"I love you and Dennie, and want you to be happy together.
Remember that, and do not mourn over me any more than if I had
died. You know we cannot help dying. If I could do any good by
staying I would; but I am certain it is better for me to go.
"Tell Dennie I trust him to make you happy. I believe in him
and love him. Good-by. SYLV."
Dennie awaited the result of her reading in dumb expectancy, and saw the
look of horror in her face, but could not account for it.
Adela shrieked aloud. "Oh, he is dead!" she cried. "He meant to kill
himself! Help, Dennie, help! What are we to do?"
She stretched out her hand, with the letter in it; but Dennie only shook
his head, in helpless bewilderment.
"I can't read it," he said, piteously. "I don't know enough, Deely. That
ar writin'--Deely, what ails ye? What's he said there?"
The mistress of the academy came running in, alarmed by the girl's
outcry.
"Sylv is going to kill himself," Adela repeated. "He says he's going
away; but I know--oh, I know what he means! See, Dennie; that's what he
says." And again she held the letter toward him, distractedly. "He says
good-by to you and me. Can we go to-day? Is there any train?"
Dennie offered the mistress his time-table, which to him was merely an
illegible curiosity--a memento of his unprecedented journey.
Without looking at it, however, she drew out her watch with a sharp tug
at the silken guard that held it. "Yes, you have time," she announced,
"if you hurry. I'll bring your things, Miss Reefe."
She disappeared.
"Tell me 'bout it, Deely," said Dennie, fumbling hopelessly with the
letter, which he had now taken into his sunburned hands.
Adela set foot upon her agitation, and rapidly read the letter over to
him.
Dennie appeared to be stunned. "Suicide?" he said. "What for? Hev you
got any right for to think that ar?" His tone was indignant. "What call
ar' he got to kill hisself? Sylv--our Sylv, I tell ye. My brother!"
"Because he hadn't anything left to live for! He was miserable," Adela
answered, with vengeful emphasis. "It is Mr. Lance did it--sending me
here. No! _I_ did it, because I would not tell him what I felt. I wanted
to be true to you."
The truth burst upon Dennie like a flood, and his fierce temper rose to
meet it. For an instant a blinding light flashed dazzingly by across
everything that surrounded him; he grew giddy, and Adela had no more
important existence in his eyes than the table and the chairs around
him, or the lifeless walls of the room. His single desire was, in his
rage, to destroy something, to create havoc and ruin, answering to the
ruin of his own hopes. But the next instant he felt as if he were among
the pines, with his gun aimed at Sylv; and the thought that Sylv at this
very instant might be lying dead somewhere brought a ghastly picture
before his eyes. The whirl of maddening light passed away, and he stood
humiliated, mournful, calm, motionless.
"Then it's true at last!" he said, hoarsely. "You loved that man--my
brother--and he loved you."
For a moment Adela could not speak. Her lips moved, without sound. At
last she answered: "Yes. But I never told him, and he said nothing to
me. 'Twas only after we came here."
Dennie replied in a voice that made her think of the muffled breaking of
the waves on the distant coast. "I was fearsome of it, Deely, but I
swore I wouldn't think on't. It ar' best I know it now. We'll go and
look for--for Sylv. If he ar' alive, I'll bring you to him."