THE sky looked down so tenderly, so tenderly. And the haunted thickets
were all a-bloom. Gentle grasses had crept to the verge of the
open, empty graves, and trailing through them was the mystic purple
passion-flower. Delicately tinted wild roses had clambered into the
funereal cedar, hiding its sorrow with the splendors of a new spring.
All along the green perspective the elder shook out its snowy banners.
Restful places were these--where only the unquiet ghosts were wont to
walk. Here the dove was on her nest. The mocking-bird’s melody thrilled
through the solitude. All the timid and helpless wild things found
their refuge among the phantoms; there were rabbits, and squirrels,
and quail. No fear of man in these sequestered spots unbroken by the
ploughshare still, untrodden by mortal foot.
A luxuriant growth of bear-grass fringed the banks of the river as it
flowed through the battle-field. The reflection of the tall, stately
stems, hung about with myriads of snowy bell-like blossoms, embellished
the margin of the bright water for miles. And the water was very bright
to-day--full of concentric silver circlets, and golden sunshine, and
a blue sky brought down to earth and made sweetly familiar. It seemed
that the two skiffs, freighted with Edgar’s birthday guests, could but
glide swiftly through so limpid a medium, and they skimmed along as if
propelling themselves with their unfeathered wings.
“We shall meet Mr. Percy at the Coteatoy Bluffs,--Horace Percy,” said
Mrs. Kirby with animation. “He reached Chattalla yesterday--yes--in the
afternoon. He took great pains,” she continued, laughing slyly, “to let
us know he had returned. He drove over last evening--yes--he said he
was fishing for an invitation to fish.”
She waved her curls and smiled blandly. “Like a match-making mother,”
thought Estwicke furiously.
With jealous quickness he turned his eyes on Marcia. No rush of
emotion had sent the color to her cheeks now--only the faintly roseate
tinge, that dwelt there when her heart was calm, merged delicately and
imperceptibly into the warm whiteness of her brow and throat. She had
thrown off her hat. The sunbeams mingled with that perennial golden
glinting in her brown hair. The pliant grace of her figure embellished
the simple lawn dress which she wore, such as she always wore these
warm days,--it was pure white, with a dainty lace-like pattern traced
upon it in black stripes; one dress differed from another only in
the arrangement of many fluted ruffles, that gave it a petalled
appearance--“double,” as the gardeners say; it was like a flower,
moreover, in its exquisite freshness--it seemed to Estwicke to have
bloomed only this morning.
“He was a very successful angler,” said Mrs. Kirby,--“caught two
invitations, in fact. He tells us that he has a friend staying with
him--a Mr. Brennett--and that he is presumptuous enough to hope that
together they can fill the gap made by my brother’s absence. Yes, my
brother was called to Marston on business--very suddenly--will be gone
several weeks--too bad--too bad!”
Here and there, as they rowed, they could catch a glimpse of the
battle-field--the long lines of fortifications rising in billowy green
sweeps from the level expanse. In mid-stream were the stone piers of
the old turnpike bridge. As the boat was passing, Estwicke glanced up
and up the piles of masonry, austere and sternly suggestive, despite
the soft matutinal influences; despite the mosses and vines that come
always with their clinging grace to dull the sharp edges of ruin;
despite a nest in a niche and a brooding bird.
Well, the sentries tramped over this water once! Only the sunshine
guards the wreck of a bridge now. And here blood was shed. There were
flames in the night to cover a mad retreat and impede a swift and
fierce pursuit. And now only Marcia’s joyous laughter, and the fresh,
sweet voices of the children in the other skiff, and the melodious dip
of oars, and the restful peace of the springtide. And all that is gone;
is forgotten. And better so! A moment more and the ruined piers were
behind them.
And now they were among the shadows; they had reached the forests at
last, and a bend in the river brought them suddenly in sight of the
Coteatoy Bluffs and of a skiff drifting in the deep glooms below.
Brennett, idly dipping his oars now and then, was cynically watching
Percy, who was standing, his dark eyes turned eagerly upon the
approaching boats, his fresh complexion all the fresher for a sudden
accession of color, his delicate black mustache scarcely hiding a
quiver of excitement on his lips. His white linen suit rendered his
tall, lithe figure and every gesture, as he fanned himself with his
hat, very distinct upon the olive green and brownish shadows about
him, and instantly the children in the nearest skiff set up a shrill
acclaim of recognition and salutation. Mrs. Kirby waved her curls and
nodded benignly to him. Marcia was blushing and smiling. Mrs. Ridgeway
flourished her handkerchief.
“Why, God bless me,” spluttered old Mr. Ridgeway, “how well the boy is
looking.”
Estwicke suddenly felt alien--friendless. This man was coming back
among people who had known him from his infancy; they all called
him “Horace.” His intimacy with them had its root in habitudes that
dated back two generations. They all liked him, and indeed it would
be strange if a dull old stock of a country neighborhood, such as
this, were insensible of the charm of a gay, vivacious young worldling
grafted upon it, brilliant with foreign influences, and vigorous with
a new growth. His careful art in conserving his popularity had been
observed only sufficiently to give rise to the local report that he had
political aspirations, and to lead to harmless solicitations from “many
voters.” He fought shy of these, gratified, but unambitious of the
heavy cares of legislation; his coyness was held as proof of precocious
statesmanship, of latent designs awaiting development, and gave him the
reputation of being “deep.”
It did not escape Estwicke’s fierce scrutiny that when the newcomers
had run their boat close alongside, Percy’s notice of the other members
of the party was the merest mechanical courtesy, and his eyes were
loath to turn away from Marcia’s face. But the meeting involved the
prosaic necessity of introducing his friend, and it followed hard upon
this moment of sentimental apotheosis.
That moment had its peculiar interest for others. Maurice Brennett
fixed his piercing eyes upon Miss Vayne with questioning intentness,
until her name was pronounced, when it died out as suddenly as it had
sprung up. But he looked hard at Miss St. Pierre as he was presented
to her, and now his attention did not flag. It struck Estwicke’s
whimsical imagination with a fleeting wonder that a hawk could bow in
so conventional a manner and look so like a gentleman. For he had at
once recognized the man, and that strong likeness to the feathered
rascal which he had first observed over the card-table in Meredith’s
room. Brennett, too, recognized him, but in a cursory and superficial
manner that hardly impinged for an instant upon his deeper absorption.
“May I beg a place in your boat for Mr. Brennett?” said Percy, claiming
Mrs. Kirby’s indulgence. “I am sure it would be much more agreeable for
him there.”
“Oh, certainly,” said Mrs. Kirby, “and you must come too.”
“Both would be too heavy in addition to your party. I think I had
better stay at anchor here.”
“I hope that through your agency Chattalla has produced a fine
impression on Mr. Brennett--yes--_impressed_ him,” said Mrs.
Kirby, beaming out of her old black bonnet.
“Oh, I have done my duty as cicerone. I have been trying all the
morning to find a lion or two about the place to show him.”
“How lucky you are!” cried Marcia, joyously. “You have found a whole
menagerie!”
“It will not be so easy for you to get away from the lions,” said
Mrs. Kirby, eagerly desirous of removing any constraint which the
informality of their invitation might have occasioned.
From the readiness with which Percy adapted himself to the situation,
it might be inferred that no man had had so little fear of lions
since the days of Daniel. By reason of the proximity of the boats,
it was easy for him to lean across the intervening water and talk
to Marcia--in a half-suppressed tone, as if he were desirous not to
offend the delicate susceptibilities of the fish. Naturally, as she
turned to reply, she had, in a degree, the air of ignoring Estwicke,
who, when he relinquished his oar, had seated himself beside her.
It was only after some little time that she became aware of her
remissness; then she made an effort to draw him into the conversation.
But he had suddenly grown unresponsive--almost formal. Although he
kept a careful restraint upon his words and manner, that he might
make no overt sign of indignation, he resented the fact that she
should have put a slight upon him for Percy’s sake; her afterthought
made scant amends. Besides, he argued, her absorbed interest in Percy
was significant; so far as he himself was concerned it ought to be
definitive. Why should he hope against hope? He remained seated beside
her, but he fell to angling presently, and seldom spoke unless directly
addressed.
When Brennett stepped from one skiff to the other, the only vacant seat
was beside Miss St. Pierre. As he took it he was still looking hard at
her with speculating uncertainty and surprise. He had been altogether
unprepared for this passive young lady with her infantile--not to say
expressionless countenance. Travis’s character-sketch, in which the
predominating traits were quick intelligence and tenacity of purpose,
might well apply to Miss Vayne. He hardly felt satisfied as to their
identity until he once more heard them addressed by their respective
names. Then he again bent his keen eyes upon Antoinette’s quiescent
face. Its unsuggestiveness operated momentarily as a check upon him. To
judge from it she was made up of all gentle and negative qualities. He
had a swift fear that he would not find here any traits of character
sufficiently definite and developed to furnish him a basis for a plan
of action, an impetus for that lagging project, the compromise.
“Surely,” he said to himself in irritation, “no other man ever had so
unpromising material to work upon,--a dolt, like Travis; a runaway
horse, like Fortescue; and this nonentity, this utter blank!” And
looking more like a hawk than ever, for his life he could see nothing
further.
He declined the offer of a rod--he was always an unsuccessful angler,
he said, and the two were thrown upon the resource of conversation to
beguile the tedium of the next hour or so.
It began in this way.
“You don’t fish, Miss St. Pierre. May I ask why?”
This inquiry was propounded with a searching glance. He waited for her
reply with an attention which seemed to attach to it a disproportionate
importance.
“I don’t care for fishing,” she said. “It always seems to me a cruel
sport.”
“Cruel? Ah, well, perhaps. But I confess I had not thought of that.
I can’t regard a fish as a hero who fights for his home and his life
and dies a martyr. For gustatory reasons I hope I never shall. That
reflection would not improve his flavor.”
She only smiled as a rejoinder. Her peculiar talent for forcing the
burden of the conversation on her interlocutor, whoever he might be,
was somewhat conspicuous in the pause that ensued.
He pulled at his mustache with a preoccupied air. Even her casual
silence was noteworthy--so important were the interests at stake, and
so utterly destitute was he of any idea as to how he had best proceed.
“What sort of fish are in this river?” he asked. Apparently he was
talking only for the sake of conversation.
“They are not valued highly, I believe,” she replied.
“That is why it seems especially cruel to catch them--when no one cares
particularly for them.”
“Ah! that lets in the light. Even a sensibility so delicate has its
practical element. If they were valuable you would not think it cruel
to catch them; if they were valuable it might seem cruel of them not to
come up and be caught. Is that your meaning?”
He had anticipated that she would be confused because of this
misinterpretation, and would perhaps protest. She laughed a little,
opening and shutting her black fan, and then she began to listlessly
fan herself.
“I have always heard that a woman’s moral intuition is more reliable
than a man’s conscientious perception. I like to be supplied with those
infallible feminine convictions. I appreciate their value. I shall add
that maxim of yours to my treasures,--‘Don’t be cruel unless it’s worth
while.’”
He said this as if it were humorously intended, but there was a
peculiarly irritating, though slight, suggestion of sarcasm in the
tones of his voice. She did not seem, however, to apprehend it. She
smiled placidly as her calm, unspeaking eyes rested on the swift
current and its shimmering silver circlets, that whirled and whirled
interfulgent, the blue sky above and the reflected blue sky below.
“She controls her temper,” he said to himself; “or, perhaps,” he added
dubiously, “she has no temper to control.”
Once more he looked at her speculatively, and he felt that he made no
progress.
He tried another policy.
“I hope you never attempt to put your Tennessee friends out of conceit
with their little river,” he said presently, glancing disparagingly
about. “Do you claim to be remarkably knowing in the matter of rivers
because you live upon the banks of the Mississippi?”
She was not ready at repartee, and was at a loss for an answer to a
question like this. But he was looking straight at her, and she must
speak.
“No-o,” she hesitated, at a venture.
“That is right,” he rejoined, lightly. “It is what I should have
expected of you. For I remember now that old French motto of the St.
Xantaine family, which, freely translated, might be made to read--‘Deal
gently with people who don’t own a Big River.’”
There was a change now; her color intensified, it rose to the roots of
her fair hair and crept down the shadowy black crape about her throat;
a surprised pleasure looked out brightly from her eyes; her lips curved
suddenly in a pretty smile.
“That is a very free translation,” she said, laughing.
“Can a translator be expected to do more than give the spirit of the
original?”
He spoke carelessly, but his face expressed a grave, almost breathless
interest. Here, certainly, was something definite at last. Who believed
more faithfully than she that the St. Xantaines had no need of the
homage of Maurice Brennett, or of any other man. And yet she was
flattered--infinitely flattered--by this slight tribute to the family,
charged with an adequate recognition of its antiquity. It was hardly to
be expected that in the consummate adroitness with which he had flung
this seemingly casual remark into the conversation she should discover
an astute intention. But her manner of receiving it augured great
weakness. “And yet this trait of family pride is something intense,” he
said to himself.
He was silent for a time, absorbed in bootless surprise that,
propitiated as she must have been--as he could hardly have believed
possible--by the gift of the heirloom, she should suddenly have
developed that distrust of Travis which he had detected in her letters.
His swift mind rushed upon its conclusion. “She was influenced against
him afterward by some outside cause--a strong cause, certainly. What
was it?”
He had no inclination, however, to speculate vaguely about the wrecked
scheme of the exchange of property. He only wished to steer his course
so as to avoid that sunken rock which had demolished his first project.
What was it?
In this momentary lapse of observation, something escaped him. She
was looking at him; kindly. At the instant of his introduction she
had recognized his name as that of the man whose letter she had never
answered, and who held an interest similar to Fortescue’s in her
property; so fraught with perplexity had this whole subject become
that she felt at first an unreasonable prejudice against him on this
score. Now, however, she was beginning to be agreeably impressed by
his manner, and more by his face, expressive as it was of a subtle
power and some deep meaning--too deep, she knew intuitively, for her
fathoming. She fell to wondering who he was, and why she had never
heard of him in New Orleans, and what he did with himself in the world.
Presently he resumed: “And what do you think of Tennessee cotton, Miss
St. Pierre? Does it seem a caricature of the plant when you remember
the big fields, almost breast high even at this time of the year, along
Bayou Gloire?”
“Oh, Bayou Gloire! How familiar that sounds!” she cried. “Are you from
that part of the State?”
“No--I am not from Louisiana. My experience along Bayou Gloire has been
only as an angler--ah, I forget your tender sensibilities! To reassure
you, I will say that I committed few murders--the skill was lacking. I
used to go with Mr. Travis--who, as you know, is an expert sportsman
and truculent to a degree. By the way, when did you see him last?”
There was a pause. Surely she had no need to guard her words. But all
that had come from Travis’s visit--the proposed exchange of property,
the first suggestion of an outstanding title, the significance which
finding the locket in an empty grave seemed then to possess--invested
the very mention of it with a certain importance, which, however, she
felt was undue, and very foolish.
She had a sense, that made her angry with herself, of closely skirting
many secrets as she said,
“It has been some time now since I have seen him.”
The pause and this simple reply gave him food for reflection.
“How reticent she must be where anything touches her interests,” was
his conclusion. “‘Some time’--that might mean three weeks, or three
months, or three years. She has no reason, I should judge, not to state
explicitly when it was. She is instinctively, constitutionally cautious
and reticent.”
The approach, accidental though it had seemed, to these subjects, which
had given her so much disquietude, had the effect of putting her on
her guard. She noted, with a sudden surprise, the keenly observant
expression of his bright eyes. She had an unpleasant fancy that there
was something sinister in their brilliancy; she began to feel like a
creature undergoing vivisection, whose sufferings might be aggravated
by the knowledge that they were not for the benefit of humanity or of
science, but for the personal advantage of the operator. She did not
entirely understand her own motive, but the leading idea in her mind
was to interrupt his study of her pause and her words, and above all,
and before all, to change the look he bent upon her. Yet even while
she spoke she was arguing within herself as to why she should fear his
analysis or his look.
“Have you known Mr. Travis long?” she asked.
“For many years,” he returned. “We were at college together. I have
a number of friends among your connections and relatives. It makes
me feel as if I had met you before. You will permit me that little
hallucination of acquaintance?”
She smiled upon him in sudden reassurance. How absurd, she said to
herself, that she should imagine that this man weighed her words and
watched her face with some intent and secret motive! What purpose could
he serve?
“I have often heard you spoken of among them. Perhaps you know that
you are a favorite subject of conversation with Mrs. Bradley. The last
time I saw her she was talking of you to a more distant relative of
yours,--Mr. Fortescue.”
Once more she experienced a quick revulsion of feeling. It seemed to
her that, considering their mutual position toward John Fortescue
in the impending litigation, this mention of him was hardly
appropriate. Somehow she was definitely aware of an intention here.
She recognized the address which had thus innocuously thrown him into
the conversation, and she felt instinctively that more was to come.
She deprecated it. She would have avoided it if she could. She had a
vague idea of trying to draw some one else into the conversation, but a
glance at the other members of the party demonstrated how futile such
an effort would be. Mr. Ridgeway was assisting Mrs. Kirby, in the midst
of whispered excitement, to land a fish. Beyond these bulky old people
could be seen Mrs. Ridgeway’s broad shoulders in a state of abnormal
activity, as she animatedly wound and unwound a snarl of fish-line. At
the other end of the boat was Marcia, listening to Horace Percy, and
now and then turning to appeal to Estwicke, whose evident absorption
in their talk--although he was saying little--as well as the distance,
precluded Antoinette’s hope of appropriately claiming his attention.
Brennett’s low voice, subdued in deference to the requirements of the
anglers, and inaudible except to her, diverted her from her indefinite,
hazy project.
“Did you ever meet Mr. Fortescue?” he asked; “but no; you must have
been too young. I remember now that he said he has not been to New
Orleans before for many years.”
“I have never met him,” she replied gravely.
“You have missed something,” he said, with a half suppressed, sardonic
laugh. “A man with the world in a sling--like Fortescue--is worth
knowing. He goes everywhere, he sees everything, he knows everybody.
The interest of his debts brings him a handsome income. The rights
of other people are nullified, so far as he is concerned, by a
self-arrogated prerogative that is almost royal. And he considers
himself a king--a king among fools, and levies a heavy tribute, as
I know to my cost. And that reminds me,” he added, turning to her
suddenly, “that you never answered my letter.”
In the momentary confusion which this outburst induced, she was at
first sensible only of the rudeness and bad taste which it involved,
and she appreciated keenly the very evident fact that Maurice Brennett
had been bred to know how reprehensible rudeness and bad taste are.
The next instant the nebulous suspicions afloat in her mind--the
suspicions which the lawyers’ letter and Brennett’s had failed to
disperse--suddenly crystallized. There was no adequate reason for it,
but all at once she believed that the man calling himself Fortescue was
an impostor, and that the locket, with that name in it, which she had
found in an empty grave on the battle-field, belonged to a soldier long
ago dead. And here was the impostor’s chosen coadjutor! This, and this
only, would give him a motive to weigh her words; this, and this only,
would set him to watch her face. She felt sure that for some reason,
some unconjecturable reason, she personally had become important to the
success of their scheme. There was something he wanted to find out from
her; she was to be their unconscious ally against her own interests.
She began to try to remember what she had said, and what it might mean
to him. But she could not think,--a chilly trepidation was overpowering
her,--vague, unreasonable; she only knew that she feared him.
“I was sorry to trouble you with a letter on business,” he continued.
“And I am aware that among the important absorptions of a young lady’s
correspondence such dull matters must wait. But I have at length begun
to despair of my turn.”
“My lawyer will give you an answer,” she replied tremulously.
She hardly noticed that they had quitted the shade of the Coteatoy
Bluffs, and were pulling steadily up the stream toward a shelving bank,
where the party proposed to take lunch. The continuous chatter, in
the usual tone of voice now, of the other occupants of the boat fell
unheeded upon her ears. As she mentally canvassed the situation, she
was mechanically drawing her black gloves back and forth in her soft,
white hands, and now and then toying nervously with the buttons. This
sign of agitation did not escape his attention as he sat beside her,
his hat drawn down over his brow to shield his eyes from the glare of
the sunlight and its reflection on the water. As the skiff was run upon
the bank, he stepped out and offered to assist her. She gave him her
hand with, he fancied, some slight reluctance. He felt that it trembled
and was cold. “She is nervous and timorous beyond the natural timidity
of her sex, and somehow or other she is afraid of _me_,” he said
to himself, surprised.
The way was stony and rough; here and there the roots of a tree
protruded. In one of these Antoinette caught her foot and almost fell.
Brennett and Estwicke each offered his arm at the same moment, but she
affected not to see Brennett and accepted Estwicke’s proffer. Only once
she spoke to him.
“Take me to Mrs. Kirby,” she said. “I think she has a vinaigrette, and
I’ve signalized the occasion by getting up a headache.”
“Perhaps it is the effect of the sun,” said Estwicke. “Suppose you rest
here in the shade while I go for the vinaigrette.”
“No--no--I’ll go with you,” she insisted eagerly.
As they walked on together she was silent, and Estwicke, too, seemed
abstracted. But the influence of his familiar presence reassured her
to some degree. The soft green shadows were grateful after the glare
on the river; a bird was singing somewhere; the wind stirred. She was
among her friends--she let her hand rest heavily on Estwicke’s arm as
they strolled slowly along beneath the overhanging boughs--why should
she entertain a fear so vague that she could not put it into words? If
all that she suspected were true, who could be endangered but Brennett
and his accomplice? It was only necessary to be cautious so that no
money might be lost by their finesse.
She recovered her composure more easily from a certain self-gratulation
which she began to experience just now. How fortunate it was, she
thought, that she had not written again to Temple Meredith and possibly
influenced him to unwise and premature action. Perhaps he, too, had
detected something abnormal in the circumstances surrounding these two
men, and intended to speak only when he had merged his suspicions in
certainty. She resolved that she would not write again--she would not
hamper him with an insistent letter at a juncture like this. As the
facts gradually developed they seemed more and more to justify caution,
and certainly this demonstration ought to convince her that it was
not she who had suffered by the delay. She would wait patiently, and
Maurice Brennett might wait also.
They presently overtook Mrs. Kirby, and when Antoinette made known
her wants the old lady offered the vinaigrette with disconnected
exclamations of sympathy. She seemed to specially deprecate this
seizure. “Try to shake it off, my dear,” she said, in an earnest aside.
“You won’t be able to talk to Mr. Brennett. I was _so_ glad he
came--yes. Horace Percy says he is such an agreeable, intellectual
man--and you are so fond of books! And we have so little company in the
country for you.”
Mrs. Kirby was of opinion that men are born into this world for
the single purpose of falling willing victims to the fascinations
of young ladies. It really was a pity that Antoinette’s headache
should interfere with her opportunity of enslaving so agreeable and
intellectual a victim, especially as dear Antoinette--such a sweet
girl, too--was not usually interesting to gentlemen. Captain Estwicke
had evidently not been particularly attracted, and Mr. Travis had come
no more. But already Mr. Brennett seemed greatly impressed. In the boat
she had noticed how deeply he was absorbed in the conversation.
“Oh, it’s a fearful bore to talk to him,” cried Antoinette fervently.
Mrs. Kirby looked at her in disappointment and grave reprobation. Here
was all the material for a charming romance, except the good-will of
the lady.
Still, when Brennett joined them, Mrs. Kirby hopefully welcomed him;
more than once afterward she observed that, as he half-reclined on
the grass near them, lazily supporting himself on one elbow, he cast
a swift glance of covert attention upon the young girl. It augured a
deepening interest, and was an infinite accession to the sentimental
old lady’s satisfaction. How should she divine that he was only saying
to himself, again and again--“Reticent and cautious--extremely timid
and proud--and what can I make of this?”
He sought to renew his conversation with her, and Mrs. Kirby would
have been very glad to give him a clear field. But Antoinette was so
monosyllabic and absent-minded that, ascribing her lassitude to her
headache, the old lady tried to make amends. The talk fell naturally
upon mutual acquaintances in Graftenburg. Gradually she became animated
and retrospective. She gave him, with great particularity, the “maiden
names” of the mothers and grandmothers of his friends, and various
collateral relationships fell tributary into the sweeping current
of reminiscence; dates ran riot upon it, and the sails of many a
memory-treasured romance spread themselves to the breeze. The graces of
Maurice Brennett’s intellect were chiefly displayed in the brilliancy
with which he listened. Although he bore himself thus creditably,
the little matters which so engrossed Mrs. Kirby fatigued him beyond
measure. Sometimes the whinnying laughter of the coltish Vayne boys
broke sharply on the air, and as his eyes mechanically followed the
sound, he found a momentary diversion in the spectacle presented by
them and their juvenile friends--all grouped suggestively close to the
hamper--the smallest, Edgar, treated now like a hero among them, and
now sadly badgered, according to the ups and downs of a bigger world.
It was even a relief--absurd as that might seem--to catch a few words
of old Mr. Ridgeway’s eager apoplectic discourse, on a wide range of
subjects intermediary between the plan of atonement and the policy of
the nation, with which Estwicke, hard by, was regaled along with the
sandwiches.
For Estwicke no longer remained beside Marcia, and thus assisted at
the conversational triumphs of his rival--it was Percy’s habit to talk
much, and much about himself, recounting glib little stories in which,
without coarsely bragging, he dexterously contrived to appear always
as an enviable figure. She maintained a responsive animation, and when
Estwicke had strolled away to the other group her laugh still reached
him. It was a very charming laugh. He did not doubt its mirthfulness.
The picture was suggestive as Percy sat beside her on the bole of a
great tree, fallen in a late wind-storm, the leaves still green on the
boughs that clustered about them. This day was as an idyl to them,
Estwicke said to himself--and as for him and his heavy heart, and his
misplaced love, and his cold torpor of despair, these were merely the
requisite contrasting elements in the perfect poem.
And now the sun was sinking, and the pleasure party was afloat again
and speeding down the river,--past the Coteatoy Bluffs; past the
National Cemetery, with its vast array of mounds marshalled about
the flagstaff, with its monument in the midst, and at intervals
field-pieces and piles of balls. And now past another cemetery, its
ghastlier simulacrum--where no monument rises, no flag waves,--with
only the splendors of the evening sky above it, and the glancing wings
of the homeward bound birds. Here are the piers of the old bridge; and
here is the green enamelled stretch of the battle-field. The scent of
clover is on the air; the cry of quail rises from the grass.
The sky is crimson and the water is crimson, and they land in the midst
of the red sunset.