Midsummer came, and passed, and Mrs. Jerome still lingered. In her
pursuit for health she had been indefatigable. There was hardly a road
throughout the region which had been left untried, hardly a forest path
unexplored, or a mountain spring untasted.
"For a woman that sets up for delicate," remarked Mrs. Squires, as from
her point of observation behind the window-blinds she watched Mrs.
Jerome spring with a girl's elastic grace from the carriage, "for a
woman that sets up for delicate, she can stan' more ridin' around, an'
scramblin' up mountains, than any woman I ever see. _I_ couldn't do
it--that's sure an' sartain!"
"It's sperrit, Rhody, sperrit. Them's the kind o' women that'll go
through fire and flood to git what they're after."
"Yes, an' drag everybody along with 'em," added Mrs. Squires, meaningly.
* * * * *
There was one place to which they rode which held a peculiar charm for
Mrs. Jerome,--a small lake, deep set among the hills and lying always
in the shadow. Great pines grew down to its brink and hung far out over
its surface, which was almost hidden by thickly growing reeds and the
broad leaves and shining cups of water-lilies. Dragonflies darted over
it, and a dreamy silence invested it. A boat lay moored at the foot
of the tangled path which led from the road, and they often left the
carriage, and rowed and floated about until night-fall among the reeds
and lilies.
They were floating in this way, near the close of a sultry August
afternoon. Lill lay coiled upon a shawl in the bottom of the boat, her
arms full of lilies whose lithe stems she was twining together, talking
to herself, meanwhile, in a pretty fashion of her own.
Granger was seated in the bow of the boat, with folded arms, and eyes
fixed upon the dark water. His face was pale and moody. It had worn
that expression often of late, and he had fallen into a habit of long
intervals of silence and abstraction.
The beautiful woman who sat opposite him, idly trailing one hand,
whiter and rosier than the lily it held, in the water, seemed also
under some unusual influence. She had not spoken for some time. Now and
then she would raise the white lids of her wonderful eyes, and let them
sweep slowly over the downcast face of Granger.
The dusky water lay around them still as death, reflecting in black
masses the overhanging pines. The air was warm and full of heavy odors
and drowsy sounds, through which a bird's brief song rang out, now and
then, thrillingly sweet.
The atmosphere seemed to Mrs. Jerome to become every moment more
oppressive. A singular agitation began to stir in her breast, which
showed itself in a faint streak of red upon either cheek. At last this
feeling became unendurable, and she started with a sudden motion which
caused the boat to rock perilously.
Granger, roused by this movement, seized the oars, and with a skilful
stroke brought the boat again to rest.
"Will you row across to the other side?" the lady said. "I saw some
rare orchids there which must be in bloom by this time."
Granger took up the oars again and rowed as directed. When the orchids
had been found and gathered, at Mrs. Jerome's request he spread her a
shawl beneath a tree, and seated himself near her.
"How beautiful it is here!" she said, after a pause. "I would like to
stay and see the moon rise over those pines. It rises early to-night.
You don't mind staying?" she added, looking at Granger.
"No--" he answered, slowly, "I don't mind it in the least."
"How different it must look here in winter!" she said, presently.
"Yes; as different as life and death."
"I cannot bear to think I shall never see it again," she said, after
another and longer pause, "and yet I must leave it so soon!"
"Soon!" Granger echoed, with a start. "You are going away soon, then?"
he asked, in a husky voice.
"Yes--very soon--in two weeks, I think."
Granger made no reply. He bent his head and began searching among the
leaves and moss. His eyes fell upon one of the lady's hands, which lay
carelessly by her side, all its perfections and the splendor of its
jewels relieved against the crimson background of the shawl.
He could not look away from it, but bent lower and lower, until his
hair and his quick breath swept across the fair fingers.
At the touch a wonderful change passed over the woman. She started
and trembled violently--her face grew soft and tender. She raised the
hand which was upon her lap, bent forward and laid it, hesitatingly,
tremblingly, upon the bowed, boyish head.
"Robert! Robert!" she whispered.
Granger raised his head. For a moment, which seemed an age, the two
looked into each other's face. Hers was full of yearning tenderness and
suffused with blushes--his, rigid and incredulous, yet lighted up with
a wild joy. A hoarse cry broke from his lips--he thrust aside the hand
which lingered upon his head, sprang to his feet, and went away.
The color faded from Mrs. Jerome's face. She sat, for a moment, as if
turned to stone, her eyes, dilated and flashing, fixed upon Granger's
retreating figure. Then, with an impetuous gesture, she rose and went
to look for Lill. A scream from the little girl fell upon her ears at
the same moment. She had strayed out upon a log which extended far into
the water, and stood poised, like a bird, upon its extreme end. Round
her darted a blue-mailed dragon-fly, against which the little arms were
beating in terror. Another instant, and she would be in the water. Mrs.
Jerome sprang toward her, but Granger was already there. As he gave the
frightened child into her mother's arms, he looked into her face. She
returned his gaze with a haughty glance, and walked swiftly toward the
boat. He took his seat in the bow and rowed across the lake in silence.
Lill buried her scared little face in her mother's lap, and no one
spoke. As they landed, a great, dark bird rose suddenly out of the
bushes, and with a hideous, mocking cry, like the laugh of a maniac,
swept across the water. The woman started and drew the child closer to
her breast.
They drove along in silence until within a mile of the Squires' farm,
when, without a word, Granger turned into a road over which their
drives had never before extended. It was evidently a by-way, and little
used, for grass grew thickly between the ruts. On the brow of a hill he
halted.
Below, in the valley, far back from the road-side, stood an old, square
mansion, of a style unusual in that region. It must have been a place
of consequence in its day and generation. The roof was hipped, and
broken by dormer windows, and a carved lintel crowned the door-way.
An air of age and decay hung about it and the huge, black barns with
sunken roofs, and the orchard, full of gnarled and barren trees,
which flanked it. A broad, grass-grown avenue, stiffly bordered by
dishevelled-looking Lombardy poplars, led up to the door.
Granger turned slowly, and looked full into Mrs. Jerome's face. His own
was terribly agitated. Doubt, questioning, passionate appeal, spoke
from every feature.
"That is the old Granger place," he said, in a strange, choked voice,
with a gesture toward the house, "and that"--as a woman appeared for
an instant in the door-way--"that woman----is _my wife_!"
The desperate look in his face intensified. His eyes seemed endeavoring
to pierce into her inmost soul. His lips moved as if to speak again,
but speech failed him. A quick breath escaped the lady's parted lips,
and she gave him a swift, startled glance.
It was but a passing ripple on the surface of her high-bred calm.
However, a smile, the slow, sweet, slightly scornful smile he knew
so well, came to her lips again the next instant. She raised her
eye-glasses and glanced carelessly over the scene.
"Nice old place!" she said, in her soft, indifferent way. "Quite an air
about it, really!"
Granger turned and lashed the horse into a gallop. His teeth were
set--his blue-gray eyes flashed.
When the door was reached he lifted the woman and her child from the
carriage, and drove madly away, the impact of the wheels with the rocky
road sending out fierce sparks as they whirled along.
Mrs. Jerome gathered her lilies into her arms and went slowly up to her
room.
* * * * *
Several days passed, and Robert Granger did not appear. The harvest
was now at its height, and the farmers prolonged their labors until
sunset, and often later. This was the ostensible reason for his
remaining away. During these days Mrs. Jerome was in a restless
mood. She wandered continually about the woods and fields near the
farm-house, remaining out far into the bright, dewless nights. One
evening she complained of headache, and remained in-doors, sitting
in _négligé_ by the window, looking listlessly out over the orchard.
Nettie came in from a stroll with Lill, and gave her mistress a letter.
"We met Mr. Granger, and he gave me this, madam," she said,
respectfully, but her glance rested with some curiosity upon the face
of Mrs. Jerome as she spoke.
The letter remained unopened upon her lap long after Nettie had gone
with the child to her room. Finally, she tore the envelope open and
read:
"What is the use of struggling any longer? You have seen, from
the first day, that I was entirely at your mercy. There have
been times when I thought you were coldly and deliberately
trying your power over me; and there have been other times
when I thought you were laughing at me, and I did not care,
so long as I could see your face and hear your voice. I never
allowed myself to think of the end. Now all is changed. What
has happened? I am too miserable--and too madly happy--to think
clearly; but, unless I am quite insane, I have heard your voice
speaking my name, and I have seen in your face a look which
meant--no, I _cannot_ write it! It was something I have never
dared dream of, and I cannot believe it, even now; and yet, I
_cannot_ forget that moment! If it is a sin to write this--if
it is a wrong to you--I swear I have never meant to sin, and
I would have kept silent forever but for that moment. Then,
too, it flashed upon me for the first time that you did not
know I was not free to love you. It _must_ be that you did not
know--the doubt is an insult to your womanhood--and yet, when I
tried to make sure of this, how you baffled me! But still _that
moment_ remains unforgotten. What does it all mean? I must have
an answer! I shall come to-morrow, at the usual time. If you
refuse to see me, I shall understand. If not--what then?
"R. G."
The letter fell to the floor, and Helen Jerome sat for a while with
heaving breast and hands clasped tightly over her face. Then she rose
and paced up and down the chamber, pausing at length before one of the
photographs with which she had adorned the bare walls. Through sombre,
lurid vapors swept the figures of two lovers, with wild, wan faces,
clasped in an eternal embrace of anguish. She looked at the picture a
long time with a brooding face. In the dusk the floating figures seemed
to expand into living forms, their lips to utter audible cries of
despair.
"Even at that price?"
She shuddered as the words escaped her lips, and turned away. There was
a tap at the door, and, before she could speak, a woman entered,--a
spare, plain-featured woman, dressed in a dark cotton gown and coarse
straw hat. There was something gentle, yet resolute, in her manner, as
she came toward Mrs. Jerome, her eyes full of repressed, yet eager,
scrutiny.
"Good evenin', ma'am," she said, extending a vinaigrette of filigree
and crystal. "I was comin' up this way an' I thought I'd bring ye your
bottle. Leastways, I s'pose it's yourn. It fell out o' Rob's pocket."
She let her eyes wander while she was speaking over the falling golden
hair, the rich _robe-de-chambre_, and back to the beautiful proud face.
"Thank you, it _is_ mine," said Mrs. Jerome. "Are you Robert Granger's
mother?"
"No, ma'am. I am his wife's mother. My name is Mary Rogers."
Mrs. Jerome went to the window and seated herself. The hem of her dress
brushed against the letter, and she stooped and picked it up, crushing
it in her hand. The visitor did not offer to go. She had even removed
her hat, and stood nervously twisting its ribbons in her hard, brown
fingers.
"Will you sit down, Mrs. Rogers?"
The woman sank upon a chair without speaking. She was visibly
embarrassed, moving her hands and feet restlessly about, and then
bursting into sudden speech.
"I've got somethin' I want to say to ye, Mis' Jerome. It's kind o' hard
to begin--harder'n I thought 'twould be."
She spoke in a strained, trembling voice, with many pauses.
"It's something that ought to be said, an' there's nobody to say it
but me. Perhaps--you don't know--that folks round here is a-talkin'
about--about you an' Rob."
Mrs. Jerome smiled--a scornful smile which showed her beautiful teeth.
The woman saw it, and her swarthy face flushed.
"I don't suppose it matters to you, ma'am, if they be," she said,
bitterly, "an' it ain't on your account I come. It's on Ruby's account.
Ruby's my darter. Oh, Mis' Jerome,"--she dropped her indignant tone,
and spoke pleadingly,--"you don't look a bit like a wicked woman, only
proud, an' used to havin' men praise ye, an' I'm sure if you could see
Ruby you'd pity her, ma'am. She's a-worryin' an' breakin' her heart
over Rob's neglectin' of her so, but she don't know what folks is
a-sayin'. I've kep' it from her so far, but I'm afeard I can't keep it
much longer, for folks keeps a throwin' out 'n' hintin' round, and if
Ruby should find it out--the way she is now--it'd _kill_ her!"
She stopped, rocking herself to and fro, until she could control her
shaking voice.
"I never wanted her to _hev_ Rob Granger," she began again, speaking
hurriedly, "an' I tried to hender it all I could. But 'twa'n't no
use. I knew 'twould come to this, sooner or later. 'Twas in his
father, an' it's in him. The Grangers was all of 'em alike--proud an'
high-sperrited, an' never knowin' their own minds two days at a time.
It's in the blood, an' readin' po'try an' sich don't make it no better.
I knowed Ruby wa'n't no match for Rob; she's gentle an' quiet, an'
ain't got much book-larnin'. But her heart was sot on him, poor gal!"
And again she paused, sobbing gently now, and wiping her eyes on her
apron. Mrs. Jerome rose and went over to her. A wonderful change had
passed over her. Every trace of pride and scorn had faded from her
face. She was gentle, almost timid, in manner, as she stood before the
weeping woman.
"Mrs. Rogers," she said, kindly, "I cannot tell you how sorry I am. It
is all unnecessary, I assure you. It is very foolish of people to talk.
I shall see that you have no more trouble on my--on this account. If I
had known"--she hesitated, stammering. "You see, Mrs. Rogers, I did not
even know that Robert Granger was married. If I had, perhaps----"
The woman looked up incredulously. The blood tingled hot through Mrs.
Jerome's veins as she answered, with a sting of humiliation at her
position.
"It may seem strange--it _is_ strange, but no one has ever mentioned it
to me until--a few days ago. Besides, as I tell you, there is no need
for talk. There _shall_ be none. You can go home in perfect confidence
that you will have no further cause for trouble--that I can prevent."
Mrs. Rogers rose and took the lady's soft hand in hers.
"God bless ye, ma'am. Ye'll do what's right, I know. You must forgive
me for thinking wrong of ye, but you see----"
She broke off in confusion.
"It is no matter," said Mrs. Jerome. "You did not know me, of course.
Good-night."
When the door had closed upon her visitor, she stood for a while
motionless, leaning her head wearily against the window-frame.
"Strange," she said to herself, "that she should have reminded me
of--mother! It must have been her voice."
A breeze strayed in at the window, and brought up to her face the
scent of the lilies which stood in a dish upon the bureau. She seized
the bowl with a hasty gesture, and threw the flowers far out into the
orchard.
Mrs. Jerome arose very early the next morning and went down for a
breath of the fresh, sweet air. Early as it was, the farmer had been to
the village to distribute his milk, and came rattling up the road with
his wagon full of empty cans. He drove up to the door, and, with an air
of importance, handed the lady a letter, staring inquisitively at her
haggard face as he did so. The letter was merely a friendly one from
her physician, in answer to her own, and said, among other things:
"Van Cassalear is in town. All my ingenuity was called into
action in the effort to answer his persistent inquiries in
regard to you. As glad as I am that you are so content, and
inured to human suffering as I am supposed to be, I could not
but feel a pang of sympathy for him. His state is a melancholy
one. The world has long since ceased conjecturing as to your
whereabouts. You are one of those privileged beings who are at
liberty to do and dare. Your mysterious disappearance is put
down with your other eccentricities."
Although, under ordinary circumstances, not a woman to care for a
pretext for anything she chose to do, she allowed the reception of this
letter to serve in the present instance as an excuse for her immediate
departure--for she had resolved to go away at once.
The surprise of Mr. Squires when her intention was made known to him
was great, and tinged with melancholy--a melancholy which his wife by
no means shared. But his feelings were considerably assuaged by the
check handed him by Nettie, for an amount far greater than he had any
reason to expect.
"I might 'a' got Rob to take 'em down to the station, if I'd a-known
it sooner," he remarked to his wife, in Mrs. Jerome's hearing, "but I
seen him an hour ago drivin' like thunder down toward Hingham, an' he
won't be back in time. I guess old Sal can drag the folks down to the
station, an' I'll see if I can get Tim Higgins to take the things.
Time I's about it, too. Train goes at one."
Mrs. Jerome went to her room and dressed herself in travelling attire.
Leaving Nettie to finish packing, she took her hat and went out and
down the road, walking very rapidly. All along the road-side August was
flaunting her gay banners. Silvery clematis and crimsoning blackberry
vines draped the rough stone walls; hard-hack, both pink and white,
asters and golden-rod, and many a humble, nameless flower and shrub,
filled all the intervening spaces; yellow birds swung airily upon the
purple tufts of the giant thistles, and great red butterflies hovered
across her pathway. She passed on, unheeding, until the grassy by-road
was reached, into which she turned, and stood for a moment on the
summit of the hill, looking down upon the Granger homestead. A woman
came out as she looked, and leaned over the flowers which bloomed in
little beds on each side of the door-way. Mrs. Jerome half turned, as
if to retrace her steps, and then walked resolutely down the hill and
up the avenue. The woman saw her coming, stared shyly from beneath her
hand in rustic fashion for a moment, and then ran into the house, where
she could be seen peeping from between the half-closed window-blinds.
As she came nearer the house, Mrs. Jerome slackened her steps. Her
limbs trembled, she panted slightly, and a feeling of faintness came
over her. The woman she had seen came again to the door, and stood
there silently as if waiting for the stranger to speak--a timid,
delicate young creature, with great innocent blue eyes and apple-bloom
complexion. The lady looked into the shy face a moment and came
forward, holding out her gloved hand.
"Are you Mrs. Granger?"
The little woman nodded, and the apple-bloom color spread to her
blue-veined temples.
"I am Mrs. Jerome," she continued. "You must have heard your--husband
speak of me."
"Yes," answered Mrs. Granger, simply, "I've heard tell of you."
Meantime she was studying her guest with innocent curiosity--the lovely
proud face, the supple figure, the quiet elegance of the toilet, with
all its subtle perfection of detail. It did not irritate her as it did
Mrs. Squires; it only filled her with gentle wonder and enthusiasm. She
tried at length to shake off the timidity which possessed her.
"You must be real tired," she said gently. "It's a long walk. Won't you
come in?"
"Thank you," said the lady. "I think I _am_ very tired. If you would be
so kind as to give me a chair, I would sit here in the shade awhile."
She sank into the chair which Mrs. Granger brought, and drank eagerly
the cool water which she proffered.
"Thank you," she said. "It is pleasant, here, very. How lovely your
flowers are."
"Yes," said Mrs. Granger, with a show of pride, "I love flowers,
and they always bloom well for me." She went to the beds and began
gathering some of the choicest. At the same moment, Mrs. Rogers came
through the hall. As she saw the visitor, her face flushed, and she
glanced suspiciously, resentfully, from Mrs. Jerome to her daughter.
The lady rose.
"It's Mis' Jerome, mother," said Ruby, simply, "the lady that stays at
Squireses."
Mrs. Jerome bowed, and a look of full understanding passed between the
two. Ruby, gathering her flowers, saw nothing of it.
"I am going away, Mrs. Granger," said the lady. "Circumstances require
my immediate return to the city. I came to leave a message with you
for--your husband, as he is not at home. Tell him I thank him for the
pleasure he has given me this summer."
"I'm real sorry you took the trouble to come down," said Mrs. Granger.
"It's a long walk, an' Squires could 'a' told Rob to-night."
"Yes, I know," said the lady, consulting her watch, "but I wanted a
last walk."
She held the little woman's hand at parting, and looked long into the
shy face. Then, stooping, she lightly kissed her forehead, and, with
the flowers in her hand, went down the grassy avenue, up the hill, and
out of sight.
Robert Granger came home late in the afternoon. He drove directly into
the barn, and proceeded to unharness and care for the jaded beast,
which was covered with foam and dust. He himself was haggard and
wild-eyed, and he moved about with feverish haste. When he had made
the tired creature comfortable in his stall, he went to the splendid
animal in the one adjoining and began to bestow similar attentions
upon him. While he was thus engaged, Mrs. Rogers came into the stable.
Her son-in-law hardly raised his eyes. She watched him sharply for a
moment, and came nearer.
"Ain't ye comin' in to get somethin' to eat, Rob?"
"I have been to dinner," was the answer.
"Rob," said the woman, quietly, "ye might as well let that go--ye won't
need Dick to-day."
Granger started, almost dropping the card he was using.
"What do you mean?" he asked, with an effort at indifference, resuming
his work on Dick's shining mane.
"The lady's gone away," said Mrs. Rogers, steadily watching him.
"What!" cried Granger, glaring fiercely across Dick's back. "What did
you say? Who's gone away?"
"The lady--Mis' Jerome," repeated the woman. "She come down herself to
leave word for ye, seein' that you wa'n't at home. She was called away
onexpected. Said she'd enjoyed herself first-rate this summer--an' was
much obleeged to ye for your kindness."
Granger continued his labor, stooping so low that his mother-in-law
could only see his shoulders and the jetty curls which clustered at his
neck. She smiled as she looked--a somewhat bitter smile. She was a good
and gentle creature, but Ruby was her daughter--her only child. After a
moment or two she went away.
When she was out of hearing, Granger rose. He was pale as death, and
his forehead was covered with heavy drops. He leaned weakly against
Dick, who turned his fine eyes lovingly on his master and rubbed his
head against his sleeve.
Granger hid his face upon his arms.
"My God!" he cried, "is that the answer?"
It _was_ the answer. It was all the answer Granger ever received.
He did not kill himself. He did not attempt to follow or even write
to her. Why should he? She had come and had gone,--a beautiful,
bewildering, maddening vision.
Neither did he try the old remedy of dissipation, as a meaner
nature might have done; but he could not bear the quiet meaning of
Mrs. Rogers' looks, nor the mute, reproachful face of his wife,
and he fell into a habit of wandering with dog and gun through the
mountains, coming home with empty game-bag, late at night, exhausted
and dishevelled, to throw himself upon his bed and sleep long, heavy
slumbers. Without knowing it, he had taken his sore heart to the surest
and purest counsellor; and little by little those solitary communings
with nature had their healing effect.
"Let him be, Ruby," her mother would say, as Ruby mourned and wondered.
"Let him be. The Grangers was all of 'em queer. Rob'll come round all
right in course of time."
Weeks and months went by in this way, and one morning, after a night
of desperate pain and danger, Robert Granger's first-born was laid in
his arms. Then he buried his face in the pillow by pale, smiling Ruby,
and sent up a prayer for forgiveness and strength. True, only God and
attending angels heard it, but Ruby Granger was a happier woman from
that day.
* * * * *
Mrs. Van Cassalear was passing along the city street, leaning upon
her husband's arm. It was midsummer. "Everybody" was out of town, and
the Van Cassalears were only there for a day, _en passant_. They were
walking rapidly, the lady's delicate drapery gathered in one hand, a
look of proud indifference upon her face.
"Pond-lilies! Pond-lilies!"
She paused. Upon a street-corner stood a sun-burned, bare-foot boy,
in scant linen suit and coarse farmer's hat. His hands were full of
lilies, which he was offering for sale.
Mrs. Van Cassalear dropped her husband's arm and the white draperies
fell unheeded to the pavement. She almost snatched the lilies from the
boy's hands, and bowed her face over them.
The city sights and sounds faded away. Before her spread a deep, dark
lake, its surface flecked with lilies. Tall pines bent over it, and in
their shadow drifted a boat, and an impassioned, boyish face looked at
her from the boat's prow....
"Six for five cents, lady, please!"
"Do you want the things, Helen?" said Van Cassalear, the least trace of
impatience in his voice. "If you do, let me pay the boy and we'll go
on. People are staring."
The lady raised her eyes and drew a deep breath.
"No," she said, "I will not have them."
She returned the lilies, with a piece of money, to the astonished boy,
gathered her drapery again into her hand, and swept on.