The judge was waiting for the steamer at Warwick Landing. Attired in
white duck, with his boy Pomp (Pomp was sixty) waiting respectfully in
the background, he was once more himself. As the steamer drew near, he
bowed with all his old courtliness, and he was immediately answered by
the agitated smile of a lady on the deck, who, with her shawl blowing
off and her veil blowing out, was standing at the railing, timid in
spite of her fifty-three years. It could be no one but Miss Leontine,
who had come over from Gary Hundred, with her maid, to pay a visit to
her dear Sabrina at Romney. The maid was a negro girl of thirteen,
attired in a calico dress and sun-bonnet; she did nothing save strive to
see how far she could straddle on the deck, whose flat surface seemed to
attract her irresistibly. Miss Leontine carried her own travelling-bag.
Occasionally she would say: "Clementine, shush! draw yourself together
immediately." But Clementine never drew herself.
The judge assisted his guest to disembark--she ambled across the plank,
holding his hand; they drove to Romney in the one-seated wagon, the
judge acting as charioteer. Pomp and the maid were supposed to walk.
"Clementine, whatever you do, don't cling on behind," said Miss
Leontine, turning her head once or twice unseemingly, to blink at the
offender. But Clementine clung all the way; and brayed at intervals.
The judge, in his present state of joy, almost admired Miss
Leontine,--she was so unlike Parthenia Drone! "Ah, my dear Miss
Wingfield, how changed is society in these modern days!" he said,
flicking the flank of the mule. "In my time who ever heard a lady's
voice three feet away? Who ever knew her opinions--if she had any? Who
ever divined, at least in the open air, the texture of her cheek,
modestly hidden under her bonnet, or saw more than the tip of her
slipper under the hem of her robe? Now women think nothing of speaking
in public--at least at the North; they attend conventions, pass
resolutions, appear in fancy-dress at Fourth of July parades; their
bonnets for the most part" (not so Miss Leontine's) "are of a brazen
smallness; and their feet, if I may so express it, are the centre of
every room! When I was young, the most ardent suitor could obtain as a
sign of preference, only a sigh;--at most some startled look, some
smile, some reppurtee. All was timidity--timidity and retirement."
Miss Leontine, in her gratification at this description of her own
ideal, clasped her hands so tightly together under her shawl that her
corset-board made a long red mark against her ribs in consequence.
As they came within sight of the house, a figure was walking rapidly
across the lawn. "Is that Mr. Singleton?" inquired Miss Leontine. "Dear
Nannie wrote that they would come over to-day."
"No, that's not Singleton; Singleton's lame," said the judge.
"And yet it looks _so_ much like him," murmured Miss Leontine, with
conviction, still peering, with the insistence of a near-sighted
person.
"It's a man named Watson," said the judge, decidedly.
Watson was a generic title, it did for any one whom the judge could not
quite see. He considered that a name stopped unnecessary chatter,--made
an end of it; if you once knew that it was Watson or Dunlap, you let it
alone.
In reality the figure was that of Paul Tennant. After reading Eve's note
he crushed the sheet in his hand, and turned towards the house with
rapid stride. There was no one in the hall; he rang the parlor bell.
"Do you know where Miss Bruce is?" he asked, when Powlyne appeared.
"In her room, marse, I spex."
"Go and see. Don't knock; listen." He paced to and fro until Powlyne
came back.
"Ain't dere, marse. Nor yet, periently, she ain't in de house anywhuz;
spex she's gone fer a walk."
"Go and find out if any one knows which way she went."
But no one had seen Eve.
"Where is Mrs. Morrison?"
"_She's_ yere, safe enough. I know whur _she_ is," answered Powlyne.
"Mis' Morrison she's down at de barf-house, taken a barf."
"Is any one with her?"
"Dilsey; she's dere."
"Go and ask Dilsey how soon Mrs. Morrison can see me."
Powlyne started. As she did not come back immediately, he grew
impatient, and went himself to the bath-house. It was a queer little
place, a small wooden building, near the sound. It seemed an odd idea
to bathe there, in a tank filled by a pump, when, twenty feet distant,
stretched the lagoon, and on the other side of the island the
magnificent sea-beach, smooth as a floor.