CHAPTER XXI.
HOW EASILY THINGS GO WRONG.
For the first time in her young life, Jess lies awake through all the long, dark, cool hours of the night. As a rule, her senses droop swiftly into the lands of dreams quite as soon as her dark, curly head touches the pillow. To-night the sweet boon of sleep is denied her for the first time.
She believes it is the great event of the journey which has unsettled her, for it is the first time in her young life, that she can remember, that she has been away from Blackheath Hall. Then she drifts into thinking of the handsome stranger whom she met at the gate, and still thinking of him, the long hours wear away at last, and morning breaks.
It is a hardship for Jess to lie in bed after the pink dawn has ushered in a glorious day, and, creeping silently out of her white nest, in which Lucy is still sleeping soundly, she is soon dressed and out of the house, exploring the grounds.
There is another one beneath that roof who is an early riser, and that one Mr. Moore, as he has permitted himself to be called.
Looking out from his window, in the dewy light of the early morning, he is amazed to see the lithe, slim figure of Jess gliding like a fairy vision among the great rosebuds of the old-fashioned garden.
And, furthermore, he is still more amazed to see her running over the diamond-incrusted grass bare of foot, swinging her shoes and stockings in her right hand as she hurries along.
Last night he had formed the opinion of the girl—that she had deceived him, when he had beheld her in all the furbelows of fashionable attire in which she had made her appearance at the farmhouse; now he realized that she was indeed a child of nature, with a heart as light and free as a bird’s.
He made haste to join her.
Jess was not aware of his presence, for she had not heard his step on the thick, green carpet of grass until a voice beside her said:
“Permit me to gather those roses for you, Miss Jess. The thorns on that bush are long and sharp; you will never be able to manage them, I am sure.”
A cry of dismay broke from the girl’s lips; down went the shoes and stockings all in a heap in the dew-wet grass.
For the first time in her life, Jess wished that the earth could open and swallow her, for, standing directly in the path before her, was the object of her thoughts, and he was looking amusedly down at the bare, brown feet, which the green grass seemed to part wide to display, instead of bending over and pityingly covering them from his sight.
For the first time in her life, Jess was covered with a strange, hitherto unknown, unexperienced, bashful confusion.
“I did not know that any one would be up for hours yet,” she stammered, gaspingly, thinking, shudderingly, of the awful bareness of those feet, and that she would give anything that she possessed on earth if she could cover them from his gaze—only cover them. A new, sweet shyness was coming over her. It was the dawning of womanhood breaking through the childish existence she had led up to the hour when she had first met the gaze of the man standing before her.
“Farm life means a life of early rising,” he returned. “They are astir in the house, all save Miss Lucy. She is rarely visible before eight, when half of the morning is spent, as I often tell her.”
To the last day of her life, Jess is thankful to him that he turned to the rosebush and began gathering roses, cutting them off with his silver penknife; and, as he cut each one, slitting off the thorns.
Jess never knew how she seized upon that moment of time to replace her shoes and stockings, wet though they were, and the next moment, when he faced about, instead of seeing the slender, brown feet among the green grasses, which he had been so eagerly admiring, he noted that they were now clothed; and he noted, too, that the girl’s face, as her eyes followed the direction of his gaze, was covered with confused blushes.
Handing her the roses, he said:
“Shall we saunter over the hills, or shall I take you for a little sail on a miniature lake which lies down in yonder valley?”
“Neither. I—I am going back to the house,” she answered, a little hesitatingly, “to—to unpack some books which I promised Mrs. Bryson I would read a little of every morning.”
“The books and reading can wait for an hour or two,” he urged. “This is too fine a morning to waste indoors. This is October, you know, and even in this sunny, Southern clime, it will not remain for long as delightful as it is to-day.”
The quiet mastery in his voice seemed to exercise a spell over her which she was powerless to shake off or combat, and when he led the way down the path, her feet involuntarily led her along in his wake.
It was but a short walk to the lake, and when they reached it, bathed as it was in the crimson light of the rising sun, Jess was enraptured at the beautiful sight which it presented, and with the glorious white water lilies which swayed to and fro on its glassy bosom, and the tiny, white boats moored here and there along its flower-bordered banks.
“I will go out for a row with you, if I may gather some of the lilies!” cried Jess, enthusiastically. “Oh, how beautiful they are—and, see, there is a bed of pink ones farther out.”
“The lilies are fair to look upon, but they are unattainable,” her companion answered, gravely. “They have cost every one who ventures near enough to lay hands on them their life. It appears that in their vicinity is an underground whirlpool, which draws down beneath the water’s surface, and probably far down into the depths of the lake, all who come within its reach. Therefore, I repeat, that one can admire the lilies, but they cannot be gathered.”
“The longing for them, while they are in my sight, and so near, will spoil the pleasure of the row on the water,” said Jess.
“You are like the moth who would flutter around the flame, although it knows that therein lies danger, a singed wing, perhaps death,” he said, slowly. “The lilies are not worth such a sacrifice.”
“I should not mind making it to possess them,” declared Jess, very coolly. “I should like to gather them, and surprise the folks at the farmhouse by wearing them in to breakfast in my hair and in my belt.”
An expression of deep annoyance crossed his fine face.
“Vain, and proud of adornment—at any cost,” was his mental comment, as he looked down at the eager, flushed face coldly.
“I dare you to row me out to them, Mr. Moore!” she cried, shrilly. “What do you say?”
Without a word, he commenced to untie the boat.
“You—consent!” cried Jess, excitedly, and with shining eyes.
“I will go for them, alone,” he replied, quietly, stepping into the boat, and with a dexterous movement pushing away from the shore almost before she could divine his intention.
“Oh, Mr. Moore, let me go with you, to manage the boat if—if it become unmanageable!” she cried, her face blanched to a whiteness rivaling the leaves of the snow-white lilies.
He shook his head emphatically.
“Can you swim?” called out the girl, as the little, rocking boat shot out farther from her over the glassy waves.
“No,” he answered, and that one brief word seemed to stifle and kill the beating heart in her bosom as it fell upon her ears.
Her great, dark eyes opened to their widest limit in horror too great for words.
“You cannot swim!” she gasped, faintly; then, in a fervor of frenzied terror, she called to him:
“Then come back. I do not want the lilies, indeed I do not.”
But if he heard, he did not heed her words, nor the gasping words which accompanied them.
Out over the water sped the tiny boat, with almost the swiftness of an arrow, under the measured strokes of his arms, while the girl stood on the green, mossy bank, with locked hands and beating heart, watching his every movement with terror-stricken conscience.
“What if I have sent him to his death!” she whispered, hoarsely, and in that moment the truth came to her—that this man, whose acquaintance she could count by a few, fleeting hours, was more to her than life itself. She had done as the heroine in the greatest book she had read had done—fallen in love; lost her heart to this handsome stranger at first sight.
“Oh, Mr. Moore, come back! Come back!” she called, shrilly, repeating: “I do not want the lilies; it was only a thoughtless, girlish caprice which prompted me to dare you to get them for me. Can you hear me?” And now her voice was raised shrilly in the most piteous agony.
But he never once turned back toward her, and the echo of her wild cries came back to her from over the dimpling waters and the forest trees that lay beyond.
On and on shot the little skiff over the sun-kissed waves, heading toward the fatal spot where the alluring lilies lay so white and pure on the bosom of the lake.
“Oh, merciful God! if he would but hear, and heed me!” sobbed Jess, wildly. “Why will he not?”
But the waves that babbled on the green, mossy bank at her feet, and the wind sighing among the boughs of the trees over her head had no answer for her.
Another moment and he would be within reach of the lilies. The girl’s brain reeled and a deathly faintness stole over her, as she watched every motion of the oars as they rose and fell, catching the gold of the sunshine and carrying it down with them into the water’s dark depth.
Standing there, with strained eyes, she saw him reach for the lilies: then—all in an instant—boat and boatman were suddenly swallowed up in the seething underground whirlpool, disappearing from sight, and not even a ripple marred the spot to show where he had gone down—down to death among the beautiful, shining, white water lilies that he had risked sweet life for at her command!