CHAPTER XXIII.
"POOR SUSAN!"
The subject of the foregoing discussion stole quickly and quietly up to her room, unconscious of the angry passions she had unwittingly aroused, intending to remain there till the people returned from church, when she would meet her mother surrounded by strangers, and so avoid the bad quarter of an hour which her conscience told her she ought to expect. She had scarcely removed her hat, however, when the door opened and her mother appeared, wearing a smile in which curious impatience mingled with complacent certainty. The worthy lady had very little doubt as to what she was going to be told, and was already congratulating herself on her good management and good luck combined.
"Good morning, mamma. How anxious you must have been! Did you think I was lost? But, to be sure, uncle Joseph's being in the same predicament would keep your mind at ease."
Margaret had run forward to embrace her mother effusively, and was speaking with unusual vivacity. There was so much to tell and so much to leave untold, without hesitancy, which might betray that aught was being kept back. She did not know how she was to manage, and like other timid things when they find there is no escape, she rushed at the danger as if she could encounter and overbear it. Anything seemed preferable to expectancy, cowering and waiting to be fallen upon and devoured.
Her mother submitted to be kissed. It was the morning routine-observance between her and her girls, but she had not patience for prolonged embraces on the present occasion.
"Tell me," she said, as soon as she could free herself from the importunate endearments; "has he proposed?"
"I almost think he has, to judge from his manner; and he looks so happy."
"You think? You do not know? Come, that is too ridiculous! What did he say?"
"I do not know what he said."
"You don't? And you call yourself a grown-up girl?... That I should be mother to such an ingénue!... You must be a fool!"
"You do not imagine he would propose in open meeting, do you? I only infer from her affectionateness to me when we were alone together last night.... We slept in a fisherman's hut.... But she did not exactly tell me anything.... And then he was so awfully attentive to her this morning; ... and they seemed to understand each other so perfectly, although both were rather quiet, and not particularly good company for the rest of us."
"Margaret Naylor! Am I to believe my ears? Do you mean to say you have let that Hillyard girl cut you out?... You grown-up baby! When I was your age, no girl should have done that to me--whether I wanted the man or not. It's a disgrace to your womanhood, and your upbringing--that means me--and your looks, and your spirit--if you had any; but you have none, or you would not have allowed it. The way that man stuck to you yesterday, and trotted away with you on that blessed island!... And you to let another woman cut in and take him away from you!... And people call you a clever girl! Hm!"
"But what was I to do, mother? I could not go in for him myself. I could not make him propose to me."
"Why not, pray? Is he not good enough for you? What do you expect? Is it a President of the United States you hope to captivate?"
"I do not understand. He could not have been persuaded to do anything so dreadful. And you, I am sure, whatever the surprise of this may have stupefied you into saying, you would not have me want to be my own aunt?"
"What do you mean? Whom are you talking about?"
"Uncle Joseph, to be sure. Whom else?"
"Joseph? You must be dreaming."
"I really think, however, he has proposed to Rose Hillyard, and been accepted."
"Impossible! Joseph marry! I never heard anything so preposterous."
"Nevertheless, you will see now. I am sure he is in love I do not think he spoke twice to me all the time we were upon the island--only to Rose, and once or twice, when it was necessary, to Wa--W--to Mr Wilkie, I ought to say."
Margaret started and grew pale as she spoke, but her mother was too intent upon the idea of Joseph's entanglement to observe the stumble.
"My dear, he was blighted some years before you were born. There was a time when I would have laughed at the notion of a blighted man. It seemed one only fit to exist in a novel. Even the novels, some of them, used to make fun of a blighted being. There was 'Mr Toots,' I remember. But in the case of your uncle Joseph, the thing positively occurred. His affections got a wrench some time very long ago,--I never heard the particulars,--and he has never got over it to this day. He might have had any woman in the country for the asking, any time these twenty years--till lately, at least, when he began to grow stout and grey, and, one would have thought, had given up all idea of that sort of thing. There never was as good and soft-hearted a fellow as Joseph, I do believe. You don't catch many of his fellow-men playing such games of constancy, I promise you. His heart must have been shattered. So different from other men's hearts, my dear, as you'll find out! They seem generally to be made of india-rubber--able to swell or contract any quantity, but there's no break in them. You may jump on them, if they will let you; but you will not crush or bruise them. Joseph is the exception to a universal rule--the best brother-in-law and friend that ever lived. But you will not persuade me that he would ask any one to marry him, after the dozen or more fine women I have seen throw themselves at his head; and he never knew it, I do believe. The idea of Joseph becoming entangled! There's no constancy in man, if it turns out that he has succumbed to a woman's wiles. If what men call their heart has begun to sprout again with him, it is an unbreakable article for sure.... But I will not believe it: it would spoil my ideal of a perfect love."
"Have you not noticed, mamma, how much he and Rose have been together?"
"Now you speak of it, he has certainly taken most unusual notice of her--for him, that is. But think of the disparity in age!"
"She saved him from drowning, remember."
"That is enough to account for their striking up a fast friendship. But she is no forlorn damsel, and no pauper, evidently. She may choose where she likes. Why should she take up with a man old enough to be her father?"
"I do not think anybody need look on Uncle Joseph as old. There are very few young fellows to compare with him for activity or strength, or niceness every way. And he is so well off, besides."
"That maybe it. Poor Joseph! To be saved from the sea only to fall into the hands of a designing fortune-hunter! But I hope you are mistaken. It would be too sad; it would be dreadful! And you and Lucy, my poor children, what a difference it will make in your prospects! You will have to stand on your merits now, if this should chance to be true. No longer the heiresses of wealthy Joseph Naylor!"
"That is no reason why Uncle Joseph should not marry. We have lived very comfortably on what papa left us."
"You do not understand yet. Wait till you go to Ottawa or Toronto. You will recognise the difference then."
"I do not want to stand on anybody's merits but my own. I think I shall be fond of Rose, after the first queerness of her being Uncle Joseph's wife wears off."
"You think so because you do not know the world. I know it, and I can tell you you are wrong.... If once that woman is married to your uncle, there will be no standing her.... And I won't!" And Mrs Naylor, flushing an angry red, turned and left the room. The impending danger to her own consequence had driven every other idea from her mind, and she went without one word upon the subject she had come to discuss--to wit, Peter Wilkie's attentions to her daughter, and how they had been received.
On the stair she met Joseph coming up as she went down. It required an effort to pull herself together and meet him as usual, but she succeeded; or perhaps he was too preoccupied to observe the constraint of her manner as she wished him good-morning and proceeded on her way. He turned in his course, and followed her into a parlour, empty like the other rooms at that hour, owing to the absence of every one at church.
She sat down in a large chair before the open window, with the shady gallery outside, and the fanning breeze blowing in from off the sea. He drew up the nearest seat and placed himself beside her, looking at his nails the while, but saying nothing.
She watched him from under her eyelids. It was true, then, she feared, what Margaret had been telling her, and it made her feel so angry and vindictive that she would not even help him out of the difficulty of breaking his news, by beginning the conversation. He sat, and she sat, but they did not speak. Those nails of his must have had uncommon attractions, or his thoughts had wandered away into pleasant fields, and he had forgotten that speech was expected of him.
She shuffled her feet beneath her gown and waited, growing more and more impatient. The front of her dress was agitated by the drumming of her slipper-toes, which would not keep still, yet proved an inadequate vent for the impatience which devoured her. It grew intolerable, at last, to have him beaming there upon his own finger-tips, and saying never a word. A red spot came in either cheek; and steadying her voice with a little cough into an uncertain tone, ready alike to grow plaintive or indignant as occasion should arise, she spoke at last--
"How did you contrive to be left behind yesterday?"
He started. His thoughts came back from their wool-gathering with a leap. "Very simply. We stayed too long, I suppose, on the other side of the island. Then the storm came on, and we took shelter in a fisherman's hut. We sent a man to bid the steamer people wait. When he reached the landing the steamer was gone."
"That must have been hours after we left. We got home before the storm overtook us."
"You travelled faster than the storm, then. It was quite early, I should say, when it came on us; though I cannot name the hour, having forgot my watch."
"Had nobody a watch? There were four of you."
"I do not know. The fact is, I was interested in other things."
"Such as--for instance----"
"Well, I was---- But really, Susan, I cannot speak of it in this cold-blooded way. The truth is, I--I have asked Rose Hillyard to marry me."
Mrs Naylor sat bolt-upright in her chair, and turned to look at him, with the red spot burning in either cheek. She lifted her hands, but whether she intended to clasp them or to do something else, was not apparent. His unabashed assurance seemed to petrify her, for though her lips were parted she did not speak.
"And she has been so kind as to say yes.... Wish me joy, dear Susan, of my happiness. It is more than I can believe to be possible." Before she could protest, he had taken her hands in his and shaken them, and was imprinting a kiss upon the flushed place on her cheek.
"Let go, Joseph! You will suffocate me. This is more than---- This is something---- You must be out of your senses."
"Very nearly, Susan. I am the happiest man alive!"
"She is not half your age."
"She is twenty-five."
"And you are forty-seven. May and December! How can you possibly get on together?"
"Where love is, Susan, what else matters?"
"At your age, Joseph, you should have more sense than yield to such raptures. You must know you are talking nonsense."
"Come! you know better than that. It is your commonplace worldliness that is nonsense; and you know it. You were once a bride yourself."
"I was young then, Joseph. We get sense--or we should--as we grow older."
"Rose is young. Why may she not have fresh true feeling, just as you had yourself?"
"But has she? Does she go into raptures as you do, I wonder?"
"One would not like a girl to display her feelings too openly before marriage. You would call it boldness."
"Has she any feeling to display? Can we expect her to have that kind of feeling for a man who might be her father?"
"My dear Susan, time will show. I bring love to the union enough for both, and it will be strange if I do not make her happy. If you knew the story of my youth--which you do not, and it is not needful that you should--but you have known my later life; how I have been alone while others have been making themselves tender ties and households. Do you think it can be anything but dreary to feel that you have no one to call your own--that you can shelter your whole family under your hat-brim?"
"What of your nieces? What of poor Caleb's children?"
"You know I am fond of them, Susan. I do not think you will accuse me of being a neglectful uncle or brother-in-law."
"And yet you are going to cast us off, and put this stranger in our places."
"Not in your places. Why should it make any difference between us? The girls like her."
"That only shows their innocence and ignorance of the world, poor things."
"I do not see it, Susan. If it is their prospects you mean, they are independent already; but you may rest assured they will both come in for a slice, when my belongings come to be divided."
"There! It only wanted that!" cried the sister-in-law, seizing the opportunity to let off steam in a burst of indignation. "It only wanted insult to heap upon the injury. You must fling your testamentary intentions in my teeth, as if I were a mercenary person, in case I should not feel crushed and humbled sufficiently under your latest whim! Have I failed to keep up the family respectability and position as I should? I am growing too old, I suppose, to be the Mrs Naylor of Jones's Landing. Somebody younger must be found to lord it over the people, and turn their heads with follies and expensive notions they cannot afford; and I am to be the neglected dowager living in retirement with my fatherless girls.... But she shall never have it all her own way, Joseph Naylor, if I can help it; and if she has, it will be still worse for you!" And so saying, Susan got up and flung out of the room, retiring to her chamber, where a full hour elapsed before her heat subsided, and she was able to see how foolish and unreasonable, not to say imprudent, she had been.
Joseph, as was natural, saw it at once, but he was too happy to be easily annoyed. He rose as she did, stepped out on the gallery, and so away, merely whispering to himself, half aloud--
"Poor Susan! It must be a disappointment, and hard to bear. But she is not half as bad and worldly as she pretends. She will be ashamed and sorry enough when next we meet. My cue is to forget this little tantrum altogether."
CHAPTER XXIV.
"THEY MET, 'TWAS IN A CROWD."
It was long before Gilbert Roe could go to sleep, and the occupants of adjoining chambers had abundant opportunity to sympathise with him. He could not rest peacefully in his bed, and was driven to get up and pace his room after his neighbours had retired. He thought he would smoke, but could not find a light, so groped his way down passages and staircases, where only a lamp was left burning here and there, stumbling over boots at bedroom-doors, and arousing echoes in the slumbering house, to ask for matches from the night-watchman. Returned to his room he could not sit and smoke, but must go out upon the gallery, marching up and down through the night-watches, till every sleeper lay awake counting his footfalls and wishing him a cripple. Towards morning he succeeded in growing drowsy, and turned in, and this time slept till it was late. Maida joined him at the breakfast-table, wishing him good morning with an easy intimacy of proprietorship, which provoked him for some reason which did not appear. However, her company was a relief after the weary solitude of his midnight vigil, and in spite of himself he relaxed and grew sociable.
"Come to church, Gilbert?" she said, when breakfast was over; and he, having nothing better to do, consented. They walked leisurely along the sands, as did also a good many of the younger company, who objected to being mewed up in an omnibus.
"Let us step out a little," said Gilbert, "and join those folks in front."
"It is too warm for stepping out much," she answered. "We have a long walk before us. If we hurry we will be flushed and crumpled, and not fit to be seen, when we go into church. And it is a close little place at the best."
"Never mind. We can stop outside when we get there; but let's be cheerful in the meantime. I see Miss Deane in that crowd on in front. Come, let's join them."
"Oh yes! and that little Fanny Payson you were so set on dancing with last night," Maida answered, a little crossly. "You'll have to take to surf-bathing if you want to get in with that crowd. I think them real frivolous, myself, and mighty conceited and stuck-up. My father might have been a senator too, by now, if he had lived. He ran for Congress the year I was born; and if he did not get sent there, it was none of his fault."
"Never mind, Maida; you may go to Congress yourself yet, when the woman's suffrage law passes. But you must take to wearing glasses"--she had dropped using her goggles, I must observe, since Gilbert's appearance--"to show that you have intellect. Intellect, short-sight, and high culture, all run together, like a three-abreast Russian team. If it wasn't for their short-sightedness they would drop the high culture altogether, for they would see it don't pay in this country. We have only a few professors and scientists all told, you see. Three or four dozen women could marry them all, and the rest of the men don't care to be kept humble all the time, by living with wives who know more than themselves. That's why so many spectacled women go lecturing. It's because nobody wants to marry them."
"To hear you talk, Gilbert, one would say you were just dreadful. You do not really mean, I'm sure, that you believe a woman makes a better wife for being ignorant or a fool. What companionship can there be between an intelligent man and an empty-headed doll? And perhaps you are not aware, but it is a fact, that the most successful female lecturers are married women; and very poorly off their families and invalid husbands would be, if they could not earn money that way."
"Maybe, Maida; I do not know from personal knowledge. I do not attend many lectures, and I never heard a female lecture in my life; but if you think the average man don't like what you call a doll--which, I suppose, means a nice, soft, pretty little thing, who believes she is not clever, and lets other women trample on her, as regards science and things--you never were more mistaken in your life. Lots of smart men find them the best company in the world; and--well--I know for a fact that a woman may be no end of smart, and the very best of company, though she don't read poetry, and knows nothing about the 'ologies.'"
"Natural intelligence, you mean, without any advantages of education. To be sure, you find that in many a farmhouse--the kind of woman who scrapes and saves to send all her sons to college, and sees one of them elected President of the United States, and has her likeness in all the illustrated papers. But if she had had culture, think what such a woman would have become!"
"She would have become a female lecturer. The men would have been afraid of her. She would never have been married, never had a son, and never got her likeness into the magazines as mother of a President. When men marry, they hope, at least, to be boss at home: and few have the conceit to tackle a female steam-engine, expecting to be able to break her in to quiet paces."
"But in cities you want culture to keep up your place in the community. A poorly educated woman must be a drag on her husband's social advancement."
"Not a bit of it. Our first families in Chicago and elsewhere, in this country, and in every other, are noways remarkable for culture. Sometimes it's money raises them, sometimes it's because their fathers were of first families before them, or their friends. Culture may help now and then--it's a distinction in its way, just like beauty or talent; but there must be money, you bet! You country folks talk a heap of nonsense about the help culture is, to rising in the world; so do the newspapers, though they should know better. They think they have it themselves, you see, so they crack it up for their own sakes."
"Oh, Gilbert! I am sorry to hear you speak like that. You used to think very differently."
"Because I did not know any better, and I believed what I read in print. We're not a highly cultured lot in the cities, I can tell you--we successful folks, I mean. How could we be? It takes all we can do to keep ourselves ahead of our neighbours. If we were to divide ourselves between business and politics, or business and culture, we would have to take a back seat in the community. It is not so much special talent that is wanted, for getting on, as entireness. A man must pour his whole self into the one groove, if he is to make a hit. The whole of a very ordinary fellow is more, you see, and therefore surer to win, than part of one of your superior people dabbling in half-a-dozen different pursuits. Remember that, when you come to many, Maida; and if you want to stand high, choose a man of one idea, and that one his business."
"I know better than that, Gilbert," Maida answered, looking up in his eyes with a fond but rather watery smile. She felt wounded by the advice, but she took comfort, in that he was by her side while he spoke, and could not mean it. It was only a man's thoughtless speech--his rough way of being playful. For had he not kept faithful through ten long years--long after she herself had ceased to expect or hope? Had he not come back to her? and was not his presence the strongest refutation of his worldly and cynical words?
And now, having gained, unconsciously to Maida, upon the party whose appearance had started their discussion, she found they were abreast. Gilbert drew towards them, leaving her somewhat apart, as if he would join them.
"Good morning, Miss Deane," he said to Lettice, who was next him.
"Good morning, Mr Roe," she answered very coldly, passing behind Walter Petty immediately after, and becoming engrossed in conversation with Lucy Naylor, who walked on his other side.
Gilbert bit his lip, and Maida could not forbear a smile, to see with the corner of her eye--for she would not turn her head--his chilling reception by those he had been so eager to overtake, as if in preference to her own company. They were all in close discussion now, and completely ignored his presence. The distance widened between him and them, while Maida walked straight forward; and not being minded to walk alone, he was compelled, with something of a crestfallen air, to return to her side.
Maida was not ill-natured. She betrayed no sign of having perceived his discomfiture, and exerted herself to talk in a livelier way than her wont, till he should recover from his mortification. She felt that she was generous in doing this, and the neglect of the others seemed to bind him to her by a rivet the more; so that her spirits rose, and completely shook off the depression which his seeming weariness of her company had been bringing on. He felt grateful in his turn that she should so well cover his retreat, and enable him to bear up under the snub he had been subjected to; the consequence being that they reached Blue Fish Creek on terms of demonstrative good-fellowship, sang from one hymn-book in church, and walked home by the sands again in cordial intimacy.
"Jest look at them two interestin' young things!" Mrs Denwiddie observed to her neighbour, as she pointed them out from the omnibus window. "Ain't they fond, now! It makes me feel better to look at them. It's kind of hard, you see, for us worldly-minded Americans, sometimes, to believe about Adam and Eve and their innocent ongoings mentioned in Scripter. There's nothing makes me so 'feared of turning into one of them sceptics the ministers are so down on, as that history; when I see the way young men and gals get on together, with never a thought but dollars and cents and sich. 'There ain't one of them as 'ud eat an apple as he knows'll disagree with him, jest to please his Betsy, nowadays,' I thought. But there!--you see an instance of what faithful love'll do. Jest look at them on the sands there, wanderin' along! They might be babies gatherin' shells, with their little spades in their hands."
"Do you mean the Montpelier schoolma'am?" the friend replied. "'Pears to me always like as she was jest vinegar--with her blue glasses and her knitting. I see she has left the glasses at home to-day--guess it's to get a better look at her young man. Wonder what he thinks of her? His taste must be pecooliar."
"They're true lovers, them two, believe me, Mrs Strange. If they ain't, there's none sich. It's more'n ten years since they were engaged, and he's been away all that time, to make his pile, and she's been a-waitin' and a-workin' till he could come back to her, and never a complaint. It's not a week yet, since she told me all about it, and not a man would she listen to, in all that time, out of pure faithfulness."
"There's few would try to shake her constancy, I'm thinkin'," said Mrs Strange; but her companion was too busy talking to heed her, and continued--
"Think of the young man keepin' her image before his mind's eye all them years! and the world so full of gals, and temptations of all kinds."
Lettice Deane, returning home in the same omnibus, sat opposite. She raised her eyebrows, looking in the speaker's face, her nostrils quivered, and the corners of her mouth, and then she buried her face in her handkerchief and laughed silently; or, at least, so thought Mrs Denwiddie, who returned her look with one of blackest indignation, calling her, in her own mind, "A sassy brat, and that stuck-up as no self-respectin' woman would demean herself by taking account of."
And the modern illustrations of Adam and Eve walked cheerfully homeward along the sands. It was indeed Eden to one of them--an Eden such as she had never hoped to enter, so bright that she could not think what she had done to earn it. As for the other, it did not appear exactly what were his thoughts, but he was cheerful, and perfectly kind and attentive to his companion.
At dinner, Gilbert and Maida were early in their places. They had earned an appetite by their long walk, and were duly hungry. Gilbert's soup was before him, his spoon was lifted half-way to his mouth, when the voices of a party in high spirits entering the room reached his ear. The tone of a familiar voice among the others drew his attention, and he raised his eyes. Senator Deane and his wife headed their party, advancing up the room; behind came Lettice and Rose Hillyard. Gilbert started, and the spoon slipped from his fingers and fell back in the plate with a clatter which resounded through the room.
Rose's eye was drawn in the direction, and she saw him. She grew pale to the lips and faltered, with a stop and a half-turn, as though she would leave the room; then her colour flooded back and mounted to her brow, her lips grew hard and set, and with a flash of the eye she turned away her head and walked proudly forward to her place; taking care that her back should be turned to the object which had disturbed her.
Gilbert's blood had rushed into his face when their eyes met, but he grew pale when she turned away, and he did not very speedily recover himself. His soup was taken away untasted, and he refreshed himself with ice-water instead.
Maida was filled with tender solicitude, and he would have been overwhelmed with her inquiries and suggestions, if he had been attending to what she said; but it scarcely seemed as if he were. "Was it a qualm? Was he faint? Did he feel better now? Perhaps his heart was weak, and he had over-exerted himself in the sun. She would never forgive herself for taking him so long a walk. Would he not try some wine?" which last was an ill-advised question, seeing they were then in the State of Maine, where strong drink is not partaken of in public. Not that an innkeeper's guests must go without--far from it; but they must imbibe their stimulants sub rosâ, though the concealment is merely of a conventional kind.
Gilbert ate very little dinner, and poor Maida never taxed her skill to interest and enliven, with less success than during that meal. Her companion attempted to eat one thing and another, and he drank ice-water, but he had become deaf as the adder which refuses to hear the voice of the charmer. He parted from her at the dining-room door, saying he would go in search of brandy, as he really felt ill; and Maida ended the Sunday which had begun so brightly, in solicitude and wretchedness. She might have had as much sympathy as she pleased from her elderly friend, but the unending Denwiddie babble was more than she could endure. It was easier to be alone and nurse her anxiety. There was a foreboding on her spirit which she could not define, a clouding over of the future and its dawning hopes, which she felt but could not explain. Nothing had happened, so far as she knew, but she felt a frost in the air, which had been so warm and bland, and it was nipping the blossoms in her poor fool's paradise.
CHAPTER XXV.
ROSE AND THE RING.
When Rose was left alone with Margaret in the fisherman's hut, she sat down upon a bench before the fire and gazed into the embers, falling into a reverie in which ideas not all pleasurable chased each other as fitfully as the leaping flames which licked the new-laid log, as if searching for a spot on which they might fasten and take hold. Her companion sat by and wondered at her silence. She had been so gay a little before, while the men were still with them, and now her lips were tightly closed, and there came an angry frown upon her brow. That changed into a look of triumph and disdain, which faded in its turn into one almost soft and pitiful; and that in time gave place to one of sadness, and she sighed, and her features fell into the desponding look of one who bids adieu to hope. She moved impatiently, as if to shake off brooding thoughts which were settling down to oppress and stifle her--as some stricken animal might struggle to beat back the greedy kites swooping down to tear their prey, ere death had prepared the feast. She roused herself with an effort, and turned to speak.
"You have had a good time, Margaret, have you not?"
"Perhaps I might say the same to you, Rose. You were very long of returning from your stroll. But I will not deny that I am glad we missed the boat."
"You might tell a blind man that, my dear. The rest of us can see it. I admire your taste. He is a good fellow, I am sure, and handsome; and devoted too, if signs tell anything."
"We have known each other all our lives--at least, since I was quite a little girl. It must be five years that we have known one another now."
"A long time."
"But you will promise me, Rose dear, not to say anything to anybody when we get back? Nobody knows that he came here. Still, Uncle Joseph is here too--my guardian as well as my uncle, you know--and you are here, another girl to keep me in countenance, so there is nothing Mrs Grundy can disapprove. If he and you had not joined us, I should not have missed the steamer, you may be sure; or if I had--but that is no matter.
* * * * *
"Mamma is very fond of him, you must know--or she used to be. But she is afraid of our becoming engaged, and she has been bothering, ever since we came to Clam Beach.... Uncle Joseph is safe, I am sure, though he will not acknowledge that he approves. I know he will not cause trouble. So it all rests with you, dear. Promise me. You will not make mischief? A careless word might do it, you see. But you will forget his being here? It is Jake's boat, you know, we are to go home in tomorrow morning.... He is a fisherman, you know, who fortunately was here when the storm overtook us."
"I know, dear. We won't spoil sport, I promise you; and we will help you all we can--all I can, I ought to say. What right have I to promise for your uncle? I am talking nonsense. What help can I--I declare my mind is astray--I must be growing sleepy. Let us see how we are to dispose ourselves for the night. They are to call us at daylight, you know, and it must be late."
Margaret had shot an intelligent glance at Rose when that "we" slipped out unawares. Her lips parted in a smile at the endeavour to correct it. She understood it all. Rose changed colour, though she said nothing more; but both were unwontedly affectionate when they said good night, and composed themselves to sleep.
The early morning saw the party afloat again on the bay, under all the sail their boat would carry, making straight for Lippenstock, and in the best of spirits. Even Peter Wilkie was gay; there was breakfast in prospect, and a bath, at Lippenstock. As for the others, the present was enough, and they did not waste thought upon the future: cutting smoothly through the glassy tide which babbled at their prow, fanned by cool airs, and seated where it was best to be, exchanging short sentences in undertones, with long and pleasant gaps of silence in between. If any brow betrayed a line of discontent, it was Blount's. Things had not ended altogether as he had hoped or wished. When he had hired Jake and his boat, he had thought that perhaps he should meet Margaret wandering by herself, that he might persuade her to an elopement, and sail away; and this was all which had come of it. They were sailing, indeed, but the "away" was only for Margaret, while he, "poor devil," as he told himself with deep compassion, must stay behind at Lippenstock. However, there would be other chances, more excursions and merrymakings at which he might surreptitiously assist, and some time win his point. She was worth it, as he told himself, lying gazing up in her face, while her eyes roved idly across the dancing water; and even if it should come to her mother's ears that he had been on the island that night, the news would aid his hopes, rather than hinder. It would incite her to worry the girl worse than ever, and Margaret was not of the kind to be worried for long. There was the look in her nostril of one who could take the bit in her teeth and bolt, if fretted too far by injudicious reining.
Rose and Joseph sat behind the other two, Rose calmly, even impassively perhaps, accepting the assiduous little cares of which it seemed as if Joseph could not lavish enough. At last he took her hand, lying nerveless on her lap, and began to examine it.
"Take off your glove, dearest," he whispered; "I want to measure your finger. How can I feel secure of this treasure I so little deserve, till I have fettered it with a link? When I see my ring upon your hand, I shall feel better assured that we are indeed engaged."
There came a line of faint contraction between her eyebrows, which was scarcely a frown. It may have been mere impatience, or perhaps it was dread or remorse.
"Not now," she said abruptly, withdrawing her hand and looking away to the harbour, which was wearing near. "My glove is tight; my hands feel hot and swollen this morning. Another time," and drew a quick short breath which seemed half a sob. Then turning round to him, as though she feared he might feel vexed, she added, with a doubtful smile, "There's time enough, you know. We shall be at the wharf before I could draw it on again;" and then, hurried and constrained, plunged into voluble expression of such commonplaces as occurred to her.
Joseph felt chilled, though he told himself there was no ground for feeling so. It seemed as if the first thin cloud had come between him and the sun, the sun so lately risen, in whose beams he had been warming his poor starved heart. He had little to answer to the commonplaces; they ran themselves out ere long, and both were lapsing into silence when they reached the shore.
The party of four which drove from Lippenstock was not a very talkative one; in fact, if the truth were told, all were more or less sleepy. The hour was still on the early side of noon; but when the day begins between three o'clock and four, for persons whose waking hour is seven--when those persons, instead of breaking their fast when they get up, spend hours in the keen morning air and on the water before breakfast, a heaviness supervenes, and the system of the individual makes it late in the day, however early be the time which the clock may indicate. Wilkie, as was not unnatural, began to feel the expedition something of a bore. He had not been admired so much by the ladies, or consulted by the men, as to compensate for irregular meals or hours, and indifferent repose on the open shore. Margaret had parted from Walter, and for her the pleasure was over--something to remember and think about, but all of the past. Rose was pensive and very still, though it did not appear from her behaviour of what nature were her thoughts. Joseph was yet under the influence of that chilling sensation which had fallen on him in the boat--a creeping melancholy which stole on him in spite of every consideration which good sense could suggest, the reaction perhaps from his transports of the night before. He found himself sinking into despondent broodings, from which every now and then he would awaken with a start, and tip up his horses with an unnecessary flick of the whip. How much these dumb servants have to bear from the wayward moods of their masters, and how many an unmerited cut descends upon their patient sides!
Rose spent the remainder of the morning in her room, sitting listless and despondent where she had sunk on entering it. There was no eye present before whom she must hang out the veils and disguises of conventional life. Her head hung forward on her breast, her hands lay folded on her lap. The light had faded from her eyes, her features were drawn and set, and she looked as unlike a promised bride, a woman who, of her own free will, has accepted an offer of marriage, as it was possible to imagine.
The man was all she could desire, she told herself. The disparity in their years did not once present itself to her mind. She felt very friendly to him, liked him, respected him; but she could not love. "Could she ever love any one?"--that was the miserable thought which rose before her mind; and she was no inexperienced maid whose heart still sleeps, to fool herself into the belief that such liking as hers was the mysterious visitant she had read about in books, and awaited to descend and stir the waters of her being. It was duty, not love, which she was taking to her breast. She knew it, and looked forward to her life in the greyness of the coming years with an overflowing sense of pity. But she did not falter or think of drawing back. No; she would go on with it, and do her duty, and no one should ever know. But it was pitiful, all the same; though it must be--for she would have it so. Here in her solitary chamber there needed no disguise; and she looked hopelessly around her, wondering if there could be any escape, or if this weary part she was undertaking to play would last for long. It might last for fifty years, she thought, looking down at her hands. How shapely and strong they looked--so firm, and with so full a tide of vigorous life tingling in every pulse! And the ring--she remembered the morning's episode in the boat. It was not there yet; the jeweller had not begun to make it. How it would scorch, that little hoop of gold and brilliants, and confine and shackle her! There was respite for the present, but it would not be for long--and she scarcely desired that it should be.
The gong sounded sooner than she could have believed. She must go down and face the world again, and play her part; but there was consolation even in this. It showed how quickly time could wear away. The years, be they ever so grey, would run their course with the same even and imperceptible current, and there would be an end at last. She rose to resume the armour of conventional life. She bathed her temples, smoothed her hair before the glass, and arrayed herself as usual; and when the next gong sounded, she was once more her ordinary self--bright, proud, and confident, without a sign of care, or seemingly a wish left unfulfilled.
The Deanes had heard of her return, and were awaiting her in the drawing-room to go down to dinner. Lettice and the rest bantered her on her escapade.
"Staying out o' nights, Miss Rose," the Senator cried, jocosely. "And without a latch-key! What next?"
The next, for her, was to meet Gilbert Roe's eyes looking straight into her own. It was like the sudden onslaught of an ambushed foe, on a band marching in careless order. They form square if they can, and stand to their arms. It was well for her she had so recently looked to her armour. The shock to her nerves was severe, but her spirit rose in defiance. She recovered, without betraying herself before the crowded room, and was more than usually gay all through dinner. It was a relief, however, when the repast was ended, and she could saunter with Lettice along the sands away from curious eyes, and feel at ease.
"What a shock it must have been to you, Rose! I meant to have given you warning, but you came down so late, and the old folks were so hungry and impatient, that there was no chance.... However, you bore up splendidly--and now, it is over."
"Yes, I am glad it is over; and glad I did not know beforehand."
"If he is a gentleman, he will go first thing to-morrow morning."
"It is no matter whether he goes or stays."
"To think of his assurance! He came to me in the parlour, last night when I was dancing, to ask if you were here."
"Yes?" and there was a tone of softening in Rose's voice as she said it.
"But you may be sure I gave him no satisfaction."
Rose sighed a little, but not audibly.
"This morning, again, when we were walking to church, what does he do, do you think, but join me?--which, after the setting down I had given him last night, was really more than a girl could be expected to stand."
Rose looked interested now and softened. "And? Well?" she said.
"Well, I just treated him as he deserved; would have nothing to do with him; got round to the other side of my escort, and ignored him altogether."
Rose's sigh was audible this time.
"But you need not pity him, Rose, dear; or not much, at any rate. He is not inconsolable; and, what is better, he has a consoler. And such a one! You could not imagine an odder belle for the dashing Bertie Roe we can remember. He is no longer hypercritical as to good looks, I can tell you."
"Who is it?"
"Whom would you suppose? You know the washed-out little Yankee schoolma'am with the blue goggles? That's her!"
"You must be mistaken."
"So I was sure myself, at first. But no. I came home from church in the omnibus, and an old thing sat opposite me, who takes a most motherly interest in the pair--a friend of the schoolma'am. You should have heard her talk about them! It was just too altogether rich and comical. She says the sweet young things have been faithfully attached for the last ten years. To think of Bertie's constancy, you know! And they are going to be married. And in the meantime they spend their time gathering shells and grubbing in the sand together, for she mentioned their having little spades."
"They are most welcome," cried Rose, impatiently. "Do not let us bother about them any more." There was an angry colour in her cheek, and fire in her eye, and the sound of her voice grated harshly.
Lettice began to wonder if her story had been judicious, or well-timed. She was Rose's stanch friend and partisan, willing to do or think whatever Rose might like best. It was in espousing Rose's side that she felt hostile to Gilbert; but she began to doubt, now, if what she had been telling appeared to Rose as droll as to herself. And yet every one said that Rose had such a sense of humour!
There was silence between the friends. They no longer sauntered, but stepped out quickly, Rose hurrying the pace with strides of varying length, till Lettice had difficulty in keeping up with her. Each fibre of her frame was strung into fierce activity. She even snatched the fan, hanging idly from her waist, as if its dangling were a provocation. She opened and closed it rudely once or twice, till some of the slender ribs gave way and got entangled; then, with an impatient gesture, caught it by both ends and broke the thing across, and flung it from her. And then she stopped, with the empty chain between her fingers, and turned to her companion with a short, dry laugh.
"You will say I am in one of my tempers, Lettie, dear. You are good to bear with me.... You are out of breath, too. Come, let's walk slower. I have something to tell you."
"Something nice, Rose? What is it, dearest?"
"Pray, not that tender sympathetic tone, Lettice, 'an you love me,' as they say in the theatre, or you will drive me wild. What is there to condole about?... Nothing that I can see. If people who are strangers to me--whom I have said a hundred times I will have none of--want to marry, what is it to me?"
"Nothing, dear, nothing," Lettice answered soothingly. "Nothing whatever to you."
"It is less than nothing; for I am going to be married myself--at least I am engaged. Wish me joy, dear. You are the first to be told."
"You are? I knew you would be, from the first. You liked him the first day you saw him. Indeed I wish you happiness. I am quite sure you will be happy, dear." And they embraced; or Lettice did, at least. Rose submitted rather than joined in the caress, and there was a look of deep self-pity in her face, as if she doubted about the happiness which her friend foretold. Her eyes moistened, and then, with a start which was half a sob, she recovered herself, and put her arm through her friend's, and turned homewards.
"And how did it happen, dear? Tell me all about it."
"The usual way, dear; though people do say these things are never done twice alike. You have some experience, yourself, about it, I fancy; though you are so good to the poor fellows, that you never betray them, or divulge their disappointment."
"It is bad enough for them to be refused, without being laughed at into the bargain.... But tell me about the accepting, at least. I have no experience of that. Is it not hard to say yes, and not feel the least bit ashamed of one's self?"
"One does not remember one's own part in the tragedy so well. One grows bewildered at such a time. I am not sure that one knows exactly what one says or does. But the gentleman seems to understand. That is the main point."
"And what did he say then?... I declare, Rose, you are telling me nothing!"
"He said scarcely anything. I did not think a man could say so little, to mean so much. It was the way he did it--the way he was so still--the sound of his voice--his touch. He meant it all, Lettie, so deeply. It was in that he was so strong. One seemed to feel it in the air about him. It was overwhelming. And oh, dear, I feel so small and worthless beside the earnestness of that man's love! I feel humbled, I am so little worthy of love like his."
"The proof that you are worthy, is his having given it to you.... I declare!" The last exclamation had escaped her involuntarily. Her roving eyes had alighted on the figures of Gilbert Roe and Maida Springer together upon the sands at a distance.
Rose lifted her eyes from the ground, which they had sought while she was making her confidences, and turned them in the direction to which Lettice was looking. She saw, and the view communicated a shock, which thrilled through all her frame. Again her colour rose, and her teeth were set, and she grasped the arm of her friend. The pathetic drooping of her eyelids had vanished, and the lights beneath them flashed like living coals. She said nothing, but she quickened her steps--they had turned, some time before, when her mood had changed from fiery to pathetic--and now they were back within the shadow of the hotel, extending itself to the eastward and the south as day declined.
Upon the gallery, along beyond the entrance, she saw Joseph Naylor, with his feet on the balusters and his chair tilted back, a newspaper before him and a cigar between his teeth, enjoying the tranquil afternoon. "I shall go in now, Lettice, dear; but do not let me drag you indoors so early. There is something I wanted to mention to Mr Naylor, and there he is, above and disengaged."
Lettice strolled away and soon found other company. Rose hurried forward alone, her eyes still flashing and her cheek aflame. There was no one on the gallery but Naylor, no one on the ground below looking up or taking heed; the moment was as private as though they had been again on Fessenden's Island.
"I fear I vexed you this morning in the boat," she said, coming upon him unexpectedly where he sat.
He looked up from his paper, let it fall, and sprang to his feet, throwing his cigar away. "Impossible, my dearest, even if you were to try. You have made me the very happiest man alive."
"But I was cross, though I did not mean it, and refused to take off my glove. It is off now. There!" and she held out her hand. "I have been looking for an opportunity to make it up. I was sleepy and out of sorts, I think."
"No wonder, with no bed to sleep in last night. But do not dream of apologising. You shall be cross with me whenever it so shall please you, and not a word to be said in amends when you are minded to relent."
"You will spoil me; it is not safe to be too worshipful with women. There is the finger you were good enough to want to measure."