CHAPTER XXVI.
THE MOTHERS.
Joseph was a happy man that evening. He was going to testify for the first time the pride and glory within him, by presenting a cadeau to his promised bride. How should he contrive that it might be rich and rare enough to express his worship, and be worthy of the object? Could he have fetched down a star--one of those which last night had beamed so kindly on their espousal--that might perhaps have been enough; but less than a star out of heaven seemed all inadequate. The writing-room of the hotel was too open and profane a place for him to sit in, while he indited his order to Tiffany the jeweller, for such a purpose. He made them carry store of stationery to his room. And then about the post. Did no mail go out to-night? The clerk reminded him rebukingly that it was Sunday. They never sent to the Junction on Sunday nights, and no one in serious-minded New England would wish them to do it. "Ten dollars for a messenger to go at once," was Joseph's sole reply, as he followed the stationery to his room, to be overtaken before he had gone many steps by the porter and the bell-boy, both eager to break the Sabbath at the price he had named.
Senator Deane, lounging by the clerk's desk, turned to Mr Sefton with a remarkably knowing look. "Canada Pacific. You bet! Something up. Telegraph clerk away for the day. Something important."
Sapphires, diamonds, and precious stones danced before the mind's eye of Joseph Naylor. How pale and small and poor they seemed to him! How could enough of them to testify his love, be collected on so trivial an object as a finger-ring? "Spare no expense," he wrote, offering an unusual price, and expressing his willingness to double it if needful. "Only let it be the best." The ring from Cleopatra's finger would have been too poor. And so the order was sent, and Tiffany of New York, having assured himself of the writer's sufficiency, sent a clerk with designs to wait on so lavish-minded a client.
The clerk arrived in due time, was closeted in long consultation, and on leaving could not but mention to the clerk of the house the princely order he had taken. The house-clerk listened with pride. It was a credit to Clam Beach; and in fancy he saw scores of fashionable damsels arriving with heaps of luggage, all hoping to be objects of a like munificence. He mentioned the circumstance, in confidence, to each male guest who came to him for cigar-lights; the males, as was to be expected, repeated it to the females, and soon there was not a soul in the house who had not heard the news. It was the common talk with every one but Joseph. He, good man, never doubted the closeness of his secret. He had not breathed a word, but to his sister-in-law, and she would not circulate the report. She had been behaving to him like an injured woman ever since his telling her; but she had not lost hope, he suspected, promising herself, on the contrary, that it would end in nothing; and therefore would not help to assure it by spreading the news.
Those were happy days for Joseph. What plunging in the early bracing surf! What morning walks upon the sands! What shady lounges in the afternoon! And then the cheerful evenings in the parlours, or the quiet of the galleries on starlit nights! He was with her continually, drinking in sweet influence from her presence, and striving to attune himself to her changeful moods.
Yes; her moods were certainly becoming very changeful--liable to abrupt transitions from a stillness which seemed almost despondent, and so different from anything he had seen in her before their engagement, to a gaiety which at times grew feverish and even forced. She had grown restless, too, of late, unable or unwilling to remain long in one place, or engaged in one pursuit. Suddenly, in the hottest of the afternoon, she would start up and rouse her drowsy intimates to play lawn-tennis; and ere the game was half played out, she would declare herself sick of it, and beg some bystander to take her place.
Joseph looked on in tender sympathy. It was what was to be expected, he told himself, and would soon wear off. The free young life was chafing at first beneath the yoke she had herself assumed--the filly, unbroke to harness, was galled by the collar; but soon she would settle down to steady running. He must humour her for the present. And what delight there was in doing it! And she was always kind to him, and showed that she appreciated his thoughtfulness and forbearance by many a grateful look and little speech. He only wished that he had more to bear and to do for her sake; he was so richly rewarded when the humour changed, and her mood became remorseful. Then, as if she could not sufficiently express herself to him, she would relieve her feelings by caresses and endearments to his nieces. She was fast friends with them now, especially with Margaret, even to the length of exciting a little pique in Lettice Deane.
And Margaret had need of sympathy and backing, and all the friendship she could secure. Her mother "was going on just dreadful," as she expressed it with more force than elegance to her sister Lucy, who, however, observed a judicious neutrality, agreeing so far with the maternal desire to settle Margaret in Toronto, as being a much jollier place for herself to live in than Jones's Landing.
Mrs Naylor's perturbation of spirit on receiving her brother's intelligence lasted two full days, during which there seemed nothing else worth thinking about. The world itself seemed coming to an end, and what did anything matter? After that, it began to occur to her that there were other interests in life--her own, for instance. If Joseph was going to bring home a wife to Jones's Landing, the place would be insupportable. She must remove to Ottawa or Toronto; and that she might do her duty there in bringing out Lucy properly--so she phrased it to herself in summoning her moral forces to her assistance--it was indispensable that Margaret should have an established position. With that, it began to strike her that Wilkie no longer hovered near them, and that Ann Petty was become the recipient of the attentions which last week had been bestowed on Margaret. His mother, even, it almost seemed, had begun to hold aloof; and yet the supposition was too preposterous. That a half-bred old thing like that, should think to take up and lay down at pleasure, her--Mrs Naylor of Jones's Landing! What were things coming to? The creature must have heard of Joseph's fatuous engagement--the mercenary, horrid, vulgar old woman! And she was vulgar. Mrs Naylor saw it clearly enough now, though last week she had looked quite kindly on her social solecisms as being so racy and original. But at least she was not so crushed and humbled yet that "the Wilkie woman" might trample on her with impunity. The creature should have a lesson, if Mrs Naylor could give her one, and be taught her place. To think that a Naylor--a daughter of hers--should be trifled with and all but compromised by a--a what was she to call him?--a clerk in a public office--something not much better than a schoolmaster--merely because she, the mother, had kindly taken some notice of him! That nice quiet young Petty must be brought on, if only to show the futility of such an idea. Encouragement was all he wanted, and Margaret should give him that, or she would know why. She did not blame the girl now for being impervious to the other--indeed, his mother's impertinence had made her glad of it--but she would insist on her being civil to Petty. There must be no more nonsense. As for the old woman, she must have it out with her, and let her know her place.
An opportunity arose in the heat of the afternoon, when some irrepressibles of the younger set played lawn-tennis, and such of the elders as were not asleep looked on. The shade at that hour was confined to a limited space, and thither the lady spectators carried their camp-stools, and pressed one another more closely than the state of the weather made quite agreeable. Mrs Wilkie was the last to place herself, and it happened that she took ground at Mrs Naylor's side, who had planned her place nicely, to be in shadow, and yet be the last of her row, so as to be free at least on one side.
"Mrs Wilkie?" she said, turning in surprise and displeasure, which she made no attempt to conceal. "Would you not be more comfortable farther back? It is less crowded, and the shadow is broader."
"I'll do," Mrs Wilkie answered determinedly, unfurling an umbrella, which interfered considerably with Mrs Naylor's view. "If people would sit closer, there would be room enough. I see no reason for leading people to sit behind, and those of no poseetion at all taking room for two."
"But your umbrella intercepts any little air there is."
"I need it to keep off the sun."
"I declare I shall suffocate! Pray take it down."
"I won't! Why should I? Sit behind there; or go round to the front of the house. You'll get it all to yourself."
"Really--Mrs Wilkie--but what else can one expect?" and she sighed with contemptuous resignation.
Mrs Wilkie bridled, with a little snort, moved her stool an inch or two nearer, and held the umbrella in provoking proximity to Mrs Naylor's eye.
"These promiscuous gatherings are dreadful," moaned Mrs Naylor. "This is the reward one may expect for not taking care whom we allow to slide into our intimacy." Then, in a very superior tone, she added, "I must beg of you to put down that umbrella."
"You may beg till you're tired, ma'am; my umbrelly is going to stay as it is. To hear some people, out of little, country, back-door settlements! Ye would not think that it was a shanty among the stumps, they lived in at home. The pint of an umbrelly needn't trouble them so much. Does she think people are to be put about by sich as she? Her and her daughter setting up to trifle with gentlemen of intelleck and poseetion, forsooth! Yes, ma'am, ye may look! and be as mad as ye like. It's shame ye should be thinking of yourself and your girls--two sassy, underhand, designing brats!"
"My good woman, what can you possibly know about me and my daughters? Were you ever in your life under the same roof with gentlefolks, before you came to Clam Beach?"
Mrs Wilkie grew hot with indignation to hear herself addressed as a "good woman." It is a mystery to the male mind why this should be so, but it is undeniable that when one lady is minded to put the last indignity upon another, she speaks of her as a "woman." The only analogous trait--and we commend it to those with a turn for natural history--appears in coloured circles, where, as the most crushing retort in a scolding-match, the disputants are wont to apostrophise each other as "you black nigger." But this is digression.
Mrs Wilkie grew hot and indignant at being called a woman. It confused and silenced her. The thread of her ideas was broken, and she was not equal to a prompt rejoinder. But she was not going to give in on that account--being, indeed, more angry than before. It was to avenge a slight to her son that she had started on the war-path, and now the insult to herself added fuel to her wrath. She pressed her lips tightly together, and moved closer to Mrs Naylor, as the readiest way of being provoking.
"Where are you crushing to?" cried the other. "Would you force me into Mrs Petty's lap?" and then, after a pause, "unmannerly woman!" This time the word failed of its effect. "Woman" used as a missile is no better than a bomb-shell or a torpedo. It goes off but once. It passed unheeded, and Mrs Wilkie rejoined--
"You're great upon the manners to-day. Ye'll be making manners to Mrs Petty, as ye made them to me wance, to try if ye can inveigle her son into the clutches of your little-worth daughter?"
"What do you mean?" cried the other, angrily.
"Just what I say. But ye may save yourself the trouble. The girl's well able to fish on her own account. She has a beau of her own on the sly. What do ye think of that? I thought I'd make ye wince, for all your airs and pretensions! She had a young man waiting for her on the island. And never said a word to ye about it, I'm thinking? And then, to have the assurance to take Mr Wilkie away stravaiging with her, like a toy dog, before the eyes of all the company! Ye may well start and look affronted."
Mrs Naylor did start, but the assault was so outrageous that she could not but show fight.
"Your son was disappointed, I presume, that he could not have Miss Naylor's undivided attention; and so, when he comes home, he circulates idle tattles to her disadvantage. Is that conduct becoming a gentleman? I should say it was an act of the kind of person whom gentlemen call a cad."
Peter Wilkie, who had heard his mother's voice wax louder, looked round to where they sat. The angry looks of both ladies told him all. He hastened towards them, and if anything more had been needed to incriminate his poor old mother, her guilty and frightened looks at his approach would have sufficed. She pressed her hand to her side and rolled her eyes.
"Your palpitations, mother?" he said. "You have been exerting yourself in the heat. Come up-stairs to your room and lie down." He gave her his arm, and led her away looking like a bold child detected in a misdemeanour. She did not appear again in public till the cool of the evening, when she presented a penitent and crestfallen aspect, very different from her warlike demeanour on the tennis-ground.
Mrs Naylor's spirit sank almost as rapidly as her foe's. Now that the stir of battle was at an end, she could sit and make up her list of killed and wounded. Whether the enemy had taken flight or been withdrawn from the contest, this was a grievous blow which she had dealt at parting. She had been pluming herself on her skilful management of Margaret's affairs; and it now appeared that she had managed nothing, and the objectionable attachment was like to be too much for her. But the girl should not have her way, if she could help it. She would keep a sharper eye on her than ever. It was that pernicious young Blount's going away which had thrown her off her guard. But her eyes were opened now, and she would watch; and meanwhile she would rate Margaret soundly, and bring her to a sense of the turpitude of her behaviour.
She did so, and Margaret had to expiate in much weariness of spirit her happy little outbreak on Fessenden's Island.
CHAPTER XXVII.
AN OBDURATE DAUGHTER.
Margaret had a bad quarter of an hour that afternoon, when the lawn-tennis was over. She felt no misgiving as she went up-stairs. The danger had been got over, she thought, on Sunday morning, when her mother started off in full career upon the other scent. What a happy circumstance was Uncle Joseph's engagement! She positively loved Rosa now for having accepted him. And Rose herself was so dear a girl, the very nicest aunt whom Joseph could have found her; binding him closer to them, if that were possible, instead of estranging him as another might have done. It was therefore an altogether unexpected shock when her mother, following her into her room, closed and fastened the door, and in a voice which shook with anger, demanded of her what she meant.
"Mean, mother dear? I do not understand you."
"You know perfectly what I mean, you double, deceitful girl!"
Margaret understood now. The tempest, delayed for a while, was upon her. She hung her head, and bent like a willow before the blast.
"You may well cower," her mother cried, pacing up and down. Her spirit boiled, to think that she had been so duped--she, the wise one, the manager--and she could neither sit nor stand still, in her vehement indignation.
"That I should be mother of a girl whose name can be mentioned as I have heard you spoken of this day! Shameless, deceitful, unwomanly--oh!" Words failed her as she stood with clenched hands and eyes of wrath, which might have turned the other to stone, had she dared look up and meet them.
"Say that it is not true! Tell me that woman has lied!--that there was no man with you on the island but your uncle and her detestable son!
"You do not answer me? Speak! Let me hear that there is not a word of truth in her horrid insinuations. I will even say that I am not sorry you would have none of such a woman's son;" and here her voice veered round into the minor key. "I shall not press you to think of him. His mother is no better than a common scold. Do you hear me, Margaret?
"You will not speak? Is it that you cannot deny the scandalous things she has been saying?--that you could plan a surreptitious meeting, upon a lonely island, with a man?
"What will people say? It could have been but a chance that your uncle was there to save appearances. Have you no thought for your character? Is every scurrilous beldame to bandy your name about?--and have the right to do it? Have you no womanly pride? and will you drag your innocent young sister in the mire with you?--and your too trusting mother? What have we done that you should expose us to public scorn?
"Ah me! that I should have lived for this! How could you do it? To dig your mother's grave before her eyes! Say that you did not mean it!--that it was thoughtlessness!--that you listened to the voice of a tempter!--that you will not do it again! He is a serpent, Margaret.
"You do not answer me? Ah! my poor heart! How it throbs!" and she pressed her side, and sank into a chair. "You will kill me, Margaret, with shame and grief. A mother cannot survive such undutifulness. My blood will cry at you from the ground! What peace can you ever hope to know, when you have killed your mother?" and here her handkerchief came into use. She covered her face and sobbed.
Margaret was greatly moved. Her eyes were full. She durst not speak, even if she would; she must have broken down had she attempted it. She was distressed to see her mother shedding tears. To be threatened with her early death was terrible. She would do anything to calm her--anything else, at least, whatever it might cost herself. But she had given her promise to Walter--poor Walter! whom her mother used to be so fond of. How could she take it again? It was no longer hers. She could only stand in despair and shame, and see her mother weep herself back into composure.
Mrs Naylor's composure returned all the sooner, that nothing seemed likely to come of her having yielded to her feelings. She pulled the handkerchief from her reddened eyes, and with a concluding sob which was partly a sniff of impatience, put it back in her pocket.
"I declare, Margaret," she cried, "you are harder than flint! One might as well cry at a slate roof as you. It just runs off without softening you in the least. You are obdurate. You have no feeling, and no heart. The momentary indulgence of a headstrong whim is all you think of. Consequences to your family, or even yourself, you never dream of considering. But you shall not ruin yourself, however much you may desire it, even if I have to lock you up. You will please to understand that you are to remain by me from this time on, and not to leave me without permission. You have made me ill enough with your undutifulness to enable me to tell people quite honestly that I am poorly, and need your care. Now, understand! If you leave my side without my sending you, I shall follow and bring you back before the assembled company; and I fancy, although you are impervious to higher considerations, you will not wish to be the laughing-stock of the hotel. If you leave me, I shall come and fetch you back, and there will be a scene, I promise you.
"Now do not stand there biting your lips in dumb rebellion; I am not done yet. I do not insist on your encouraging Mr Wilkie; in fact, after the setting down I have given his mother, I do not suppose he will venture to intrude on us. But mind what you are about with young Mr Petty. I will not have him repulsed or trifled with. It was pitiful to see how forlornly he crept about the steamboat on our return from the island, after your outrageous behaviour in leaving him all alone. If he should be willing to overlook the slight, I insist on your behaving properly to him for the future. With his talents and his interest, he will be Attorney-General one day; so mind what you are about."
Margaret felt too well sat upon to venture a reply. She had dared say nothing while her mother held forth at large, and now that she had talked herself out of breath, she feared to tempt her to break out anew; but like others who have been silenced without being convinced, she only wanted time and opportunity to return to her old paths. Though sat upon, she was neither broken nor crushed. It is a state of things which in the present day is not unfrequent. Rulers having grown to take things easily, allow the subject to have his head, until he goes too far. Then they put on authority with a spurt, find it irksome to themselves, and take it off again too soon. It is only systematic repression which need hope to prevail, and the arm which applies that, must never grow weary or relax.
Margaret sat disconsolately at her mother's elbow that evening, and felt like a martyr, while her fancies flew away in pursuit of Walter Blount. "Poor fellow! he was thinking of her, no doubt--walking the streets of Lippenstock, and feeling so lonely. How dreadful this separation must be to him! But she would be true. She could never love another. She would not try. She would never marry any one else, however they might try to force her. No; she would pine--she was sure she would--grow pale and thin; and nobody would mind her after that. By-and-by she would grow old, and have poor health; and she would still be single, with nothing to think about but her own faithfulness, and how happy she might have been if her misguided friends would have allowed it. And then her mother would be sorry, when it was too late; but she would forgive her, and tend her declining years to the last. What a beautiful touching martyr life it would all make! but so terribly dull." She pictured to herself a desolate hearth, with not a creature to keep her company but a stupid cat upon a footstool blinking at the fire, and herself in spectacles and a cap, knitting or making clothes for the poor, beneficent to everybody, but sadly moped herself--and all for Walter! She grew consoled in thinking about it. It was as good as a play--at least a dull one. The others were beginning to dance, now; but she would not dance, though her mother had given her leave when Walter Petty came to ask her. She had a headache, she said; and now she knew she must refuse every one else that evening. What of that? It was making a sort of commencement of the life she saw in store for her in the future. Poor girl!
A mood so doleful does not last, however, when we are young and healthy. It grew tantalising to Margaret to see the others enjoying themselves, and made her feel neglected; and she welcomed Rosa when Joseph brought her to sit beside his family, and accustom Mrs Naylor to the prospect of a sister-in-law. The jeweller's clerk having divulged that he had ordered a magnificent ring for a lady, it was useless to affect reserve. He accepted the people's congratulations calmly, as his due; and his sister-in-law, making a virtue of necessity, endeavoured to do so likewise. Mrs Deane was in the little knot by Mrs Naylor's sofa--good-natured people who did not believe in her ailments, but had no objection to humouring her, and found the fixed centre of an invalid's couch convenient in that fortuitous concourse of atoms. Mrs Naylor engrossed herself with Mrs Deane, Rose's chaperon, that her feeling towards Rose herself might be less apparent. It was oppressive to go on talking pleasantly to one whom she would have liked to address in quite other terms, had it been permissible. Wherefore Rose fell out of the conversation and turned to Margaret, with whom she had more in common.
"How are you here, Margaret? You have neither sung, played, nor danced. What is the matter?"
"Mamma is poorly. She needs some one by to fetch her smelling-bottle and keep her company when other people go away." She said it with much sobriety and demureness of manner, but the act of saying appeared to dissolve the little which remained of her self-restraint. She bent forward and took Rose's hand, adding in an undertone, "She knows. She has been told about the island. She is coming between us. Wants to break off everything. But she can't! I will not give him up. I will have nothing to say to any one else. Oh Rose! what am I to do? I cannot live if I do not see him sometimes. What shall I do?"
Rose's eyes were roving far away, as were her thoughts; she was looking over Margaret's head, as Margaret leant forward and whispered. By a distant doorway stood a group of men, and her eyes turned dreamily and of themselves in that direction. The group parted to let two ladies enter, an elder and a younger one. The latter addressed a gentleman in passing, and carried him away between herself and her friend from his fellow-loungers. Rose coloured and started, then, meeting Margaret's look of surprise, she controlled herself--
"Forgive me, Margaret. My thoughts were wool-gathering; I scarcely caught your words."
Margaret repeated her words without surprise. She had observed how absent-minded Rose had grown, her varying moods, her starts and flushings, and sudden growings pale; but then she was engaged to Uncle Joseph, and doubtless these were symptoms of the delightful malady she laboured under herself, though she hoped that she concealed her own little tumults of the spirit more successfully.
Rose was all attention and eager interest now--quite vehemently interested, it really seemed.
"Your happiness for life is at stake, Margaret. I will not stand by and see you robbed of the man of your choice. And he is so nice! Joseph thinks all the world of him, I know. I see Joseph coming this way. We must devise something for you. My own idea is that you should get married at once. It will be easier to reconcile your mother afterwards. But here he is."
Joseph sat down beside his affianced, and she was so eager to speak to him that he was delighted. He too had observed her fits of absence, and had attributed them to the same cause as Margaret; but he wondered that they did not begin to subside as the idea of her engagement grew familiar. She was eager enough now. How pleasant it was! And it was in Margaret she was interesting herself, which was "nice" in her.
Mrs Naylor observed the eagerness, and was disgusted. It was positively indelicate, she thought, for a girl not yet married to make such open advances before a roomful of people. "Poor Joseph! What a fool he was! And how he would suffer for it by-and-by! A bold, forward girl!"
Joseph and Rose went on talking, regardless of that same Susan and anything she might think. Joseph was averse to interfering; but Rose talked him over, which, as this was the first time she had asked him to do her a favour, was not difficult. And then, his views on many subjects were different now from what they had been not long before. True love had grown more precious in his eyes, and poor Susan's wisdom perhaps less so, since she had expressed her disapproval of his matrimonial scheme.
"Well, Margaret," he said, sitting down between her and Rose, with a hand laid upon the hands of each, "we have made up our minds to help you if we can; but I think you should try and get away quietly, and avoid fuss. I will try and smooth matters with your mother after you are gone. So try and manage it quietly."
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THEY HAVE IT OUT.
The next three or four days produced nothing remarkable. Margaret remained in close attendance on her mother, who did her best to make her feel like a naughty child. Her only solace was Rose's sympathy; but notwithstanding it, she felt at times most dreadfully wicked, and always depressed and contrite. Only the thought of Walter's loneliness at Lippenstock kept her true; and she did contrive to send him little notes, and to receive through Rosa notes in return, notwithstanding the sharp eye which her mother kept upon her movements.
Rose herself continued feverish and uncertain enough to occasion surprise to all her friends. She, so light-hearted and brave, so bright and clever--that she should appear in the character of tremulous and wistful maid, on the fulfilment of what had seemed her dearest wish! She was as kind and intimate with Joseph as ever; and he told himself that he had nothing to complain of, that he must remember their difference in age, and that with time they would grow nearer to one another. But still he felt a barrier between them--a reserve which all his ardour failed to surmount--an unresponsive silence when his raptures strove to fit themselves to words, which chilled him in spite of his assurances to himself that all was well. In desultory conversation she would be as bright as ever; but as he strove to lead up to converse more close, he found himself checked he knew not how; for she did not repulse, she only failed to respond. Her favourite topic to converse on was Margaret's attachment: on that she would warm even to enthusiasm, and run on at any length, till he almost felt it in his heart to grow jealous of his favourite niece.
Lettice Deane was the only one who had a clue to Rose's strangeness. She felt sorry for her and greatly surprised, blaming Roe, notwithstanding her declaration that he was nothing to her; and vowed that his conduct in hanging on at the Beach, was ungentlemanlike, and altogether abominable.
Roe himself seemed as feverish and ill at ease as the lady. He took little interest in the society of the other men, and seemed to submit to the company of Maida rather than court it. Maida felt that he was growing moody on her hands, and that their intimacy was not progressing. "Yet why did he stay on?" she asked herself. "There was no one else in the house for whom he seemed to care." She must learn to be more devoted and winning, she thought, and get over this constraint on his part, which she felt was growing up between them; but she did not see very clearly how she was to set about it. He detested forward women and bold women--he often said so--and was severely critical when they sat together on the galleries looking down on the young people upon the sands, who, after the manner of their kind, had a way of assorting themselves in couples as they took their evening strolls.
It was arranged that on a certain day there should be a "clam-bake" on the sands at Blue Fish Creek. It was to be an affair on a gigantic scale. The keepers of half-a-dozen establishments along the coast had got it up. Bushels innumerable of clams were to be roasted around a huge bonfire; an ox was to be roasted whole; and the seaside visitors, cloyed with innkeepers' fare and indoor luxury, were for once to dine uncomfortably on the sands, upon slices of half-raw beef and platefuls of scorched shell-fish. As a slice of lemon gives savour to insipid veal, so a rough and indigestible banquet in the open air revives a relish in jaded guests for the daily superfluity of everything, which hotel dinners provide. There was to be a dance in the town hall afterwards, and the company would drive home in the dark. All Clam Beach was to go, as a matter of course; even the valetudinarian Mrs Naylor resolved to venture. Margaret took care that Walter should know, and--for why indulge in useless mystery?--they were to make their push for freedom on that return journey.
The affair came off as designed. The weather was propitious, the guests hungry, in high spirits, and more numerous even than had been expected. They seated themselves in parties on the sands. The Naylors and Deanes naturally sat together, along with the Pettys and Wilkies--Ann Petty beside Peter Wilkie, and Walter Petty next Margaret; Ann feeling a little ashamed and altogether proud, at having, as she thought, taken away the other's young man; while Walter, poor lad, confronted Peter in triumph. His fortunes, he felt, were mending. The two mothers cast glances of wrathful scorn at each other between the legs of the black waiters running assiduously round within the ring. It was the only amusement open to them at their time of life, in the intervals between plying knife and fork.
Margaret, looking over the people's heads, descried far away the manly form she most desired to see. Her plot was going to work, but meanwhile she must take care to lull suspicion in her mother's mind. The way to do that was being civil to her companion. She exerted herself and made the poor lad really happy--feeling ashamed and burdened the while, at her appalling treachery, and really sorry for the young fellow, who was so kind and nice, and who admired her so openly.
At length the repast was ended. Everybody had eaten as many clams as seemed expedient. The company rose up and sauntered away, leaving the waiters free to clear off the relics of the feast. Joseph took Rose's arm and drifted apart from the rest as quietly as he could contrive. It was not to eat shell-fish in public that he had consented to dine uncomfortably on a sandheap. Rose would have been content to be less exclusively private, and looked round to see if she could not beckon Margaret to join them; but Margaret, between Walter Petty and her mother, was walking another way, so she accepted the inevitable with a good grace, and strove to interest herself in her companion. A few wind-bent trees maintained a struggling existence not far off upon a slope of sun-parched turf coming down upon the shore, with morsels of grateful shade; and thither they bent their steps.
"I am glad that part of the enjoyment is through," Joseph was saying. "It gives one cramps all over, that sitting on the ground all crumpled up, and eating things. But apparently there must be eating, if it is a party of pleasure."
"Please, sir, there is a parcel for you at the kitchen tent--sent on as you ordered. The man says you must sign a receipt." It was a waiter who spoke, puffing and fanning his shining black face, and grinning with all his teeth, while he held his hand convenient for the expected tip.
"Ha! Come, has it?" and Joseph smiled in return, slipping the dollars in the ready palm, and dismissing the messenger well pleased.
"Let me settle you comfortably beneath yon tree, dearest; and then will you excuse me till I run after the fellow? I shall not be a minute gone. You will wait for me there, will you not?"
"Go back at once; I can do that much for myself, and will wait there as you say."
And so they parted, Joseph making all haste in one direction, while Rose walked leisurely forward in the other. She had almost reached the trees, her sunshade open before her, her eyes upon the sand.
"At last!" and a figure stood between her and the light. "I have been waiting, Rose, for a chance like this."
Rose started at the voice. A thrill ran through her, and the sunshade fell aside, as though the arm which held it were benumbed. Immediately in front of her stood Gilbert Roe. The flaming red and white chased one another across her face, but her eye looked steadily in his.
"Sir!" she cried, with indignant emphasis; but she said no more, her lips closed tightly, and her eyebrows straightened in a frown.
"They tell me you are going to be married, Rose? You must hear me this once. I am resolved to have it out with you."
She threw back her head, and her nostrils quivered in pride. The angry blood suffused her temples now; there was no paleness and no sign of fear. "Allow me to pass," she answered, haughtily.
"Not till you hear me, Rose. I mean to save you from yourself."
"What right have you to interfere with me?"
"The strongest; the right of one who loves you."
"You have no right! The law denies it. It gives me freedom. You shall not interfere."
"Calm yourself, Rose. I cannot live without you. And more, you never will be happy but with me."
"Bah! you are too long of finding it out. I am free, and I shall keep my liberty as far as you are concerned. I have tried you, and know you to my cost. It is over now. The law has cried quits between us."
"It cannot, Rose! Think of the old time in Canada!--the evenings when we sang together, and talked in the porch--the walks between the corn-fields--the afternoons in the orchard--and the promises we made. Can you ever forget them?"
"How dare you remind me of them? Have you no decent shame? You might wish the ground to open and let you through, rather than hear those old days named, and be reminded how you have outraged a trusting girl!"
"I have been true to my vows, Rose. I make no merit of it; I could not have been otherwise. It was my glory and delight to fulfil them."
"And you did it admirably! certainly. It was in fulfilment of them, I suppose, that you made fierce love to that silly Horatia Simpkins, under my very nose, and before the eyes of her own husband? If it had even been a handsome woman, or one not absolutely a fool, the slight might have been less unpardonable. But with her!"
"What else could I have done?--the way you went on with her husband--that conceited ass Rupert. Would you have had me stand by, like a gawk, with my thumb in my mouth, assenting to your outrageous flirtation, which nearly drove his poor little silly wife out of her wits with jealousy? She is not as clever, perhaps, as you are, but at least she is fond of her husband!"
Rose coughed impatiently and stamped her foot. The adversary must be admitted to have scored one by that thrust.
"Is a woman to give up the amusements of social life--the little conventional pleasantnesses of society--because she happens to have lent a too trusting ear, and yielded to the man who wanted to marry her? Does she grow plain and old and stupid from the day she becomes a wife? Is she no more to find pleasure in being liked and admired? Life is not over when she comes back from church: she is still as human as she was before--wants a little of the diversions she has learnt to like, and needs a continuance of the devotion her suitor taught her to expect. You are hideously jealous, Gilbert. You should have been born a Turk, with a harem built out in the back-yard, beside the chicken-house, to lock up your wife in."
It was the first time she had used his name. Gilbert noted it and took courage.
"You know you wanted me to be jealous when you took up with that ninny--and you wanted to tease his wife. You succeeded. She thought you had stolen her husband's affection--or what represents it, in him--and she was not going to submit quietly to the robbery. She thought to make reprisals, and so laid siege to your husband in return. I am not sure but she got the revenge she wanted. You cannot deny that you were absurdly jealous."
"Absurdly? Yes; laugh at me! I deserve it for allowing you to address me. You consider me a fool. You have said as much before, and you said other things as well, which were even worse. You insulted me with suspicion, and used expressions as if I were improper. You know you did! Bertie Roe!... You never loved me really, I do believe--not as you made me expect you would--not as a girl should be loved, who gives up her life and everything to be married to a man. You behaved like a barbarian! Deny it if you dare!"
"I do deny it, Rose. Could I stand by and see you play the fool with a contemptible duffer, before the eyes of all Chicago?--see people in ball-rooms and theatres follow you with their eyes, nudge each other, and exchange glances, and shrug, as if to say, 'another young wife taking the turn downhill'?"
"You are insulting!--but I might have expected it. 'Cruelty and desertion' were the words in the decree."
"I dare you to lay your hand upon your heart and say that I was cruel. I merely remonstrated--and then you scolded.... You know you did, Rose. You made home unbearable. I had to leave the house."
"You outraged my feelings. Was I to accept your insinuations of improper conduct as a polite compliment, or an everyday commonplace of domestic conversation?... You did not strike me, I admit--the man in you would restrain you from that; but you did worse!--the things you said."
"Could I see people taking away your character by a shrug without giving you warning? Could I tell you about it, as something amusing and to your credit?"
"It was yourself who goaded me on to do whatever I did. And then to insult and desert me!"
"I did not desert you. I merely took rooms down town, leaving you in sole possession of the house until you should come to your senses.... You did not believe that I had deserted you; but you wanted to make me beg pardon and come back as if I had been to blame."
"And so you were to blame! The Court has decided that, and granted me my divorce."
"And has your divorce, then, made you happy? Would you have filed your petition, if you had expected to have it granted? You thought I would have come and prayed you to withdraw it. I let you take your course. Was I wrong?"
"You knew you had no defence--had no case to plead--that I was right. You let judgment go by default."
"Did you imagine that I would plead?--have all our little altercations, which would have sounded so pitiful in Court, raked out and exposed before a crew of newspaper reporters, to be read and chuckled over by the people going home in the tram-cars? Did you imagine that I would attempt to keep you bound, if you wanted to break loose from the marriage tie? I would not have you, if I could, against your will."
"You are very magnanimous, and I--of course I am the opposite--everything bad, and frivolous, and foolish. I wonder you should have troubled yourself to address against her will so poor a creature."
"I have been waiting here all these days, Rose, in hopes of getting speech of you. You are not bad, or frivolous, or foolish. You are the only woman I have ever cared for, or ever shall. We have been--not very wise, shall I call it?--headstrong and obstinate, and neither would give in; and both, if I may venture to say it, have been miserable in consequence. Forget and forgive, Rose. Let's try again, begin the game anew, and profit by sad experience. It is for that I have been waiting here--to prevent this marriage of yours, if the people say true, which will make both you and me miserable for ever."
"You are kind; but do you not exaggerate? My marriage at least will not leave you inconsolable. You have secured the consoler already. I wish you joy of her. May she make you as happy as you deserve, and----" But here, to her own astonishment--for Rose had felt proud of her bravery and calmness throughout the interview--there came a spasm in her throat, which choked her utterance. The corners of her mouth began to droop, and her eyes sought the ground.
"Do you mean Maida Springer? This is worse than Horatia Simpkins! I am sure I have not flirted with Maida. Come, if you like, and ask her; she is sitting under that tree. She is an acquaintance of very old standing; that is all. She taught my uncle's children long ago, when I was a lad. We saw each other constantly when I was home from Harvard at the vacation. But there is nothing between us--never was. Come, ask her yourself. She is sitting behind this nearest tree: she will be the first to wish us joy."
He took Rose's hand to lead her to the spot, and Rose had moved a step or two before she had recovered self-command enough to resist. The tree was very close. Whoever sat behind it must have overheard the conversation, for both had been too intent to keep their voices low. Rose shrank from meeting the listener. She stopped short, and looked timidly where the eavesdropper was said to be.
There seemed little which need make her feel uneasy. A woman's figure--or was it only a bundle of summer clothing? so limp and collapsed it seemed--lay crouched and huddled together against the bole. The hat was pushed aside, the head bowed between the knees, and two slender hands spread out before it to exclude the light. The hair had come unfastened, and fell in wisps down to the ground, swaying and quivering in the sobbing tremor which shook the woman's frame.
Rose drew away her hand. "It is too late to talk, Bertie. We have chosen our roads in life, and we must keep them. But we will think more kindly of one another now. I am engaged, as you know. I did it freely, and I must keep my word. I will not spoil the life of another--of a man who is as fond of me as this one, and so good and true. We will forgive one another--will we not?--and learn from sad experience more forbearance in our future lots. There he is coming. I shall go and meet him. Goodbye. We must not meet again."
She went, leaving Gilbert elated at his success, but dissatisfied with its incompleteness, and a little doubtful how he ought to return to Maida Springer. They had been reclining rather aimlessly behind the tree, when he looked up and saw Rose almost upon them, and alone. It seemed to be now or never, if he was to have speech with her. He bounded to his feet without a word to his companion, and her own ears must soon have told her why. It felt decidedly awkward to return to Maida; yet what was he to do? He could not follow Rose without imperilling such way as he had made back to her favour, by inducing perhaps an ugly scene with Naylor; and having brought Maida there, he must fetch her back to her friends. It was an uncomfortable task, but it had to be performed. He hardened his soul, expecting to hear something unpleasant, composed his features, and turned round to the tree.
He might have spared his anxiety. The tree was deserted. No one was near. Far up the slope the flutter of a white gown and streaming blue veil might be discerned between the trees, in swift retreat, and Gilbert found that Maida had saved him the unpleasantness of an explanation.