Transcriber's Notes:
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http://books.google.com/books?id=pPYUAAAAQAAJ
(Oxford University)

TRUE TO A TYPE

TRUE TO A TYPE

BY

R. CLELAND

IN TWO VOLUMES

VOL. II.

WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS

EDINBURGH AND LONDON

MDCCCLXXXVII

All Rights reserved

CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

TRUE TO A TYPE.

CHAPTER XX.

[PAUL AND VIRGINIA.]

The storm exhausted itself at length. The thunder passed on westward, the rain abated and ceased, the clouds parted and rolled away, leaving the sky clear but paler for its agony of tears. It was now evening, and the air felt fresh even to chilliness, for the temperature had fallen a matter of fifteen degrees--from 90° to 70° or 75°. The party stood round the fire with something not greatly removed from a shiver, and warmed their hands. It was not actually cold, but the transition had been sudden and violent, which came to the same thing.

"And now to get back?" said Wilkie, looking at his watch. "The gong at the beach is just going to sound for supper. I confess I feel peckish. Should we not be thinking of a move, Blount?"

Blount coughed. "There are rather many of us for my small boat, in the present state of the weather. There is probably more wind, and certainly more swell, than you would suppose from looking at the landlocked channel down there. I fear we must postpone thoughts of supper for the present."

"If we delay, no one can say when we may get in. I don't see why we should not make the attempt at once. We shall at least have daylight to lessen our difficulties if we attempt it now. What do you say?"

"I fear it is impossible. What do you say, Jake?"

Jake caught a look from his "boss," and understood. "No, sir-ree! you won't reach Lippenstock to-night in that aar boat with a crew of six. It 'ud be more'n a man's life is worth, with the sea as is on in the bay now."

"Suppose we go four, then. I could take charge of the young ladies."

"We won't break up the party, neither Margaret nor I," said Rose. "You might try the voyage with Jake, however, by yourself. You could tell them at the beach to expect us for breakfast."

Wilkie looked doubtfully to Jake; but Jake's eyes were averted. He had pulled out his plug of tobacco, and was intent upon judiciously whittling off the exact quantity for a chew. He had no idea of making the voyage twice for the accommodation of one man, that man not being the "boss," and one, besides, who did not seem over-likely to remember to tip. Jake's look afforded little encouragement to make a proposal, and that reminded Wilkie in time that the figure he himself would make would not be heroic if he arrived alone at the beach and said that the others were coming. He elevated his eyebrows into the British equivalent of a Frenchman's plaintive shrug, and sighed, and resigned himself to his fate. If he had even had some one to "spoon" with, it would not have been so bad; but after his experience in that hut during the hours of the thunderstorm, he realised that he was in the position of one who at the last moment goes to a place of amusement, and finds every desirable place ticketed "engaged."

"Worse than Robinson Crusoe," he grumbled to himself, "for I've no man Friday."

"Then you would make the rest of us stand for the savages," laughed Blount; "which is scarcely flattering. But keep up your heart, old man; it might be worse. It is warm in here, at any rate--thanks to our absent hosts the fishermen. We must not forget to leave something behind in payment for the use of their wood-heap."

"Why didn't they leave provisions when they were about it? Even a ship-biscuit would be agreeable now."

"And sugar and tea," laughed Margaret. "They might have left some tea--and cups and saucers."

Wilkie objected to being chaffed. He looked severe. "I feel almost faint, I can tell you, Miss Naylor. Brain-workers, I suppose, are more susceptible to physical privation than the generality," and his eye rested on the other two gentlemen, as though they were instances in point. "The brain is a delicate organ, and easily thrown out of gear. It needs frequent nourishment at short intervals, to keep it in good working order."

"You will have to give your brain a rest to-night, then, Mr Wilkie, and husband your fibre, as there is nothing here to renew it with--no larder, even, except the sea down there. I am glad that, being a woman, I have no brain to speak of. The exhaustion of its fibre won't be noticed."

"You've hit it, Margaret!" cried Blount--"without even caring--as you so often do. Smart girl, and don't know it. The sea is our larder, full of fish, and Jake has lines in the boat's locker. Let's go fishing."

"The boat will be wet after the rain," said Rose, "and I have had one wetting already. I shall not go fishing, thanks; but I do not mind looking among the rocks for limpets and mussels, and things. They tell me they are good to eat, when people are very hungry."

"Not a bad thing to do. Whoever likes, can fish from the boat; I shall shell-fish on shore," chimed in Margaret.

"To shell-fish is not wisely selfish," retorted Wilkie, with the air of a wag. "How much more comfortable to sit in the boat hauling up your fish, than go pottering and stumbling over slippery rocks with a lapful of rubbish you won't be able to cook after you have got it! while we could broil some fish nicely on the hot coals. Believe me, it's better to be wisely selfish than to bother about worthless shell-fish."

"I don't think I am selfish; but you may end in becoming a punster if you are not warned in time; and to show you are not selfish, you had better go out with Jake, and we will all assist you to cook and eat whatever you may be lucky enough to catch."

Wilkie looked to the other two men, but both were reaching down hats for the girls from lofty pegs where they had been hung. No one heeded him, and he deemed it best to follow Jake, who had already gone down to the boat and was preparing to launch it. If he was condemned to be a supernumerary, it was better to be a useful and independent one afloat, than merely in the way on shore; and he had his reward in a calm and tranquil evening on the water, his self-love unfretted by the view of less learned men preferred to himself, his hand bobbing peacefully with his line, and his head in a cloud of soothing tobacco. Occasionally he would get a bite, and hauled in his fish with the consoling thought that there were some creatures whom he could catch, and that the girls would not object to partake of his fish, however they might disregard himself.

The four remaining in the hut stood by the door and watched the launching of the boat; then they likewise descended to the beach and began to look among the rocks for shell-fish. But either there were few to find, or the seekers were inattentive in their search, for they did not find many, and soon wearying, abandoned even the pretence of being useful.

They wandered idly along in the purple light, now waning swiftly into bluish grey and shadowy indistinctness. Of the wild and lonely scene of half an hour ago, nothing was left but the dusky darkness of the land lifting its solid outline against the tinted sky, where wan transparent gleams of the departing day contended with the darkling blue of night, and the dim sea escaping from the shadows of the islands spread away to the horizon, to bound the low-down glimmer in the southern sky.

The talk had split itself into two separate strands, and the talkers had drifted apart, each couple following the thread of its own discourse, and oblivious to its divergence from the other. Joseph and Rose were alone again. She was walking by his side, looking with level gaze straight out before, to the distant line where sea and sky, straining to meet each other, were yet parted where they touched, as two who could not be united. She was thinking--or more, perhaps, she was waiting--with head inclining forward and to her companion, while his eyes sought the ground. His footsteps sounded irregular as he walked, as though he were not at ease, but laboured with something to be said, for which the word was difficult to find. He looked up more than once as if about to speak, and then his eyes fell again without his having spoken. She did not observe. Her eyes were on the horizon and the light was dim.

At length he clenched his hands, stopped short, and spoke abruptly. His voice was low, but there was an intensity in the utterance, which made her start although she had been expecting him to speak.

"Rose! will you be my wife?... Why should I try to lead up easily to what I meant to say? I am too much in earnest to be able to coin phrases."

She turned and looked at him. She did not look up shyly, but yet she was not bold. Doubt, if there had been light enough to see, or if his mind had been calm enough to observe, was the prevailing sentiment which her face betrayed. She looked, and her lips grew tense, and then she drew a heavy, deep, slow breath; and, like a sleep-walker obeying an impulse apart from common consciousness or volition, she held out her hand.

He caught it in both of his, and raised it to his lips, and clasped it as if he never would let it go; and the boiling blood went tingling through his veins in a transport of tumultuous joy, which shook his frame and made it vain for him to try to raise his voice.

She thought she heard him whisper, "Rose! My own!" and straight the tears began to gather in her eyes, and her breathing broke into a sob. She thought, she was about to give way, and covered her face with the other hand. And yet there was a stillness in her heart, as though it were some one else--a looker-on--a curious and yet an approving onlooker, but one who felt no joy at her being sought, no hope and no elation, though it bade her accept. And then a despairing pang shot through her. Was it impossible for her to love? But she would! She was resolved to love--to love this man. She had read in him that he loved her well. He was good and true; she more than liked or even respected him. She was resolved to love as fondly and as faithfully as ever woman had, if only to show----but she would not think of that--never again. The past was buried. Let it lie.

Joseph, in his own tumultuous exaltation, felt the trembling of her hand. He heard her sob. He saw her cover her face as if to hide her tears, and caught her in his arms, folding her in, and pressing her to his heart in a tender transport. To dry those tears was now his rightful privilege; and very tenderly and softly did he whisper in her ear, bidding her calm herself and have no fear, for he loved and worshipped her, and would devote his life to shelter her from care or harm.

And now the stars came out upon the night, looking down with friendly understanding eyes, like beings of a higher sphere, approving the troth-plight and bidding them be happy. They sat them down upon a broad flat rock; her hand was nestling in his palm, and her form drawn up against him within his encircling arm; and the silent peace of night, tranquil and still beneath the keeping of the kindly stars, wore in upon their agitated spirits, helping the fever in their blood to cool.

To realise that there is some one in accord, and all our own, who shares desire and hope, our present and our future, to whom the inmost thought might be revealed, if that were possible, without the conventional disguises in which we hide while we converse with one another, is a sensation of the rarest joy, but seldom known, and never known for long. To Joseph, who had lived alone in heart, it was very new and inexpressibly delightful. There were no words to image forth a tithe of what he felt. Speech failed. He held her hand, and breathed the pure delicious night in gasps of satisfaction: and it was all so still and simple; only the outlined rocks against the sky, and glimmering faint reflections of the stars on the dim water; no troubling details or petty objects, no motion but the ceaseless current of the universe, the noiseless unseen marching of the host of heaven from east to west. He and his love were the only two in all the mighty vault. For them the night was still, the air so sweet, the stars so kind and friendly. They and the universe were in company and at one in some mysterious way, and the peace of the universe flowed in upon his soul.

Rose sat in wonder at the intensity of the silence. How this man must love her! It was sweet to be so loved, but it was solemn. She felt small within his clasping arms. Her hand was laid in his, and nestled in the tender warmth of its grasp, so strong and so protecting. He had taken her for his very own, and she felt humble in the unworthiness of the self he set such store on. She felt ashamed at the inward stillness which could respond so coldly; but the feeling roused and warmed her somewhat, and she was glad of it. She had striven to win him. Honestly she had striven, if in a divided spirit, which made her blush now to think of the depth and tenderness of the love which she had won. But at least he should never have ground to suspect half-heartedness. She would compel herself to love him more; and if the reality fell short of what she felt she owed, at least the expression should not fall short in fulness. She crept closer, and strove to thaw away the numbing chill which hung about her heart, and was so stubborn to dispel. He responded with a tightening clasp against the strong warm throbbing of his breast, till she vibrated with the pulses of his perfect love. She looked out across the sea, and vowed to be more than he had hoped or dreamed, and felt still and strengthened by the peace spread out around her. And so they sat, together, and yet so far apart in feeling; and time went by without their taking heed.

* * * * *

At length--they knew not when or how the idea came into their minds, but probably it was because a star, appearing to have parted from the rest, came down, and seemed to be pursuing an independent course, and to outstrip its fellows, being only, when they looked a little later, the lantern hung out upon a passing ship--they started from their reverie and stood up.

"The dew is falling; you will be chilled." It was Joseph who spoke. "Let me button my coat round your shoulders. It is not thick or warm, but at least it adds another fold of covering."

"Thanks, but I am warm.... No; I do not want it. But you are kind to mean giving it. Only you should not think that I would strip you of your coat. Is it not time that we were turning back?"

"Yes; we have strayed a long way from the hut. The ground is rough, and it is so dark one cannot see where one steps. You will stumble. Give me your hand, and let me lead."

The unevenness of the ground, and the consequent stumbling among rocks and boulders in the uncertain dimness, soon brought them back to the level of everyday life; and when at length, after an hour of floundering and groping, they came in sight of the fire-glow streaming from the fishermen's shelter, they were completely themselves again--gayer even than their wont, in the reaction from the deeper feelings in which they had been lately steeped.

They were the last of the party to come in. The others were already round the fire, assisting with their advice the experienced Jake, who was on his knees broiling fish upon the coals. They made a tolerable supper, without bread or salt, Jake assuring Wilkie that, coming from the sea, fish needed none, and that they would lie the lighter on his "stommick" for lack of fixings. And then the girls were left alone, and the men withdrew to the boat, under whose shelter they contrived to sleep till morning, when they sailed from the desert island, each with some memory or experience to mark it in his recollection for life.

CHAPTER XXI.

[IS SHE HERE?]

The house was very quiet when Gilbert Roe met Maida and Mrs Denwiddie at breakfast on the morning after his arrival. Only an invalid, one or two old people, some dull ones who had no friends, and a few young children with nurses, were scattered here and there at the deserted tables. He adjusted his eyeglass and looked about. He saw as well as other people; but, like them, he found the glass useful as a demonstration on many occasions.

"I thought," he said, "you told me the house was full. This is the poorest showing I have come on yet for a seaside resort in August. Not by any means a promising crowd to live in--and to-morrow is Sunday. One can't well get away before Monday morning."

"There was not a vacant place yesterday at this hour," Maida answered, a little hurt. "That I can tell you. Can you tell, Mrs Denwiddie, what has become of them all?"

"Did you not hear the fuss an hour ago or more? It woke me out of my morning sleep. Such gabble and uproar I never did hear--slamming doors and scuttling feet, everybody speaking at once, enough to wake the dead. And when I got up and looked out, there they were, just starting away in buggies and 'buses and rockaways, the whole lot of boarders it seemed to me, and it just astonishes me to see so many left behind. Jest those that couldn't go, I guess, or didn't care to go, because there was nobody to mind them."

"Where have they gone, then?" asked Maida. "As I went away, so to speak, yesterday, I was taking no interest in the plans; but I am real sorry for Gil----for Mr Roe's sake, that I did not know; and I wonder you did not go with the rest, Mrs Denwiddie."

"So I would, perhaps, if it had not been for promising to breakfast along with you, under the circumstances;" and she looked most knowingly into the other's eyes with her head on one side. But seeing the humour was not appreciated, she went on--"though I don't know either. I don't much hold with boat-rides, and there'll be sech a crush! Jest think of a boat on the water in Lippenstock Bay a day like this! for it's there they're gone to, and Fessenden's Island, for a picnic. And won't they find they've had enough of their steamboat-ride afore they're done with it! I went last summer, and I know."

"We must resign ourselves to a quiet day on the sands, then," said Maida, with a little sigh which expressed nothing but satisfaction. "Let's go at once, Gilbert, before the heat comes on. There's a nice grove down near the shore, about three miles along, and it'll be just splendid to rest there about noon."

"Three miles, Maidy--and three back! And how am I to go that far in the heat?" exclaimed the widow.

Maida opened her eyes, just a little. It was convenient to have her aged friend--for so she was now for the first time disposed to consider her--sit by her at table, and fend off curious remark; but to have her make a third in her intercourse with Gilbert was more than flesh and blood could be expected to bear. Her lips tightened, and there was a quiver of the nostril suggestive of a sniff; but she took care to make no emendation of her first proposal.

"I think, now," said Mrs Denwiddie, "the best thing Mr Roe can do would be to give us a ride along the sands in one of the landlord's rockaways. He'd find it real smooth and pleasant for conversation." She was indeed loath to part from "these two interestin' young things," as she would have called them now, though twenty-four hours earlier she would certainly have spoken of Maida as a forlorn old maid; so completely will circumstances alter cases. The young man made the difference--the old, old story which is always new. She was too old herself for these sweet passages; but if she could no longer hope to woo or be wooed, it was pleasant to assist at the wooing of some one else. People do not cease to be hungry when they lose their teeth, and a Barmecide banquet is better than no feast at all. Is not this "the long-felt want," to quote the prospectus-writers, which finds readers for the shoal of love-tales published every week?

"I'm going for a smoke," Gilbert observed, after an interval in which the play of knife and fork had absorbed their undivided attention; and marshalling his companions out of the dining-room, he withdrew to the male lounging-ground of the establishment. There he found the "proprietor" and his clerk, each with a newspaper and a toothpick, arranging themselves on three chairs apiece to ruminate on the breakfast they had eaten, and to anticipate the meal which was to come next. The day was dies non with them, their customers being away at the picnic, and they were promising themselves a morning of complete repose. Gilbert's appearance was not particularly welcome; however, they both favoured him with an inclination of the head, the proprietor combining his with a flourish of his toothpick towards the regiment of empty chairs, by way of inviting him to take a few and make himself at home.

He condescended to accept one of Gilbert's cigars; and finding it good, he relaxed so far as to vouchsafe a reference from the paper he was still reading, with regard to the state of politics in "Bhoston,"--to which Gilbert replied, alluding in passing to affairs in the West. Thereupon the proprietor woke up sufficiently to put one of his feet to the ground, and proceeded to interrogate him as to where was his home, what was his occupation, why was he travelling in the East, &c. Having received all the particulars which his guest seemed disposed to communicate, his interest subsided again, his leg resumed the horizontal position, his eyes returned to his paper, and his answers to Gilbert's efforts to converse became so brief and indifferent that the latter gave it up, and pored over his own newspaper in silence. The captain of a ship may be an important person on his own deck, but his grandeur is nothing to that of a hotel proprietor when his house is full. He is so accustomed to be spoken fair by guests desiring improved accommodation and eccentric et-ceteras, that he stiffens into an autocrat of the severest type.

Gilbert smoked, and read till he grew tired of it, and then he got up and sauntered away. He was becoming a bore unto himself, and longed for other company. On the gallery near the entrance he espied Maida hatted and gloved, awaiting an invitation to walk. She was alone; he had only to signify his wish, and away they strolled along the sands. It was not unpleasant, he found, now that the restlessness of his spirit had been chastened by the proprietor's severe neglect, to be looked up to, made of, and courted. His weed became more fragrant in the freshness of the air and sunshine as they wandered along by the water's-edge. Maida's low eager tones mingled agreeably with the babble of the breakers coming on, curling and retreating respectfully within some inches of his feet, and made him realise once more that he was lord of the creation, and a very fine fellow indeed.

Maida's flow of conversation trickled on without intermission. It was wonderful, indeed, how she found so much to say; but the well of happy feeling within yielded a steady flow of purling talk, not deep, perhaps, but clear and cheerful, with opportunities for him to answer if so it pleased him, yet able to babble along pleasantly if he said nothing. She did not talk about herself, which might have grown tedious, nor did she trouble him with questions about his own career. He must tell her of that, she thought, when he chose, though she longed to know. Her thoughts were back in the time when she used to know him, and her talk was reminiscences, touched with the ideal brightness which the days of our youth never assume till after they are fled.

Gilbert listened, remembering enough to verify her words; but yet it seemed most different, as she described it, from what he had supposed. It was like being told about some one else, especially when she recalled their conversations in those ancient days. To think that he, a weather-beaten worldling, shrewd, clear-headed, and cool, could ever have been given up to fancies and enthusiasms such as she spoke of--such as she seemed to cling to still! There had been no changes of circumstance and position with her, to show things in new lights and under new aspects; and so she had continued to serve the old gods. They had flown away from him long ago, as birds escape from their nesting-places when the sun is up. He knew them no more, immersed as he was in the hurry of workaday life, and it seemed strange to have them brought before him now. They were pretty and curious, but oh, so narrow and mistaken! A moth may feel as he did, when, shown the chrysalis out of which it crept, it realises how impossible it would be for it to fold and compress itself again within the old limits.

For one morning, the sensation of being made love to by Maida, and being courted under the form of his older self, was distinctly pleasurable, though mild. She thought all the world of him--that he could see--and he would be kind to her by way of making some small return, especially in the absence of any one else to amuse him. After their early dinner, the house being still in its deserted condition, he brought her into the billiard-room to teach her the game. It was her first lesson, and she was eager to learn; but she could not do so quickly enough to play with him that day, however many points he might give her--so he tired of that, and then, being still in a gracious mood, he remembered Mrs Denwiddie's suggestion of the morning, that he should give them a drive, and he fulfilled her desire. Both ladies enjoyed it immensely; and to crown their triumph, they found that the picnickers had returned only a minute before them, and had the gratification of alighting in state with their escort, in full view of the whole houseful of guests.

The thunderstorm which had reached Fessenden's Island an hour before, came on shortly after; wherefore the remainder of the evening was spent within doors, in the usual way, save that the company were more disposed to sit still after their long day in the open air. Music, singing, and conversation were the occupations at first; but the quicksilver in Lucy Naylor and one or two more prevailed at last, and by the time it grew dark the dance was in full force as on other evenings.

"Now!" said Maida to Gilbert. "Are there enough people for your idea of being sociable, now? You are always the same old man, as fond of company as ever. Do you remember the country-dances and cotillions at Deacon Benson's? How we used to keep it up! And the walking home afterwards in the early morning--with the grass running dew, and taking the starch out of my flounces! But you don't remember that, I guess. Ah, those parties! They were just too sweet to last. I have never been at any, since, I cared so much for.... Do you know the cotillion now as well as you used to? My! how you did know it! We girls were always wishing to have you call the figures. Nobody could ever guess what you were going to make us do next. It kept up the interest, and was real exciting. When we'd expect to have 'ladies' chain,' it would be 'set to partners,' or 'ladies in the centre,' or 'first gentleman to the right,' or something quite unexpected. They don't dance cotillions here. I guess it's because they don't know how; though they pretend it's because they've gone out, and the upper circles don't dance them. It's all round-dancing here, except when it's lancers; and then they don't call the figures, so I never know what to do next."

"Well, this is a round-dance. Come! No use sitting here the whole night."

"I'll try," said Maida, delighted to be taken out, but with a misgiving. She did not dance often, and she felt doubtful whether she would acquit herself to the satisfaction of her hero. "Not too fast, please--not any faster than you can help. The waltz is apt to make me giddy," she ejaculated as they started off; but then she was in rapture, and said nothing more. Were not his arms around her? and was it not he whom she held and clung to as the room began to swim, and her sense of terra firma to grow vague and indistinct?

"Don't hang on quite so altogetherly, Maida. And if you could keep your feet to the ground, it would look better, you know. You're more hefty, as we used to say, than when you were a baby," Gilbert observed, as they swung and revolved laboriously round the room; but at length he got out of breath, and they had to stop.

"Oh!" sighed Maida, with closed eyes, clinging to her partner for support because she was giddy, and also, perhaps, because she liked to do it. "I am quite run out! But it was lovely."

"Come and sit down then, and rest," said the matter-of-fact Gilbert, "and get back your breath;" which was not just the form of answer which Maida had looked for. However, the music was ending and it could not be helped.

And now Gilbert, having done his duty by his old friend, thought it was time for her to be of some little service to him in return. He asked her to introduce him to some of the other young ladies whom he might ask to dance; and she could not but consent. It seemed a strange request to make, she thought, a strange desire to feel, when she was by--so soon after returning from so long an absence! It was a masculine caprice, she supposed. And those men! Who could understand them? She could take care, however, that the ladies she presented him to were not more than moderately endowed with beauty. And she did. One cannot be expected to court misfortune--to introduce rivals to even the most loyal of swains--to fetch a stick from the wood to break one's own back with. Perhaps she rather overdid it, in fact; at least Gilbert did not invite many of her beauties to dance, and when the introductions were over he could not help saying, "What a homely lot of friends you have, Maida! They must be awful good, if appearances are as deceitful as folks say. Now there's a little girl over yonder, a peart little filly, that it would be a real pleasure to dance with. What's her name? Can you not introduce me there?"

"I don't know her. She's a stuck-up little thing; and if I'm any judge of girls, as I ought to be, there's not much in her. I hear them call her Fanny Payson, and she belongs to Senator Deane's party--Deane of Indiana, you know."

"I knew Deane well; he lives part of the time in Chicago. Is his family with him?"

"Oh yes; but they put on airs, no end of. We poor New Hampshire folks ain't good enough for them to know."

Gilbert was not listening now. He had fallen into a brown study, and presently without any explanation he left her. He wandered up and down the rooms, wearing a look of impatient eagerness, and peering into faces as though in search of some one. At length he darted forward to the side of a lady standing up to dance. "Miss Deane," he whispered hoarsely, "is she here?"

Lettice turned. "You, Mr Roe?" Then, recovering from her surprise, she assumed a manner of great coldness, and opening her eyes, as if in wonder at his audacious intrusion, she limited her answer to a clearly articulated "No."

"Where is she? Pray tell! I----"

He had stretched out his hand as if to lay hold on her skirt to detain her; but with a motion of her hand she swept it beyond his reach, saying severely, "I cannot tell you;" and then, in turning away, she added, "Do not expose yourself in this public place;" and giving her hand to her partner, she was whirled away among the dancers.

Gilbert set his teeth, and a look of despairing woe passed across his features. He traversed the crowded rooms once more, and then, too miserable to remain, he went out upon the dripping galleries, where darkness and the cooled and moistened air yielded a kind of consolation. There he paced and smoked, till life grew bearable again, though still ungenial, and then he went to his room and turned in.

Maida sat where he had left her on the brink of the dance, and grew very sad when he did not return to her side. What had she done to offend or weary him? But at least he was not dancing--that was something. Yet where could he be? A heaviness came over her spirits, and she felt depressed for the first time in the last four-and-twenty hours.

CHAPTER XXII.

["WELL, PETER?"]

Next day was Sunday. Compared with other days at Clam Beach, it was the same with a difference--leisure combined with fresh air, but partaken of in a different form. Church was the recognised occupation; but the churches were at Blue Fish Creek, four miles away, down the coast in the other direction from Lippenstock. Omnibuses were in use to convey the inmates, and everybody went, even the old people, the dull ones, the invalid, and the young children. It was the only outing which the dull people allowed themselves; there was nothing to pay for the carriage exercise, and they never missed it.

Mrs Naylor and Mrs Wilkie remained at home. They had had enough of driving the day before, and found it agreeable now to sit still in the deserted gallery, and absorb sunshine and fresh air in peace. At least such was the state of Mrs Naylor's feelings. Not being a British mother, she had considerable confidence in her daughter's ability to take care of herself, so long, at least, as that pernicious young man Walter Blount was away, and she had no ground to suspect his presence on Fessenden's Island. Besides, she was aware now that the girl's uncle had also been left behind, therefore she was safe, not to mention Peter Wilkie, whose mother had been making herself ridiculous on the subject all the previous evening. There was nothing very compromising in the situation, so far as she could see; in fact, with her desire to suppress the girl's kindness for Blount, she could almost have wished there had been. It would have brought the other young man up to the point of committing himself, and, with a little maternal pressure, compelled her to accept him; and as she had quite made up her mind that Margaret was to marry in Toronto, that pressure would assuredly be forthcoming.

Mrs Wilkie's motherly feelings were in a state of ebullition which would not let her sit still. She would get up from her chair and pace the gallery with irregular steps, puffing and sighing distractedly, get tired and plump down again, pressing her hands together, and sighing worse than before. Her boy was done for--bagged by a designing girl. Speculatively and in the abstract, she was wont to express a strong desire to see him married, whatever she may have felt; but the ideal spouse had never yet appeared--or rather, whenever there seemed a possibility of any fair one finding favour in his eyes, she began to see objections, even if she had herself recommended the girl and fancied that she would like him to marry her. Speculatively, she had held Margaret Naylor in the highest esteem; actually, she found herself detesting her with all her might. She had struck up quite a friendship with her mother, and the fellow-boarders had differed only as to which of the mothers was most desirous of being allied to the other. Now, alas! her son's fate seemed to be decided. She must resign the first place in his care, and had her supplanter been a seraph with wings come straight down from heaven, she could not have accepted her without a spasm of jealousy.

"Cast upon a desert island," she muttered to herself, as she paced the gallery. "A second Robinson Crusoe, with his man Friday. But it's not a man Friday! It's worse; it's a girl Friday!--or rather, it's worse than any Friday at all--it's the parrot! A gabbin', chatterin', useless thing--all tongue and feathers, and not wan grain of sense in its head. An empty, feckless, dressed-up doll, with nothing but the face and the clothes to recommend her. How can men of intelleck be such fools? And after all, it isn't much of a face even. I've seen----" but here the soliloquy grew inaudible; only, judging by the toss of her head, which set the little grey curls on her temples a-dancing, it must have been what she had seen in her own mirror long ago which was so much more admirable.

She dropped into a chair near her companion, panting, and fanned herself vehemently, complaining of the heat. It seemed to make her hotter still to sit beside Mrs Naylor, in her present frame of mind.

"Try to sit still, dear Mrs Wilkie. You will find it the best way to get cool," Mrs Naylor said, very sweetly. "He will be sure to be home very soon. My brother-in-law is with them, you know; and between two gentlemen, they will be sure to contrive some means of getting away."

Mrs Wilkie snorted, and fanned herself more vehemently than before, relapsing into her late mutterings about Robinson Crusoe and the desert island; but, disturbed as she was, she had presence of mind enough to suppress the parrot, and complained of the heat and her palpitations instead.

Mrs Naylor grew positively nervous, and even began to feel an anticipatory pity for her daughter, in the prospect of so tumultuous a mother-in-law--when, quite unexpectedly, the truants drove up to the door.

"Peter, you rascal!" his mother exclaimed, jumping up and running down-stairs to meet him. "You've nearly been the death of me;" and, to demonstrate how much she had suffered, so soon as she came within range of his supporting arms, she pressed both hands upon her "palpitation," crying, "Oh!" and made as if she would fall.

Peter caught her as intended, and supported her up to her room, not soothing her, by any means, but scolding her roundly, in good set terms; but then he had known her for many years, and understood her idiosyncrasies. Doubtless his system was the right one. Soothing would only have encouraged her to rave and do the scolding herself, till her palpitations came on in earnest. He was an excellent son, whatever his shortcomings in other respects might be; and there are constitutions which require what their medical advisers might call "bracing treatment," just as others agree with bland and soothing remedies.

"Well, Peter?" she asked, with impatient eagerness, so soon as they were closeted together, in complete forgetfulness of the scene which she had been enacting the minute before--forgetting her incipient faintness, and likewise the rough restoratives which had been applied. "Have ye done it?"

"Done what, mother?"

"You know very well what I mean. Have ye promised to marry that girl down-stairs?"

"I have not."

She heaved a great sigh of relief; but she went on with her catechism. "How's that? I never saw ye more taken up with anybody. Ye stuck to her like a burr the livelong day; and many were the envious glances I saw some others casting after you two, as ye went dandering over the hills like a pair of lovers. I was sure ye were nabbet--just grippet and done for like a wired rabbit; and, says I to myself, there's wan of the simple wans that love simplicity, and she's just inveigled him into makin' her an offer."

"She doesn't want to inveigle me. She is provided already. She did not give me the chance to make a fool of myself, like your young friend in the Proverbs, whom you are so fond of talking about. She availed herself of my escort to bring her to a man she liked better than me; that was all."

"The besom! She took her use out of ye, and let ye slide? Do ye mean to tell me that, Peter Wilkie? And are ye going to stand it? Have ye nothing more to say than just stand like a gowk and own til it? Have ye no spurrit left?"

"Whisht, mother! and don't haver."

"Whisht yourself! Do ye think I'm going to sit still and see a monkey like that scancing at my son? She'd have the assurance, would she, to take her use out of my boy, and throw him away when she was done, like a socket gooseberry! My certie, but she'll rue it yet!"

"She did nothing, mother. The girl is engaged, though we did not know it. You would not have me cut in and break up an engagement?"

"Ye might, if ye liked. Your poseetion would justifee you, and the girl would be the gainer."

"But I wouldn't, mother, if she was fond of some one else."

"And who's the young man?"

"You don't know him. He is a Mr Blount, who was staying here last week, but he went away."

"I never saw him, and ye know I have been a great deal with the girl's mother. I'm thinking the attachment has not gone far, or I would have seen him hanging about Mrs Naylor."

"I do not think Mrs Naylor likes him, and that was why he came to the island to meet her quietly."

"Illeecitly? It'll be an illeecit amoor!"

"Whisht, mother! and don't speak French. You are taking away the girl's character without knowing it."

"She deserves it, and more. To trifle with a Deputy Minister, and have a sweetheart without telling her mother! I never heard the like. Ye're well quit o' her, Peter."

"I never had her. She would not look at me."

"Set her up! But it will be my duty to say a quiet word to Mrs Naylor, and enlighten her about her daughter's ongoings. It'll be good for the hizzy, and a warning to her not to make use of gentlemen of poseetion to serve her underhand ends."

"You won't, mother. It is no concern of yours. We know nothing about the Naylors' affairs. Let them settle their own hash."

"I cannot but let a mother know about her daughter's ongoings. And oh, but she's fond of her! It will stab her to the heart. But it may be blessed to herself, for she's inclined to be rather high sometimes. It's time she was learning a little humeelity."

"If you do, you'll disgrace me. People will say it was because she would not look at me that I went and betrayed the girl's meeting her lover, out of pure spite. Her uncle was there, besides, so it is no concern of ours. And again, I do not want her."

"Of course not. But to think she would go walking away with you before everybody, and laughing at you in her sleeve, to keep tryst with another man! My blood just biles to think of it. I'd like to nip her ears for her. But see if I don't give her a bit of my mind ere all's done."

"If you do, mother----"

"Now, don't be clenchin' your fists at me, you unnatural boy. Just your father over again. And a dour, cantankerous, wrongheaded gowk he always was. He'd go out in the world and let them just trample on him, and then he'd come home to his poor sufferin' wife, and play the roaring lion. But he'd play another tune now, I warrant, if he could get me back again. He'd be glad enough to have me, now he has to do without me. And so with you, Peter, when you see me laid out stiff in my coffin, ye'll be wishin' ye had used me better. Ah, my bonny man, ye'll be wishin', when it's too late, ye had behaved different to your fond old mother!" which was pathetic, and caused the speaker to wipe her eyes. The effect on her son was different.

"I wish you would let the old man alone," he said. "It would sound better. Nobody knows anything about him here, and need not, if you will but hold your tongue. Some day you will forget yourself; there will be a washing of our family linen held in public, and nobody will think the more of either you or me. As for the young lady, unless you will promise to say nothing either to her or her mother, we pack up everything tonight, and back we go to Canada to-morrow morning."

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.