XIX
THEY walked for some distance without speaking. “I have just been writing to Ferdie,” Paul said at last.
The gray-green wood had seemed to Eve like another world, an enchanted land. Now she was forced back to real life again. “Oh, if he would only say nothing – just go on without speaking; it’s all I ask,” she thought.
“I shall go down there in ten days or so,” Paul went on. “Ferdie will be up then – in all probability well. I shall take him to Charleston, and from there we shall sail.”
“Sail?”
“To Norway.”
“Norway?”
“Didn’t I tell you? – I have made up my mind that a long voyage in a sailing vessel will be the best thing for him just now.”
“And you go too?”
“Of course.”
“Four or five weeks, perhaps?”
“Four or five months; as it grows colder, we can come down to the Mediterranean.”
A chill crept slowly over Eve. “Was it – wasn’t it difficult to arrange for so long an absence?”
“As Hollis would phrase it, ‘You bet it was!’” answered Paul, laughing. “I shall come back without a cent in either pocket; but I’ve been centless before – I’m not terrified.”
“If you would only take some of mine!”
“You will have Cicely. We shall both have our hands full.”
She looked up at him more happily; they were to be associated together in one way, then, after all. But a vision followed, a realization of the blankness that was to come. Less than two weeks and he would be gone!
“When the journey is over, shall you bring Ferdie to Port aux Pins?”
“That depends. On the whole, I think not; Ferdie would hate the place; it’s comical what tastes he has – that boy! My idea is that he will do better in South America; he has already made a beginning there, and likes the life. This time he can take Cicely with him, and that will steady him; he will go to housekeeping, he will be a family man.” And Paul smiled; to him, Ferdie was still the lad of fifteen years before.
But in Eve’s mind rose a recollection of the light of a candle far down a narrow road. “Oh, don’t let her go with him! Don’t!”
Paul stopped. “You are sometimes so frightened, I have noticed that. And yet you are no coward. What happened – really? What did you do?”
She could not speak.
“I’m a brute to bother you about it,” Paul went on. “But I have always felt sure that you did more that night than you have ever acknowledged; Cicely couldn’t tell us, you see, because she had fainted. How strange you look! Are you ill?”
“It is nothing. Let us walk on.”
“As you please.”
“If they go to South America, why shouldn’t you go with them?” he said, after a while, returning to his first topic. “You will have to go if you want to keep a hold on Jack, for Cicely will never give him up to you for good and all, as you have hoped. If you were with them, I should feel a great deal safer.”
Well, that was something. Was this, then, to be her occupation for the future – by a watch over Ferdie, to make his brother more comfortable? She tried to give a sarcastic turn to this idea. But again the feeling swept over her: Oh, if it had only been any one but Ferdinand Morrison! – Ferdinand Morrison!
“How you shuddered!” said Paul. Walking beside her, he had felt her tremble. “You certainly are ill.”
“No. But don’t let us talk of any of those things to-day, let us forget them.”
“How can we?”
“I can!” The color rose suddenly in her cheeks; for the moment she was beautiful. “My last walk with him! When he is gone, the days will be a blank.”
– “It is my last walk with you!” she said aloud, pursuing the current of her thoughts.
He looked at her askance.
His glance brought her back to reality. She turned and left him; she walked rapidly towards the lake, coming out on the beach beyond Eagle Point.
He followed her, and, as he came up, his eyes took possession of and held hers, as they had done before; then, after a moment, he put his arm round her, drew her to him, and bent his face to hers.
She tried to spring from him. But he still held her. “What shall I say to excuse myself, Eve?”
The tones of his voice were very sweet. But he was smiling a little too. She saw it; she broke from his grasp.
“You look as though you could kill me!” he said.
(And she did look so.)
“Forgive me,” he went on; “tell me you don’t mind.”
“I should have thought – that what I confessed to you – you know, that day —
But there were no subtleties in Paul. “Why, that was the very reason,” he answered. “What did you tell me for, if you didn’t want me to think of it?” Then he took a lighter tone. “Come, forget it. It was nothing. – What’s one kiss?”
Eve colored deeply.
And then, suddenly, Paul Tennant colored too.
He turned his head away, and his glance, resting on the water, was stopped by something – a dark object floating. He put up a hand on each side of his face and looked more steadily. “Yes. No. Yes! There’s a woman out there – lashed to something. I must go out and see.” He had thrown his hat down upon the sand as he spoke; he was hastily taking off his coat and waistcoat, his shoes and stockings; then he waded out rapidly, and when the rock shelved off, he began to swim.
Eve stood watching him mechanically. “He has already forgotten it!”
Paul reached the dark object. Then, after a short delay, she could see that he was trying to bring it in.
But his progress was slow.
“Oh, there must be something the matter! Perhaps a cramp has seized him.” A terrible impatience took possession of her; it was impossible for him to hear her, yet she cried to him at the top of her voice, and fiercely: “Let it go! Let it go, I say! Come in alone. Who cares for it, whatever it is?” It was not until his burden lay on the beach that she could turn her mind from him in the least, or think of what he had brought.
The burden was a girl of ten, a fair child with golden curls, now heavy with water; her face was calm, the eyes peacefully closed. She had been lashed to a plank by somebody’s hand – whose? Her father’s? Or had it been done by a sobbing mother, praying, while she worked, that she and her little daughter might meet again.
“It’s dreadful, when they’re so young,” said big Paul, bending over the body reverently to loosen the ropes. He finished his task, and straightened himself. “A collision or a fire. If it was a fire, they must have seen it from Jupiter Light.” He scanned the lake. “Perhaps there are others who are not dead; I must have one of the canoes at once. I’ll go by the beach. You had better follow me.” He put on his shoes, and, dripping as he was, he was off again like a flash, running towards the west at a vigorous speed.
Eve watched him until he was out of sight. Then she sat down beside the little girl and began to dry her pretty curls, one by one, with her handkerchief. Even then she kept thinking, “He has forgotten it!”
By-and-by – it seemed to her a long time – she saw a canoe coming round the point. It held but one person – Paul. He paddled rapidly towards her. “Why didn’t you follow me, as I told you to?” he said, almost angrily. “Hollis has gone back to the camp for more canoes and the Indians; he took Cicely, and he ought to have taken you.”
“I wanted to stay here.”
“You will be in the way; drowned people are not always a pleasant sight. Sit where you are, then, since you are here; if I come across anything, I’ll row in at a distance from you.”
He paddled off again.
But before very long she saw him returning. “Are you really not afraid?” he asked, as his canoe grated on the beach.
“No.”
“There’s some one out there. But I find I can’t lift anything into this canoe alone – it’s so tottlish; I could swim and tow, though, if I had the canoe as a help. Can you paddle?”
“Yes.”
“Get in, then.” He stepped out of the boat, and she took his place. He pushed it off and waded beside her until the water came to his chin; then he began to swim, directing her course by a movement of his head. She used her paddle very cautiously, now on one side, now on the other, the whole force of her attention bent upon keeping the little craft steady. After a while, chancing to raise her eyes, she saw something dark ahead. Fear seized her, she could not look at it; she felt faint. At the same moment, Paul left her, swimming towards the floating thing. With a determined effort at self-control, she succeeded in turning the canoe, and waited steadily until Paul gave the sign. Keeping her eyes carefully away from that side, she then started back towards the shore, Paul convoying his floating freight a little behind her. As they approached the beach, he made a motion signifying that she should take the canoe farther down; when she was safely at a distance, he brought his tow ashore. It was the body of a sailor. The fragment of deck planking to which he was tied had one end charred; this told the dreadful tale – fire at sea.
The sailor was dead, though it was some time before Paul would acknowledge it. At length he desisted from his efforts. He came down the beach to Eve, wiping his forehead with his wet sleeve. “No use, he’s dead. I am going out again.”
“I will go with you, then.”
“If you are not too tired?”
They went out a second time. They saw another dark object half under water. Again the sick feeling seized her; but she turned the canoe safely, and they came in with their load. This time, when he dismissed her, she went back to the little girl, and, landing, sat down; she was very tired.
After a while she heard sounds – four canoes coming rapidly round the point, the Indians using their utmost speed. She rose; Hollis, who was in the first canoe, saw her, and directed his course towards her. “Why did you stay here?” he demanded, sternly, as he saw the desolate little figure of the child.
Eve began to excuse herself. “I was of use before you came; I went out; I helped.”
“Paul shouldn’t have asked you.”
“He had to; he couldn’t do it alone.”
“He shouldn’t have asked you.” He went off to Paul, and she sat down again; she took up her task of drying the golden curls. After a while the sound of voices ceased, and she knew that they had all gone out on the lake for further search. She went on with what she was doing; but presently, in the stillness, she began to feel that she must turn and look; she was haunted by the idea that one of the men who had been supposed to be dead was stealing up noiselessly to look over her shoulder. She turned. And then she saw Hollis sitting not far away.
“Oh, I am so glad you are there!”
Hollis rose and came nearer, seating himself again quietly. “I thought I wouldn’t leave you all alone.”
She scanned the water. The five canoes were clustered together far out; presently, still together, they moved in towards the shore.
“They are bringing in some one else!”
“Sha’n’t we go farther away?” suggested Hollis – “farther towards the point? I’ll go with you.”
“No, I shall stay with this little girl; I do not intend to leave her. You won’t understand this, of course; only a woman would understand it.”
“Oh, I understand,” said Hollis.
But Eve ignored him. “The canoes are keeping all together in a way they haven’t done before. Do you think – oh, it must be that they have got some one who is living!”
“It’s possible.”
“They are holding something up so carefully.” She sprang to her feet. “I am sure I saw it move! Paul has really saved somebody. How can you sit there, Mr. Hollis? Go and find out!”
Hollis went. In twenty minutes he came back.
“Well?” said Eve, breathlessly.
“Yes, there’s a chance for this one; he’ll come round, I guess.”
“Paul has saved him.”
“I don’t know that he’s much worth the saving; he looks a regular scalawag.”
“How can you say that – a human life!”
Hollis looked down at the sand, abashed.
“Couldn’t I go over there for a moment?” Eve said, still excitedly watching the distant group.
“Better not.”
“Tell me just how Paul did it, then?” she asked. “For of course it was he, the Indians don’t know anything.”
“Well, I can’t say how exactly. He brought him in.”
“Isn’t he wonderful!”
“I have always thought him the cleverest fellow I have ever known,” responded poor Hollis, stoutly.
The next day the little girl, freshly robed and fair, was laid to rest in the small forest burying-ground belonging to Jupiter Light; Eve had not left her. There were thirty new mounds there before the record was finished.
“Steamer Mayhew burned, Tuesday night, ten miles east Jupiter Light, Lake Superior. Fifteen persons known to be saved. Mayhew carried twenty cabin passengers and thirty-five emigrants. Total loss.” (Associated Press despatch.)
Soon after this the camp was abandoned; as Paul was to go south so soon, he could not give any more time to forest-life, and they all, therefore, returned to Port aux Pins together. Once there Paul seemed to have no thought for anything but his business affairs. And Eve, in her heart, said again, “He has forgotten!”
XX
FOURTH OF JULY at Port aux Pins; a brilliant morning with the warm sun tempering the cool air, and shining on the pure cold blue of the lake.
At ten o’clock, the cannon began to boom; the guns were planted at the ends of the piers, and the men of the Port aux Pins Light Artillery held themselves erect, trying to appear unconscious of the presence of the whole town behind them, eating peanuts, and criticising.
The salute over, the piers were deserted, the procession was formed. The following was the order as printed in the Port aux Pins Eagle:
“The Marshal of the Day
The Goddess of Liberty. (Parthenia Drone.)
The Clergy. (In carriages.)
Fire-Engine E. P. Snow
The Mayor and Common Council. (In carriages.) Hook and Ladder No. 1
The Immortal Colonies. (Thirteen little girls in a wagon, singing the ‘Red, White, and Blue.’)
Fire-Engine Leander Braddock
The Carnival of Venice. (This was a tableau. It represented the facade of a Venetian palace, skilfully constructed upon the model of the Parthenon, with Wolf Roth in an Indian canoe below, playing upon his guitar. Wolf was attired, as a Venetian, in a turban, a spangled jacket, high cavalry boots with spurs, and powdered hair; Idora Drone looked down upon him from a Venetian balcony; she represented a Muse.)
Reader of the Declaration of Independence, and Orator of the Day. (In carriages.)
The Survivors of the War. (On foot with banners.)
Model of Monument to Our Fallen Heroes
The Band. (Playing ‘The Sweet By-and-By.’)
Widows of Our Fallen Heroes. (In carriages.)
Fire-Engine Senator M. P. Hagen
The Arts and Sciences. (Represented by the portable printing-press of the Port aux Pins Eagle; wagons from the mines loaded with iron ore; and the drays, coal-carts, and milk-wagons in a procession, adorned with streamers of pink tarlatan).”
Cicely watched the procession from the windows of Paul’s office, laughing constantly. When Hollis passed, sitting stiffly erect in his carriage – he was the “Reader of the Declaration of Independence” – she threw a bouquet at him, and compelled him to bow; Hollis was adorned with a broad scarf of white satin, fastened on the right shoulder with the national colors.
“I am going to the public square to hear him read,” Cicely announced, suddenly. “Paul, you must take me. And you must go too, grandpa.”
“I will keep out of the rabble, I think,” said the judge.
“Oh, come on; I dare say you have never heard the thing read through in your life,” suggested Paul, laughing.
“The Declaration of Independence? My grandfather, sir, was a signer!”
The one church bell (Baptist) and the two little fire bells were jangling merrily when they reached the street. People were hurrying towards the square; many of them were delegates from neighboring towns who had accompanied their fire-engines to Port aux Pins on this, the nation’s birthday. White dresses were abundant; the favorite refreshment was a lemon partially scooped out, the hollow filled with lemon candy. When they reached the square Paul established Cicely on the top of a fence, standing behind to steady her; and presently the procession appeared, wheeling slowly in, and falling into position in a half-circle before the main stand, the gayly decorated fire-engines in front, with the Carnival of Venice and the Goddess of Liberty, one at each end. The clergy, the mayor and common council, the orator of the day, were escorted to their places on the stand, and the ceremonies opened. By-and-by came the turn of Hollis. In a high voice he began:
“When in the course– of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another– ”
“Cheer!” whispered Cicely to Paul.
Paul, entering into it, set up hurrahs with so much vigor that all the people near him joined in patriotically, to the confusion of the reader, who went on, however, as well as he could:
“We hold these truths– to be self-evident, that all men are created equal– ”
“Again,” murmured Cicely.
And again Paul’s corner burst forth irrepressibly, followed after a moment by the entire assemblage, glad to be doing something in a vocal way on their own account, and determined to have their money’s worth of everything, noise and all.
And so, from “the present king of Great Britain” to “our lives, our forrchuns, and our sacrred honor” on it went, a chorus of hurrahs growing louder and louder until they became roars.
“I knew it was you,” Hollis said to Paul, when, later, his official duties over, and his satin scarf removed, he appeared at the cottage to talk it over.
“But say, did you notice the widows of our fallen heroes? They had a sort of glare under their crape. You see, once we had eight of ’em, but this year there is only one left; all the rest have married again. Now it happens that this very year the Soldiers’ Monument is done at last, and naturally the committee wanted the widows to ride in the procession. The one widow who was left declared that she would not ride all alone; she said it would look as though no one had asked her, whereas she had had at least three good offers. So the committee went to the others and asked them to dress up as former widows, just for to-day. So they did; and lots of people cried when they came along, two and two, all in black, so pathetic.” He sprang up to greet Eve, who was entering, and the foot-board entangled itself with his feet, after the peculiarly insidious fashion of extension-chairs. “Instrument of torture!” he said, grinning.
“I will leave it to you in my will,” declared Paul. “And it is just as well to say it now, before witnesses, because I am going away to-morrow.”
“To-morrow!” said Cicely.
“Only to Lakeville on business. I shall be back the day before I start south.”
“There go the last few hours!” thought Eve.
The third evening after, Hollis came up the path to Paul’s door. The judge, Eve, Cicely, and Porley with Jack, were sitting on the steps, after the Port aux Pins fashion. They had all been using their best blandishments to induce Master Jack to go to bed; but that young gentleman refused; he played patty-cake steadily with Porley, looking at the others out of the corner of his eye; and if Porley made the least attempt to rise, he set up loud bewailings, with his face screwed, but without a tear. It was suspected that these were pure artifice; and not one of his worshippers could help admiring his sagacity. They altogether refrained from punishing it.
“I was at the post-office, so I thought I’d just inquire for you,” said Hollis. “There was only one letter; it’s for Miss Bruce.”
Eve took the letter and put it in her pocket. She had recognized the handwriting instantly.
Hollis, who also knew the handwriting, began to praise himself in his own mind as rapidly as he could for bringing it. “It was a good thing to do, and a kind thing; you must manage jobs like that for her often, C. Hollis. Then you’ll be sure that you ain’t, yourself, a plumb fool. She doesn’t open it? Of course she doesn’t. Sit down, and stop your jawing!”
Eve did not open her letter until she reached her own room. It was eleven o’clock; when she was safely behind her bolted door, she took it from its envelope and read it. She read it and re-read it; holding it in her hand, she pondered over it. She was standing by the mantelpiece because her lamp was there. After a while she became half conscious that the soles of her feet were aching; she bore it some time longer, still half consciously. When it was one o’clock she sat down. The letter was as follows:
"DEAR EVE, – Now that I am away from her, I can see that Cicely is not so well as we have thought. All that laughing yesterday morning wasn’t natural; I am afraid that she will break down completely when I start south. So I write to suggest that you take her off for a trip of ten days or so; you might go to St. Paul. Then she needn’t see me at all, and it really would be better.
“As to seeing you again —
“Yours sincerely, PAUL TENNANT.”
“Why did he write, ‘As to seeing you again,’ and then stop? What was it that he had intended to say, and why did he leave it unfinished? ‘As to seeing you again – ’ Supposing it had been, ‘As to seeing you again, I dread it!’ But no, he would never say that; he doesn’t dread anything – me least of all! Probably it was only, ‘As to seeing you again, there would be nothing gained by it; it would be for such a short time.’”
But imagination soon took flight anew. “Possibly, remembering that day in the wood, he was going to write, ‘As to seeing you again, do you wish to see me? Is it really true that you care for me a little? It was so brave to tell it! A petty spirit could never have done it.’ But no, that is not what he would have thought; he likes the other kind of women – those who do not tell.” She laid her head down upon her arms.
Presently she began again: “He had certainly intended to write something which he found himself unable to finish; the broken sentence tells that. What could it have been? Any ordinary sentence, like, ‘As to seeing you again, it is not necessary, as you know already my plans,’ – if it had been anything like that, he would have finished it; it would have been easy to do so. No; it was something different. Oh, if it could only have been, ‘As to seeing you again, I must see you, it must be managed in some way; I cannot go without a leave-taking!’” She sat up; her eyes were now radiant and sweet. Their glance happened to fall upon her watch, which was lying, case open, upon the table. Four o’clock. “I have sat here all night! I am losing my wits.” She undressed rapidly, angrily. Clad in white, she stood brushing her hair, her supple figure taking, all unconsciously, enchanting postures as she now held a long lock at arm’s-length, and now, putting her right hand over her shoulder, brushed out the golden mass that fell from the back of her head to her knees. “But he must have intended to write something unusual, even if not of any of the things I have been thinking of; then he changed his mind. That is the only solution of his leaving it unfinished – the only possible solution.” This thought still filled her heart when daylight came.
The evening before, sitting in the bar-room of the Star Hotel, Lakeville, Paul had written his letter. He had got as far as, “Then she needn’t see me at all, and it really would be better. As to seeing you again,” when a voice said, “Hello, Tennant! – busy?”
“Nothing important,” replied Paul, pushing back the sheet of paper.
The visitor shook hands; then he seated himself, astride, on one of the bar-room chairs, facing the wooden back, which he hugged tightly. He had come to talk about Paul’s Clay County iron; he had one or two ideas about it which he thought might come to something.
Paul, too, thought that they might come to something when he heard what they were. He was excited; he began to jot down figures on the envelope which he had intended for Eve. Finally he and the new-comer went out together; before going he put the letter in his pocket.
When he came in, it was late. “First mail to Port aux Pins?” he inquired.
“Five o’clock to-morrow morning,” replied the drowsy waiter.
“Must finish it to-night, then,” he thought. He took out the crumpled sheet, and, opening it, read through what he had written. “What was it I was going to add?” He tried to recall the train of thought. But he was sleepy (as Hollis said, Paul had a genius for sleep); besides, his mind was occupied by the new business plan. “I haven’t the slightest idea what I was going to say. – A clear profit of fifty thousand in four years; that isn’t bad. Ferdie will need a good deal. Ye-ough!” (a yawn). “What was it I was going to say? – I can’t imagine. Well, it couldn’t have been important, in any case. I’ll just sign it, and let it go.” So he wrote, “Yours sincerely, Paul Tennant;” and went to bed.