CHAPTER XII.

TO NAHANT?

It was about three in the morning. The lights had been extinguished in the ball-room, and the house was still. The cas.e.m.e.nts of sleeping-rooms were darkening one by one as their inmates composed themselves to rest. A footfall on the gallery outside mingled with the tick of the clock on the staircase, which, in the stillness of the hour, sent monotonous vibrations through the timbers of the wooden house.

Backward and forward the walker paced, diffusing the thin smoke of his cigar upon the salt-smelling air. It was cool and even chilly as morning drew near. Already the sky had grown pale low down beyond the sea. The waters by contrast had grown more black and forbidding; and with the regular steady growl of the rollers breaking on the beach, it seemed like a monster watching at the portals of the day.

Backward and forth paced Joseph Naylor, too wakeful to sleep, and without even a wish to turn in. There was nothing painful in his ruminations, nothing to agitate; and no point of difficulty had arisen on which it was necessary for him to decide. Looking at himself in that state of divided consciousness in which one half the mind notes and surveys the workings of the other, he appeared scarcely to think at all. There was little of sequence or progress in the images among which he drifted, and the faculties of judging, choosing, desiring, intending, were not in use. There was rather a feeling of contented fruition overhanging his spirit like a golden mist, in which he seemed to bathe and be at rest.

Far back, before he had learned sorrow, he had known this sense of peace, a glimpse of Paradise from which he had been s.n.a.t.c.hed away, and the gates closed after him with a clang. Looking seaward, the black expanse spread out, with low reverberating sound, seemed a symbol of his long-drawn years of desolation, a barrier between him and the faintly brightening east. To-night he seemed to overpa.s.s that gulf, and feel again the blessedness of a young bridegroom--without a wish, because he touched the goal of his desires, swimming in contentment, and breathing the scent of orange-flowers and garlands. He seemed to be inhaling it even now.

There had been a time when to recall these feelings would have driven him mad--when he had set his teeth, and turned his mind away from the memory of what had grown to be an agony, and which dogged him night and day like the remorse of some great crime. As time wore on, his life had grown more tolerable, in grey and joyless wise, with the aftermath of sober peace which sedulous virtue can rear even on the stubble of youth's luxuriant crop cut down and borne away. Yet even then, to finger the old wounds was to make them bleed anew--to remember the past was to recall his sorrow.

To-night, what change had come over him? He seemed living again in the happiness of the bygone time. He felt young as he had not felt in twenty years. He could dwell on the old joys and feel no sting; recall the image of his lost without a pang--so young and tender, with her soft brown eyes and clinging touch lingering still so kindly on his retentive sense. There was no feeling of loss to-night, no raging pang of impotent hungry jealousy.

He seemed dwelling in the fragrance of her presence; and the image of his new friend, his deliverer, was with him too, so like and yet so different from the other. The sunny warmth in those full brown eyes had beamed on him with a reviving and invigorating glow, which had thawed and quickened his poor frost-bound nature like the coming of another spring. How different the two images were! And yet, when he strove to separate and compare them in his mind, how strangely they ran together, and blended like fluid shapes into something vaguely sweet and dear, which would not be resolved into either definite form!

A hand was laid lightly on his shoulder, and he turned his head, preoccupied still with the images of his waking dream.

"I have found you at last, and at leisure," said a voice at his elbow.

"You have been so busy all the evening, and I could not turn in till I had had a word with you."

"Walter! You? What is it?"

"What is this about going to Boston to-morrow? Margaret is as much taken by surprise as I am."

"Going to Boston? I know nothing of it. What do you mean?"

"Mrs Naylor told Margaret in my hearing they were going to Boston to-morrow."

"We came here intending to remain a month at least. Our rooms are only taken for a fortnight, to be sure, in case we should not like it; but if we do--and I thought we were getting on nicely--we were to stay. At least that was my idea. But--ah! I see--Walter, you scamp!

This comes of your unexpected appearance. You should be ashamed of yourself--disturbing a quiet family in this fashion. What a dangerous character you must be, when the sight of you frightens a middle-aged lady so much that she is going to pack up and run away, before--before----Bless my soul! how many days have we been here? It seems a long time, but it is not a week, not four---- We have been here only two days!

"Yes; now I think of it, my sister has been hovering round me a good deal this evening. I daresay she has been trying to get speech of me.

And I was conceited enough to think it was unwarrantable curiosity on the part of Mrs Caleb, watching what I was about."

"You _were_ a little different from your usual to-night, Mr Naylor. I never saw you mind young ladies much before. Tonight it has been impossible to get hold of you."

"That may have been the young ladies' fault, my boy. It is not every one of them who knows how to be good company. Naturally, a man at my time of day is less susceptible to the pink and white in a schoolgirl's face than you young fellows are. There is a time for bread and b.u.t.ter, and a time for other things. Solomon says so."

"I don't think any one should call Margaret a bread-and-b.u.t.ter miss,"

Walter answered, hotly.

"Margaret is a good girl, and smart--though perhaps I should not say so, who remember her a squealing baby--but she would not care to waste her evening in amusing an old uncle, when the fiddlers were around, and so many young fellows to mind her."

"And what about Boston, then? Do you mean to go? Or will you allow Mrs Naylor to take her daughters there, and break up the very pleasant party here?"

"I do not see that Mrs Caleb's going to Boston would break up the party here;" and there was a tone in Joseph's voice, as he said it, which betokened a smile, though there was not light enough to see it.

"It is natural that she should want to get her girls away from a too fascinating detrimental.

"You are a sad fellow, Walter--running about the world to frighten fond mothers, and compromise the prospects of young ladies."

"I can afford to marry, Mr Naylor. You know it. You know all about my circ.u.mstances and my connections. You have admitted to me that I might fairly enough go in and win if I could."

"I am not the girl's mother, my good fellow. If I recollect aright, I said 'Wait.' That is what I would say to you again, after the lapse of hardly three months. Your patience seems to me of the shortest. You must wait, my boy--wait."

"Wait till another fellow comes forward and unsettles her mind! Stand aside, and let him step in and win her! Would you do that yourself?"

"I don't know. You speak from the gentleman's point of view, you see.

It is from the lady's side, and with a view to her interests, that I must consider things. Her mother's feeling is perfectly natural. It is from no objection to yourself that she wishes to stave you off.

Margaret has seen nothing of the world. It is fair that she should know what she is giving up if she marries a backwoodsman."

"She does not object to the backwoods."

"She has seen too little of life in the front to realise what she would be giving up. You have influenced her fancy, and she sees with your eyes for the moment. By-and-by she might think differently, and if it were too late it would be bad for you both. You must really have patience, and give her time."

"But----"

"Oh yes; there is plenty to say on the other side, Walter. You and I might talk a long time, but I fear neither would convince the other.

Meanwhile, it is time we were both in bed. The lights are going out all over the house. Good night."

Joseph took his candle and went up-stairs. The light from a door ajar fell on him as he threaded the dim corridor, bordered with boots of sleeping guests.

"Joseph!" in a vehement whisper reached his ears. He turned, and his sister-in-law, in dressing-gown and shawl, stood before him.

"How late you are of retiring! I have watched and waited for your pa.s.sing till I am completely knocked up. Ah! my poor back! and my head aches dreadfully."

"Get to bed. Late hours are always hurtful."

"I could not lie down till I had seen you. I _must_ speak to you. And you have lingered so long."

"We cannot talk here--disturbing people, and being overheard. You are scarcely in trim for the parlour. Besides, the lights are out. It is very late, and I am awfully sleepy."

"Come in here. Improper?--Dear me!" and Mrs Naylor smiled sarcastically. "Our age will save our characters, Joseph, I should think. However, I will leave the door open."

"Well?" asked Joseph, following in reluctantly, "what is it--which will not keep till morning? Let's cut it as short as possible."

"Do you know that young Blount is here?"

"Yes."

"What are we to do?"

"I see no occasion to do anything."

"He may have Margaret engaged and committed any half-hour they are alone together."