Pedro thought so, decidedly.
When the February sun had stopped blazing down directly overhead, and a few white afternoon clouds had floated over from the east to shade his shining, so that man could bear it, the four started inland toward the backbone ridge, on whose summit there ran an old trail southward, made by the fierce Creeks three centuries before. Right up into the dazzling light soared the great eagles—straight up, up to the sun, their unshrinking eyes fearlessly fixed full on his fiery ball.
“It would be grander if we did not know they had just stolen their dinners from the poor hungry fish-hawks over there on the inlet,” said Carrington.
Sister St. Luke had learned to walk quite rapidly now. Her little black gown trailed lightly along the sand behind her, and she did her best to “step out boldly,” as Keith directed; but it was not firmly, for she only succeeded in making a series of quick, uncertain little paces over the sand like bird-tracks. Once Keith had taken her back and made her look at her own uneven footsteps. “Look—no two the same distance apart,” he said. The little Sister looked and was very much mortified. “Indeed, I will try with might to do better,” she said. And she did try with might; they saw her counting noiselessly to herself as she walked, “One, two; one, two.” But she had improved so much that Keith now devoted his energies to teaching her to throw back her head and look about her. “Do you not see those soft banks of clouds piled up in the west?” he said, constantly directing her attention to objects above her. But this was a harder task, for the timid eyes had been trained from childhood to look down, and the head was habitually bent, like a pendant flower on its stem. Melvyna had deliberately laid hands upon the heavy veil and white band that formerly encircled the small face. “You can not breathe in them,” she said. But the Sister still wore a light veil over the short dark hair, which would curl in little rings upon her temples in spite of her efforts to prevent it; the cord and heavy beads and cross encircled her slight waist, while the wide sleeves of her nun’s garb fell over her hands to the finger-tips.
“How do you suppose she would look dressed like other women?” said Carrington one day. The two men were drifting in their small yacht, lying at ease on the cushions, and smoking.
“Well,” answered Keith slowly, “if she was well dressed—very well, I mean, say in the French style—and if she had any spirit of her own, any vivacity, you might, with that dark face of hers and those eyes—you might call her piquant.”
“Spirit? She has not the spirit of a fly,” said Carrington, knocking the ashes out of his pipe and fumbling in an embroidered velvet pouch, one of many offerings at his shrine, for a fresh supply of the strong aromatic tobacco he affected, Keith meanwhile smoking nothing but the most delicate cigarettes. “The other day I heard a wild scream; and rushing down stairs I found her half fainting on the steps, all in a little heap. And what do you think it was? She had been sitting there, lost in a dream—mystic, I suppose, like St. Agnes—
Deep on the convent roof the snows
Are sparkling to the moon:
My breath to heaven like vapor goes.
May my soul follow soon—
and that sort of thing.”
“No,” said Keith, “there is nothing mystical about the Luke maiden; she has never even dreamed of the ideal ecstasies of deeper minds. She says her little prayers simply, almost mechanically, so many every day, and dwells as it were content in the lowly valleys of religion.”
“Well, whatever she was doing,” continued Carrington, “a great sea crab had crawled up and taken hold of the toe of her little shoe. Grand tableau—crab and Luke maiden! And the crab had decidedly the better of it.”
“She is absurdly timid,” admitted Keith.
And absurdly timid she was now, when, having crossed the stretch of sand and wound in and out among the low hillocks, they came to the hollow where grew the dark green thicket, through which they must pass to reach the Appalachian range, the backbone of the island, where the trail gave them an easier way than over the sands. Carrington went first and hacked out a path with his knife; Keith followed, and held back the branches; the whole distance was not more than twelve feet; but its recesses looked dark and shadowy to the little Sister, and she hesitated.
“Come,” said Carrington; “we shall never reach the salt marsh at this rate.”
“There is nothing dangerous here, señora,” said Keith. “Look, you can see for yourself. And there are three of us to help you.”
“Yes,” said Pedro—“three of us.” And he swung his broad bulk into the gap.
Still she hesitated.
“Of what are you afraid?” called out Carrington impatiently.
“I know not, indeed,” she answered, almost in tears over her own behavior, yet unable to stir. Keith came back, and saw that she was trembling—not violently, but in a subdued, helpless sort of way which was pathetic in its very causelessness.
“Take her up, Pedro,” he ordered; and, before she could object, the good-natured giant had borne her in three strides through the dreaded region, and set her down safely upon the ridge. She followed them humbly now, along the safe path, trying to step firmly, and walk with her head up, as Keith had directed. Carrington had already forgotten her again, and even Keith was eagerly looking ahead for the first glimpse of green.
“There is something singularly fascinating in the stretch of a salt marsh,” he said. “Its level has such a far sweep as you stand and gaze across it, and you have a dreamy feeling that there is no end to it. The stiff, drenched grasses hold the salt which the tide brings in twice a day, and you inhale that fresh, strong, briny odor, the rank, salt, invigorating smell of the sea; the breeze that blows across has a tang to it like the snap of a whip-lash across your face, bringing the blood to the surface, and rousing you to a quicker pace.”
“Ha!” said Carrington; “there it is. Don’t you see the green? A little farther on, you will see the mast of the boat.”
“That is all that is wanted,” said Keith. “A salt marsh is not complete without a boat tilted up aground somewhere, with its slender dark mast outlined against the sky. A boat sailing along in a commonplace way would blight the whole thing; what we want is an abandoned craft, aged and deserted, aground down the marsh with only its mast rising above the waste.”
“Bien! there it is,” said Carrington; “and now the question is, how to get to it.”
“You two giants will have to go,” said Keith, finding a comfortable seat. “I see a mile or two of tall wading before us, and up to your shoulders is over my head. I went duck-shooting with that man last year, señora. ‘Come on,’ he cried—‘splendid sport ahead, old fellow; come on.’
“‘Is it deep?’ I asked from behind. I was already up to my knees, and could not see bottom, the water was so dark.
“‘Oh, no, not at all; just right,’ he answered, striding ahead. ‘Come on.’
“I came; and went in up to my eyes.”
But the señora did not smile.
“You know Carrington is taller than I am,” explained Keith, amused by the novelty of seeing his own stories fall flat.
“Is he?” said the Sister vaguely.
It was evident that she had not observed whether he was or not.
Carrington stopped short, and for an instant stared blankly at her. What every one noticed and admired all over the country wherever he went, this little silent creature had not even seen!
“He will never forgive you,” said Keith laughing, as the two tall forms strode off into the marsh. Then, seeing that she did not comprehend in the least, he made a seat for her by spreading his light coat on the Appalachian chain, and, leaning back on his elbow, began talking to her about the marsh. “Breathe in the strong salt,” he said, “and let your eyes rest on the green, reedy expanse. Supposing you were painting a picture, now—does any one paint pict
ures at your convent?”
“Ah, yes,” said the little nun, rousing to animation at once. “Sister St. James paints pictures the most beautiful on earth. She painted for us Santa Inez with her lamb, and Santa Rufina of Sevilla, with her palms and earthen vases.”
“And has she not taught you to paint also?”
“Me! Oh, no. I am only a Sister young and of no gifts. Sister St. James is a great saint, and of age she has seventy years.”
“Not requisites for painting, either of them, that I am aware,” said Keith. “However, if you were painting this marsh, do you not see how the mast of that boat makes the feature of the landscape the one human element; and yet, even that abandoned, merged as it were in the desolate wildness of the scene?”
The Sister looked over the green earnestly, as if trying to see all that he suggested. Keith talked on. He knew that he talked well, and he did not confuse her with more than one subject, but dwelt upon the marsh; stories of men who had been lost in them, of women who had floated down in boats and never returned; descriptions clear as etchings; studies of the monotone of hues before them—one subject pictured over and over again, as, wishing to instruct a child, he would have drawn with a chalk one letter of the alphabet a hundred times, until the wandering eyes had learned at last to recognize and know it.
“Do you see nothing at all, feel nothing at all?” he said. “Tell me exactly.”
Thus urged, the Sister replied that she thought she did feel the salt breeze a little.
“Then take off that shroud and enjoy it,” said Keith, extending his arm suddenly, and sweeping off the long veil by the corner that was nearest to him.
“Oh!” said the little Sister—“oh!” and distressfully she covered her head with her hands, as if trying to shield herself from the terrible light of day. But the veil had gone down into the thicket, whither she dared not follow. She stood irresolute.
“I will get it for you before the others come back,” said Keith. “It is gone now, however, and, what is more, you could not help it; so sit down, like a sensible creature, and enjoy the breeze.”
The little nun sat down, and confusedly tried to be a sensible creature. Her head, with its short rings of dark hair, rose childlike from the black gown she wore, and the breeze swept freshly over her; but her eyes were full of tears, and her face so pleading in its pale, silent distress, that at length Keith went down and brought back the veil.
“See the cranes flying home,” he said, as the long line dotted the red of the west. “They always seem to be flying right into the sunset, sensible birds!”
The little Sister had heard that word twice now; evidently the cranes were more sensible than she. She sighed as she fastened on the veil; there were a great many hard things out in the world, then, she thought. At the dear convent it was not expected that one should be as a crane.
The other two came back at length, wet and triumphant, with their prize. They had stopped to bail it out, plug its cracks, mend the old sail after a fashion, and nothing would do but that the three should sail home in it, Pedro, for whom there was no room, returning by the way they had come. Carrington, having worked hard, was determined to carry out his plan; and said so.
“A fine plan to give us all a wetting,” remarked Keith.
“You go down there and work an hour or two yourself, and see how you like it,” answered the other, with the irrelevance produced by aching muscles and perspiration dripping from every pore.
This conversation had taken place at the edge of the marsh where they had brought the boat up through one of the numerous channels.
“Very well,” said Keith. “But mind you, not a word about danger before the Sister. I shall have hard enough work to persuade her to come with us as it is.”
He went back to the ridge, and carelessly suggested returning home by water.
“You will not have to go through the thicket then,” he said.
Somewhat to his surprise, Sister St. Luke consented immediately, and followed without a word as he led the way. She was mortally afraid of the water, but, during his absence, she had been telling her beads, and thinking with contrition of two obstinacies in one day—that of the thicket and that of the veil—she could not, she would not have three. So, commending herself to all the saints, she embarked.
“Look here, Carrington, if ever you inveigle me into such danger again for a mere fool’s fancy, I will show you what I think of it. You knew the condition of that boat, and I did not,” said Keith, sternly, as the two men stood at last on the beach in front of the lighthouse. The Sister had gone within, glad to feel land underfoot once more. She had sat quietly in her place all the way, afraid of the water, of the wind, of everything, but entirely unconscious of the real danger that menaced them. For the little craft would not mind her helm; her mast slipped about erratically; the planking at the bow seemed about to give way altogether; and they were on a lee shore, with the tide coming in, and the surf beating roughly on the beach. They were both good sailors, but it had taken all they knew to bring the boat safely to the lighthouse.
“To tell the truth, I did not think she was so crippled,” said Carrington. “She really is a good boat for her size.”
“Very,” said Keith sarcastically.
But the younger man clung to his opinion; and, in order to verify it, he set himself to work repairing the little craft. You would have supposed his daily bread depended upon her being made seaworthy, by the way he labored. She was made over from stem to stern: a new mast, a new sail; and, finally, scarlet and green paint were brought over from the village, and out she came as brilliant as a young paroquet. Then Carrington took to sailing in her. Proud of his handy work, he sailed up and down, over to the reef, and up the inlet, and even persuaded Melvyna to go with him once, accompanied by the meek little Sister.
“Why shouldn’t you both learn how to manage her?” he said in his enthusiasm. “She’s as easy to manage as a child—”
“And as easy to tip over,” replied Melvyna, screwing up her lips tightly and shaking her head. “You don’t catch me out in her again, sure’s as my name’s Sawyer.”
For Melvyna always remained a Sawyer in her own mind, in spite of her spouse’s name; she could not, indeed, be anything else—noblesse oblige. But the Sister, obedient as usual, bent her eyes in turn upon the ropes, the mast, the sail, and the helm, while Carrington, waxing eloquent over his favorite science, delivered a lecture upon their uses, and made her experiment a little to see if she comprehended. He used the simplest words for her benefit, words of one syllable, and unconsciously elevated his voice somewhat, as though that would make her understand better; her wits seemed to him always of the slowest. The Sister followed his directions, and imitated his motions with painstaking minuteness. She did very well until a large porpoise rolled up his dark, glistening back close alongside, when, dropping the sail-rope with a scream, she crouched down at Melvyna’s feet and hid her face in her veil. Carrington from that day could get no more passengers for his paroquet boat. But he sailed up and down alone in his little craft, and, when that amusement palled, he took the remainder of the scarlet and green paint and adorned the shells of various sea-crabs and other crawling things, so that the little Sister was met one afternoon by a whole procession of unearthly creatures, strangely variegated, proceeding gravely in single file down the beach from the pen where they had been confined. Keith pointed out to her, however, the probability of their being much admired in their own circles as long as the hues lasted, and she was comforted.
They strolled down the beach now every afternoon, sometimes two, sometimes three, sometimes four when Melvyna had no cooking to watch, no bread to bake; for she rejected with scorn the omnipresent hot biscuit of the South, and kept her household supplied with light loaves in spite of the difficulties of yeast. Sister St. Luke had learned to endure the crabs, but she still fled from the fiddlers when they strayed over
from their towns in the marsh; she still went carefully around the great jelly-fish sprawling on the beach, and regarded from a safe distance the beautiful blue Portuguese men-of-war, stranded unexpectedly on the dangerous shore, all their fair voyagings over. Keith collected for her the brilliant sea-weeds, little flecks of color on the white sand, and showed her their beauties; he made her notice all the varieties of shells, enormous conches for the tritons to blow, and beds of wee pink ovals and cornucopias, plates and cups for the little web-footed fairies. Once he came upon a sea-bean.
“It has drifted over from one of the West Indian islands,” he said, polishing it with his handkerchief—“one of the islands—let us say Miraprovos—a palmy tropical name, bringing up visions of a volcanic mountain, vast cliffs, a tangled gorgeous forest, and the soft lapping wash of tropical seas. Is it not so, señora?”
But the señora had never heard of the West Indian Islands. Being told, she replied: “As you say it, it is so. There is, then, much land in the world?”
“If you keep the sea-bean for ever, good will come,” said Keith, gravely presenting it; “but, if after having once accepted it you then lose it, evil will fall upon you.”
The Sister received the amulet with believing reverence. “I will lay it up before the shrine of Our Lady,” she said, carefully placing it in the little pocket over her heart, hidden among the folds of her gown, where she kept her most precious treasures—a bead of a rosary that had belonged to some saint who lived somewhere some time, a little faded prayer copied in the handwriting of a young nun who had died some years before and whom she had dearly loved, and a list of her own most vicious faults, to be read over and lamented daily; crying evils such as a perverse and insubordinate bearing, a heart froward and evil, gluttonous desires of the flesh, and a spirit of murderous rage. These were her own ideas of herself, written down at the convent. Had she not behaved herself perversely to the Sister Paula, with whom one should be always mild on account of the affliction which had sharpened her tongue? Had she not wrongfully coveted the cell of the novice Felipa, because it looked out upon the orange walk? Had she not gluttonously longed for more of the delectable marmalade made by the aged Sanchita? And, worse than all, had she not, in a spirit of murderous rage, beat the yellow cat with a palm-branch for carrying off the young doves, her especial charge? “Ah, my sins are great indeed,” she sighed daily upon her knees, and smote her breast with tears.
Constance Fenimore Woolson Page 22
