CHAPTER XIII.
A KISS DEFERRED.
GARDE, when she had questioned her cousin Prudence, until there was little or nothing concerning Adam’s visit and farewell at the gate which she did not know, was still far from being certain of anything in connection with the whole predicament.
One thing, however, gave her a small measure of comfort. This was that her brooch was much more beautiful than the Spanish doubloon Adam had given to Prudence. Yet this comfort grew cold as she reflected that even if Adam did possibly like her as much as he did Prudence, he had written her those incomprehensible lines about burying sorrow, and he had gone away, she knew not where, or in what manner, without even giving her an opportunity of bidding him God-speed.
Mistress Merrill was not impulsive and nimble-witted without having resources at command, when occasion demanded. She was up ahead of the ordinary lark, on Monday morning, making straight for the home of old Goody Dune, for whom she frequently gathered simples.
Goody Dune had not contented herself in life with simples only. She had gathered complexities of wisdom and the things abstruse in life, for many a year. She was a wrinkled old woman whom children, kittens, dogs, horses and all things guided by instinct always sought in friendship at once. Anyone with patience enough to reconstruct her face on the lines it must once have worn, in her youth, would have found personal beauty still indicated in the old woman’s countenance. Her eyes still ensnared pretty lights of humor; her lips were still of that soft texture which in youth is so charming and in old age too flexible over vacancies where teeth are gone. Her hair was plentiful and so entirely gray that one might have looked at it closely and then have said: “Yes, the black ones seem to be coming; they will soon be getting quite thick.”
Never yet had Garde been able to get to Goody’s house sufficiently early to knock on the door. Goody always opened it to receive her. And always the old woman’s great black cat stood up, on top of the tall clock, on which she had been lying but the moment before, now arching her back and stretching, to add her welcome to that of her mistress.
The room never had ceased to have its fascinations for Garde, since the first time she had seen it, in her childhood. The small bags, which hung from the rafters, along with pendants made of herbs, roots and bulbs, might have contained gold and precious gems, for all that Garde knew to the contrary, while the dark cupboard and the great chest increased the possibilities of the place, which would have been so grand to rummage in, had it not been for the brass warming-pan, so terribly like a watchful moon, forever looking down from the wall. Then lastly, and mostly, in some particulars, there was Rex, the jackdaw, a veritable concentration of all the dark arts and wisdoms extant.
“Good morning, my dear,” said Goody, as Garde entered, breathless with her haste, “you have come to see me early.”
“She’s in love,” said the jackdaw, gravely.
“Oh, dear me!” gasped the girl.
“Rex, you wicked one,” expostulated Goody, mildly. “Never mind, my dear, he found you out that morning last week.”
This was the truth for Goody had said these very same words, several times, in the presence of Rex, no more than five minutes after Garde had gone, that day when she and Adam had met in the forest.
“But I—oh, Goody, Rex is really wicked,” said Garde. “But I do so need you to tell me something.”
“Who doesn’t,” answered Goody. “What a pity it would be if I could never save anyone in the world from some little pain, or some mistake, and yet”—she shook her head, smiling half sadly—“how few human beings are willing even to listen. They must all burn their fingers and learn for themselves.”
“Fools!” said the jackdaw, “fools, fools, fools. I’m a fool myself.”
Fortunately Garde was not unaccustomed to these interruptions on the part of the knowing bird, so that, although he always made her pause and look at him, as if she expected to see how he did it, when he spoke, she was now enabled to tell Goody her troubles with quite as much rapidity as coherence.
She held back nothing. She told all about her original glimpse of Adam in the Plymouth procession, of their meeting, her immediate regard for him, then and there, the long fostering of her affection, and the events of the days just past. This done, she produced her slip of paper, on which Adam had written his mediocre verse, and laid it before the wise woman to be deciphered.
Goody read the lines several times. “How old are you now, my dear?” she asked, and then she added, “It hasn’t anything to do with your worries; it is only for my own foolish gratification that I ask.”
“I am eighteen,” said Garde.
“Well, I should have been puzzled myself, at eighteen,” said the old woman. She looked into vacancy, for a moment, dwelling on some fond memory that brought her sad smile to her withered lips again. “But you need not be worried. He loves you, dear, as indeed he should, but for some reason or other he believes you care for somebody else, and he is therefore taking himself away. Believing as he does, he is certainly right, as well as brave, in going away.”
“But I don’t love—like any one else,” protested Garde. “And I don’t see how or why he ever got such an idea into his head. He doesn’t know anybody that I know. He went to meeting with Mrs. Phipps—Oh! oh—Mr. Wainsworth!—He does know Mr. Wainsworth.”
“Yes, dearie, and does Mr. Wainsworth seem to fancy you, or anything of that sort?”
“And Mr. Wainsworth told us he had seen Adam, and that he told him everything,” said Garde, thinking for herself and musing aloud. “Oh, dear me!”
“Oh, dear me!” said Rex, derisively.
“And do you know where your Adam is going, and when?” inquired Goody. “Those ought to be your main considerations now.”
“Why, to-day,” answered Garde. “But I don’t know where, or anything else about it. What shall I do? If he goes away like that, I may never see him again!”
“Did you say he went to meeting with Goodwife Phipps?”
“Yes,—yes, I saw him myself.”
“Then you can be almost certain that he is off somewhere with Captain William Phipps, for a more restless, sea-hankering man never lived and remained so good as Captain Phipps.”
“Oh, I might have thought of that!”
“Then you ought to be able to think of something to do this very morning,” said Goody, a little, pretty color burning up in her wrinkled cheeks. “It is still early, and you have good stout legs.”
Garde suddenly jumped up and kissed her.
“Good-by!” she said. “Oh, thank you, thank you, so much! But—haven’t you something I can take to—to Captain Phipps?”
Goody immediately supplied her with a small package. “Take him this tea,” she said. “No sailor should ever go to sea without it.”
Garde sped away, as if on the wings of impulse.
“She’s in love! she’s in love!” screamed the jackdaw, hilariously. As she ran, Garde could hear him clapping his wings against his body, in noisy applauding.
Running and walking alternately, by the quieter streets and lanes, meeting no one on her way, Garde finally arrived in sight of the ship-yard belonging to William Phipps. Her first impulsive thought had by now had time to abate somewhat and give place to a more sober reflection. Mistress Merrill began to wonder what she would say, if she did manage to see Adam Rust. It had been by a swift inspiration, almost an instinct of a maidenly young woman, that she had provided herself with an excuse for racing to this place. No modest girl could bear the thought of seeming to run after a man, or to say anything bold to him, or anything calculated to show that she held herself in any way other than proudly aloof, where he must bring his love, if he would sue for her favor.
She thought of all this as she went. She also began to think that perhaps Goody Dune might be mistaken. If Adam were found and he did not love her after all, not for all the world would he get one sign from her that she loved him or cared for him one tiny bit, or cared whether he went or remained.
She was breathless, rosy as a cherry and excited. Her hair had fallen down and the plaits had loosened. It hung about her face and nestled against her creamy throat like strands of ebony, richly copper-plated. Her dark eyes were flashing; her lips were parted, revealing her teeth like little white soldiers in a row. As she ran, her skirts whipped upward, in curves, about the roundest and trimmest ankles imaginable.
She now observed a small boat, approaching the landing. Out in the stream the sails of the “Captain Spencer” were rising like clouds. Garde then discovered the figure of a tall man, who had been sitting on a heap of logs, for he arose and went toward the dory, which had evidently come from the ship to fetch him. She recognized familiar outlines and the drag of the sword which the man was wearing.
“Adam!” she cried. “Oh, Adam, wait!”
But she was still too far away to be heard. Adam continued leisurely walking toward the landing. Then the sailor who had rowed ashore for Rust, saw the picturesque figure coming toward them so swiftly, and pointed her out to Adam.
Rust was puzzled for a moment. Then he knew it was Garde. His heart turned a double somersault in his breast. He felt himself grow red to the tips of his ears. He walked toward the girl as one uncertain of what is expected of him next.
Garde stopped running, when some distance away, and came on more slowly, brushing a wisp of hair from her face. Suddenly afraid of what she had done, uncertain of what she would or could say, to explain her presence so that he would think no less of her than before, she was glad he had not heard her call out his name, but she was tremendously excited. Her eyes shone like brown jewels. Her bosom was heaving rapidly.
“Why—good morning, Mistress Merrill,” said Adam.
“Oh—it is you—Mr. Rust!” said Garde, in the surprise which a woman can feign on a second’s notice. “Why, I thought—why, good morning. I thought I might find Captain Phipps here, and Goody Dune wished me to give him this tea, and she heard—she heard he was going away this morning.”
“Oh! thank you, very much,” said Adam, a little thickly, in his tremendous excitement, which he was endeavoring to restrain. “Goody Dune was very thoughtful, and you were kind to come.”
“But Goody didn’t tell me I should find you here,” said Garde, truthfully enough. She had never felt so stirred in her life. But outwardly she was beginning to be calm. “You told Prudence you were going away. Can it be possible that you are going with Captain Phipps?”
“Yes, this morning,” said Adam.
Then there was a silence for a moment. Garde hardly knew what to say next. If she should make the slightest advance and he should receive it coldly, or derisively, or without understanding, she would die of mortification. The pause became dreadful to bear—to them both.
“I got—Prudence gave me the brooch—from Hispaniola,” Garde stammered, presently.
Adam saw it. It was rising and falling like a little golden ship, on her bosom. He felt himself somewhat at sea. If he could only have blurted out that he loved her—if it had not been for Wainsworth, what a moment this would have been!
“I am glad you like it,” he said.
Garde felt that there was little encouragement in this remark. “You will not forget to give the tea to Captain Phipps, will you?” she said. “I think I must now return.”
“I wish you had brought this tea down here for me!” said Rust suddenly, no longer answerable to his loyalty to Wainsworth.
Garde had wished he would say these very words. She had rehearsed the answer she would make if he did. Her heart, had it been a bird beating its wings, could not have fluttered more wildly.
“If I had come down here to see you, it would only have been to tell you that you have made some mistake,” she said, averting her gaze from his and looking on the ground.
Adam trembled, uncontrollably, violently. She saw it in his hand.
“Do you mean——” he said.
“Yes,” said Garde, raising her eyes to his frankly.
“Then I can love you! I do love you! I’ll come back here and marry you, sweetheart! I shall love you and tell you I love you and love you!” he burst forth passionately. “My little Garde! my love! my sweetheart!—my little wife that I shall have and love till my heart is full!”
Garde gasped for breath in the whirlwind of his words, that swept her fairly off her feet. Her hand had been on a post, where she had been picking away little particles of bark. Adam took it. His big hand encompassed it all about. She felt his soul rush to his fingers, to meet the throbbing of her own emotions.
“Oh, Adam!” was all she could say for a moment.
“Garde!” he replied, “my Garde—my love! Why didn’t you tell me about it before?”
“You—you were the one,” she said, somewhat regaining her footing. “You were going away without even saying good-by.”
“I thought——”
“Yes, you thought such silly things,” interrupted Garde, impulsively, yet joyfully. “You thought I could like somebody else, and that is why you were going away—without even asking. And I don’t know why you ever came to see me the first time and made me name my cat Standing-Panther, if you were going to think such things as that.”
Adam laughed. It was a sudden bubbling over of his spirits. He was the bright-eyed, joyous boy again, all at once.
“Poor Henry—poor Henry!” he said, with irrepressible mirth and gladness. “But he never loved you as I love you, sweetheart! He couldn’t! I love you so that I would cut down an army to get you and run away with you here in my arms though all the demons of earth should follow!”
“Oh but, Adam—you mustn’t!” said Garde, as Rust was about to demonstrate the ardor of which he had spoken.
“What, sweetheart, not one little kiss?” he said.
“Why, no, of course not, Adam,” she answered him, blushing prettily.
“Aren’t we betrothed?” he demanded.
“I have not said I will marry you, have I, Adam?” she said, roguishly.
“But you shall, sweetheart. I love you so much that you can’t help it! I love you so it seems as if I shall explode! I love you, dear! Do you hear me say it? I love you! I love you, Garde. You do love me, sweetheart—just a little?”
“Yes, I—love you a lit——,” Garde was saying.
“A-d-a-m R-u-s-t.——come—aboard!” came a great voice across the harbor, from the brig out in the stream.
“Beg pardon, sir, the Capting’s calling,” shouted the sailor, who had rowed ashore for Rust.
Adam waved him a dumb reply. “Then you will give me one little kiss, for good-by, sweetheart?” he begged.
“No—it’s too soon,” said Garde. “Besides——”
“But I am going away,” interrupted Adam. “And I have loved you seven years!”
“Oh, you are not going away now—not now, when we have just found out there was some mistake?” said Garde.
“I have promised to go, and therefore I must,” said Adam. “And I have to go and get that fortune now, so that I can come back and marry you, sweetheart! I must keep my promise to Captain Phipps.”
“But you won’t stay away for seven years again, will you, Adam?” inquired Garde, looking at him wistfully and candidly now, with all her love in her eyes. “If you do——” she left the sentence unfinished.
“No, I will not,” Adam assured her. “But if I remained away for fifty years, I should love you and love you still. And will you love me, dearest, as long as that?”
“Yes, I shall love you longer than that,” answered Garde. She was not impulsive now, but her manner was sweetly earnest, therefore it was more beautiful than all her other beauty. “I shall always love you now, Adam,” she added. “It seems to me as if I always had.”
William Phipps roared across the water once again.
Adam’s less tumultuous, more enduring love, came into his eyes. He thought the caress of her long look was sweeter than the kiss Garde might have given him.
“I shall have to go,” he murmured. “God bless you and keep you, sweetheart. Good-by, dear Garde.”
“Good-by, Adam,” said Garde. “I shall pray for your swift return.”
He swept her little hand to his lips for a second and then strode away.
Garde placed her other hand over the tingling fingers he had kissed, as if to prevent the caress from escaping.
As he went out over the water, she waved her tiny handkerchief to him, and permitted two warm tears to trickle down her face.
Adam’s memory of her was of her pretty, brown figure, seen from afar, and the look in her eyes, which he felt that no space could dim in his vision.