CHAPTER XXXII.
["YOU MAY TRUST ME TO HOLD MY TONGUE!"]
The dance at Blue Fish Creek was a success of its kind--the kind which might be expected. It was held in the "town hall," a sort of loft above the station of the village fire-engine, the one large room of the place; used on Sundays as a church by some sect which had not attained to a meeting-house of its own, as a singing-school on winter nights when the younger villagers grew tired of remaining at home, and as general place of gathering where the people met to discuss politics or to be entertained by itinerant players.
The hall was crowded and very hot. Three fiddles supplied the squeaking music of catgut in agony, while the young and active disported themselves amid clouds of dust of their own raising. The dances were complicated and strange, being of the kind in which an earlier generation loved to take exercise; but the motley crowd was happy--poussetted, chassied, and performed feats which I can neither name nor spell, with a will.
Margaret Naylor had had a great deal of young Petty's company, and was rather weary of him. From the moment when her uncle had bidden her farewell, her attention to the young man's conversation had begun to wander. Exert himself as he might, he failed to interest her, and he grew depressed himself in consequence. In the hall he persuaded her to dance once, but she refused point-blank when he ventured to ask her again. He felt dispirited, and soon withdrew from the festive throng, going out into the night, which had fallen dark and starless, and wandering round within hearing of the fiddles and the stamping feet, like a Peri shut out of Paradise--detesting the sounds of mirth in which he had no share, but unable to drag himself away. Even tobacco, that silent comforter of the miserable, failed to soothe him, and he hung around the entrance of the hall, to which he had no desire to return.
It was growing late. The stablemen had put the horses to the vehicles for the home-going, and ranged them in double row to await the breaking up of the gathering; but still the fiddlers plied the cruel bow upon the screeching catgut, and still the steady tramp of the dancers went on as briskly as ever. Petty lighted a fresh cigar, and told himself that his time of waiting had nearly expired. As the thought formed itself, a figure passed him coming down from the hall. It was muffled, so far as the lightness of summer attire would admit. Something was drawn over the head which made it unrecognisable as it passed quickly from under the dim lamp on the stairs into the darkness without. It stood for an instant accustoming itself to the gloom. He could see it turn about as if looking for an expected object. There was an omnibus provided with a lantern in the line of vehicles, which weakly illumined a little circle around it, and lent a few feeble indications as to more distant objects. The figure looked around again, and then, in a tremulous voice raised little above a whisper, it uttered the one word "Walter!"
Walter Petty's heart bounded into his throat, and beat tumultuously, like a startled bird, against his ribs. This was an altogether unexpected turn. She--there was no question as to who she was, when once that dear voice sounded--she called him by his name! It was her first time to do it, and he had not dared to hope she ever would. The cigar was tossed into the gutter in a twinkling, and he was at her side, too deeply moved to trust himself to speak.
That was unnecessary. Her own excitement compelled her to take the word.
"Oh quick, Walter! If mamma should miss me, and come out in search! What a commotion! Hurry! quick!... The buggy in front?--is it not?... You have everything ready of course? Oh hurry!"
Petty was puzzled What was she up to? Yet it did not matter what. It was right, or she would not do it. And if there was danger, he would be at her side. She flew to the front of the line, he striding, almost running, beside her. She was in the buggy in an instant. He followed. The reins were in his hands. The stable-boy let go the horse's head. They were away.
Away, but whither? Home, of course. Where else could she desire to go? Yet why so much mystery? such anxiety to escape, and steal away? It must be that detestable Wilkie, who had been so intrusive at Fessenden's Island. She had been staving him off for a week back, he thought he had observed. Now her mother was forcing him on her, and she had run away. What a fine spirited girl! Yet why did all the mothers run after that cad Wilkie? He was not a gentleman even, and yet Walter's own mother had been encouraging his attentions to his sister Ann. A pretty brother-in-law to bring into a family! And to think the fellow should presume to have two strings to his bow! And such strings! It made this jolly clatter of hoofs and wheels, this careering headlong through the night, even more delightful, if that were possible, to think of the other man left behind and biting his nails in disappointment.
"Quicker, Walter! quicker! Are we safely away, do you think? Can they overtake us?" How close she nestled to his side! How strong and protecting he felt! How heroic, as he peered out in the darkness, between the ears of his horse, to see if all were clear! The horse could see the way and take the turns, Walter could not. His driving was an act of faith; he could but sit and peer, and feel the horse's mouth, and be alert against a stumble or anything which might befall. Not seeing, he could not guide. It was late, fortunately, and there were no other travellers on the road. The night air blew past them fresh and exhilarating, and the soft pressure of his companion nestling to his side was an unspeakable delight. She seemed agitated--unduly, as it appeared to him; but then a woman is a tender thing, he thought, and how tender and solicitous he would be of this one, if she gave him the right! He could feel her tremble, and she spoke short ejaculatory sentences from time to time; not as if she wanted him to answer--and what was there he could say?--but merely to relieve her high-wrought feelings.
"I did not think I could have done it, Walter. Only for you I could have broke away. I feel quite wicked. But surely even mamma has no right to come in between you and me; and now she certainly must not."
Walter Petty agreed with the conclusion, but was at a loss to divine the premisses through which it was arrived at. However, they were going down a steep hill, his faculties were on the stretch as they jolted down in the darkness, and he had to support the horse, momentarily in danger of a stumble or upset upon the loose stones which encumbered the way. He did not answer, and Margaret was growing accustomed to the situation and recovering her composure.
They passed a wayside tavern whose windows still showed light, standing at a crossing where four ways met. Margaret recognised it, and the next moment observing that they turned to the right, she exclaimed--
"Walter! That is Mollekin's; you should have turned to the left for Narwhal Junction. If you keep on as we are going, we shall be at Clam Beach in fifteen minutes."
"Or ten, dear Margaret," Walter answered.
Margaret bounded up in her seat and drew away. Had Walter not clutched at her gown in time, she must have fallen out.
"Mr Petty! How come you to be here? What trap--what trick is this?"
"You brought me yourself, Miss Naylor. I have complied with your wishes as far as I have known how. You called me. You seemed to want my service. I was proud to be of use."
"You? I was to have met---- I did not call you, Mr Petty. How could you suppose it? I am not intimate with you. We are common acquaintances. That is all. What right had you to intrude? You have done me an irreparable injury. I should not have expected this of you."
"You came out of the hall in haste, Miss Naylor. You spoke to me. You said 'Walter.' I obeyed. I supposed you wanted to get home."
"You----" Margaret did not finish the sentence. Why should she betray herself? she thought. He seemed to have no suspicion as to her intentions. Why should she enlighten him? As he had frustrated her design, her best course was to leave him in his delusion. It would prevent gossip in the hotel. She would acquiesce in his supposition, seeing that her scheme to get away was balked for the present. "I did not know you in the dark, Mr Petty; I thought you were some one else. But it is all right. I have been driven nearly crazy by those jarring fiddles, and the dust and heat. Thanks for your kind readiness to oblige. I am dizzy with headache. I shall go to my room at once, and be asleep before the rest get home."
There was a clatter of hoofs behind them. Margaret drew her wraps over her head, and cowered low in her seat. Was she pursued? Was she overtaken? A little in front shone the lights of the hotel. How welcome they were now! A horseman dashed past at full gallop. He leapt down at the hotel door, and when the buggy drew up, Walter Blount was there to receive Margaret on alighting.
"You took away my buggy, Mr Petty," he observed, when that gentleman's countenance came within the circle of light streaming from the hotel door. "However, you have brought it safely here. Accept my thanks. I will relieve you now." Then turning to Margaret, "Now, dearest! in again!" He followed her, and to Petty's astonishment, the pair were gone.
Joseph Naylor, lounging on the gallery hard by, had seen the passage. He came forward and laid his hand on Petty's arm, as, standing stock-still in his bewilderment, he peered into the darkness after the vanished buggy.
"A strange part you seem to have played in those young folk's comedy--a tantalising part, and laughable, if people knew about it. But we will not tell them, will we? They have been long engaged. Mamma was adverse, perhaps unreasonable. But she will come round. We won't interfere, to spoil sport. Will we, Petty?"
Walter looked round rather ruefully. "You may trust to my holding my tongue, Mr Naylor. My own part in it has not been so distinguished that I need wish it known."
The runaways were on the road to Lippenstock. Walter Blount had spent the evening in the hall ready to follow Margaret as she went out. He had missed her, and waited on, till the party broke up not long after. Then he had found that his buggy was gone, and not seeing the lady, surmised she might be in it--might have got in to await him, and allowed the horse to bolt. He had difficulty in procuring a horse to follow, but in the end succeeded in bribing the man to take a leader out of one of the omnibuses, under a storm of reproaches from the outraged passengers, and had galloped to the Beach in hopes of overtaking and reclaiming his missing "rig"; and he had succeeded, recovering both outfit and passenger.
"Oh, Walter! what luck!" cried Margaret. "I thought that ridiculous Mr Petty had spoiled everything. His name is Walter, it seems; and when I called you, he answered. He should have known I would not call him by his name. We must hurry, though. Everybody will know, now, as soon as they get home. I see we are on the road to Lippenstock."
"Yes. Why should we risk meeting them, even in the dark? But I do not think young Petty will say anything. He seems a decent fellow who would not do a shabby thing; and he is not likely to tell an adventure in which he plays so ridiculous a part. To carry away a lady for another man!"