It was a terrible threat, and had been many times employed—always successfully, for "Miss Fanny" never did "take in hand" the small darkies, and so, having no notion of what taking in hand might mean, all the terrors of mystery were added to their fears. Young Scipio was greatly abashed, and pulled his forelock respectfully as he answered Mrs. O'Fallon's question.
"It's de boat, missus; she's comin' roun' de ben'."
In a moment all was confusion. There was no time to be lost. Yorke was despatched to get together my belongings, see that they were carried to the landing, and himself lead Fatima down the bank and on to the boat; for to no other would I trust my beauty. The boat by this time had nearly reached the landing, and there was a hurry of good-bys, Aunt Fanny shedding tears of vexation that my visit should be so short, and calling me her "dear boy," and kissing me and scolding me in one breath.
She and mademoiselle walked as far as the top of the bluff with me (I would not let them come farther, for the bank was steep and muddy), and then I said my good-by to mademoiselle. I raised her hand to my lips as I said it, and she looked straight into my eyes with eyes that shone with something brighter than smiles as she answered:
"Au revoir, monsieur!"
The captain of the keel-boat was shouting to us to make haste, and there was no time for another word; and I was glad to have it so, for another word might have made me indeed the boy Aunt Fanny was always calling me.
The two boys, Mr. Thruston, and my captain went down to the boat with me (which proved to be a more comfortable one than I had dared to hope for), and Fatima having been coaxed aboard and quarters found for her in a warm shed, and my captain pressing my hand with an affectionate "Good-by, dear lad," that was once more near to my undoing, we were untied, and the men at the poles pushed hard and walked rapidly back to the stern, and the men at the cordelle pulled all together, with a long-drawn "Heave, ho, heave!" and we were off.
I stood in the stern watching the two figures on the bluff until one of them went away and there was only one, slender and of but little stature, with soft dark curls, and eyes whose tender glow I could feel long after the figure was but one indistinct blur, with a white hand waving farewell.
Then came another bend in the river and shut her from my sight. And there was naught left to me of Mademoiselle Pelagie but a memory of tears and smiles; of hard words and gentle ones; of cold looks and kind ones; of alternate hopes and fears on my side; of scorning and—yes, I believed it with all my heart—of scorning and loving on hers.