Occasionally our party passed a person, or a group of persons—mostly negroes approximating the pure type, for those of lighter color grew noticeably scarcer as the town was left behind. Now and then one of these would salute the party respectfully, while others glanced at them indifferently or turned away. There would have seemed, to a stranger, a lack, of spontaneous friendliness between the people of these two races, as though each felt that it had no part or lot in the other’s life. At one point the carriage drew near a party of colored folks who were laughing and jesting among themselves with great glee. Paying no attention to the white people, they continued to laugh and shout boisterously as the carriage swept by.
Major Carteret’s countenance wore an angry look.
“The negroes around this town are becoming absolutely insufferable,” he averred. “They are sadly in need of a lesson in manners.”
Half an hour later they neared another group, who were also making merry. As the carriage approached, they became mute and silent as the grave until the major’s party had passed.
“The negroes are a sullen race,” remarked the major thoughtfully. “They will learn their lesson in a rude school, and perhaps much sooner than they dream. By the way,” he added, turning to the ladies, “what was the arrangement with Tom? Was he to come out this evening?”
“He came out early in the afternoon,” replied Clara, “to go a-fishing. He is to join us at the hotel.”
After an hour’s drive they reached the hotel, in front of which stretched the beach, white and inviting, along the shallow sound. Mrs. Carteret and Clara found seats on the veranda. Having turned the trap over to a hostler, the major joined a group of gentlemen, among whom was General Belmont, and was soon deep in the discussion of the standing problem of how best to keep the negroes down.
Ellis remained by the ladies. Clara seemed restless and ill at ease. Half an hour elapsed and Delamere had not appeared.
“I wonder where Tom is,” said Mrs. Carteret.
“I guess he hasn’t come in yet from fishing,” said Clara. “I wish he would come. It’s lonesome here. Mr. Ellis, would you mind looking about the hotel and seeing if there’s anyone here that we know?”
For Ellis the party was already one too large. He had accepted this invitation eagerly, hoping to make friends with Clara during the evening. He had never been able to learn definitely the reason of her coldness, but had dated it from his meeting with old Mrs. Ochiltree, with which he felt it was obscurely connected. He had noticed Delamere’s scowling look, too, at their last meeting. Clara’s injustice, whatever its cause, he felt keenly. To Delamere’s scowl he had paid little attention—he despised Tom so much that, but for his engagement to Clara, he would have held his opinions in utter contempt.
He had even wished that Clara might make some charge against him—he would have preferred that to her attitude of studied indifference, the only redeeming feature about which was that it was studied, showing that she, at least, had him in mind. The next best thing, he reasoned, to having a woman love you, is to have her dislike you violently—the main point is that you should be kept in mind, and made the subject of strong emotions. He thought of the story of Hall Caine’s, where the woman, after years of persecution at the hands of an unwelcome suitor, is on the point of yielding, out of sheer irresistible admiration for the man’s strength and persistency, when the lover, unaware of his victory and despairing of success, seizes her in his arms and, springing into the sea, finds a watery grave for both. The analogy of this case with his own was, of course, not strong. He did not anticipate any tragedy in their relations; but he was glad to be thought of upon almost any terms. He would not have done a mean thing to make her think of him; but if she did so because of a misconception, which he was given no opportunity to clear up, while at the same time his conscience absolved him from evil and gave him the compensating glow of martyrdom, it was at least better than nothing.
He would, of course, have preferred to be upon a different footing. It had been a pleasure to have her speak to him during the drive—they had exchanged a few trivial remarks in the general conversation. It was a greater pleasure to have her ask a favor of him—a pleasure which, in this instance, was partly offset when he interpreted her request to mean that he was to look for Tom Delamere. He accepted the situation gracefully, however, and left the ladies alone.
Knowing Delamere’s habits, he first went directly to the barroom—the atmosphere would be congenial, even if he were not drinking. Delamere was not there. Stepping next into the office, he asked the clerk if young Mr. Delamere had been at the hotel.
“Yes, sir,” returned the man at the desk, “he was here at luncheon, and then went out fishing in a boat with several other gentlemen. I think they came back about three o’clock. I’ll find out for you.”
He rang the bell, to which a colored boy responded.
“Front,” said the clerk, “see if young Mr. Delamere’s upstairs. Look in 255 or 256, and let me know at once.”
The bellboy returned
