CHAPTER VIII.

A COMING SHADOW.

“August in Washington is not the most exhilarating season,” Basil remarked, after a return from an exhaustive and exhausting study of the city’s architecture. “Still, I am vastly inclined towards the place, and have actually been looking at offices, Persis.”

“That is attending to business with a vengeance,” she replied. She was sitting in the cool drawingroom, drumming softly on the piano when Basil came in. She stopped the little waltz which lightly tinkled from the keys, and looked up. “Wasn’t it awfully hot and discouraging over in town?” she asked.

“Not so very. There are so many open squares, and cross angles and trees, that except where the sun shines on the asphalt it isn’t oppressive. It is deliciously cool in here, and that dim blue frock of yours makes you look as if you didn’t know what it was to be warm.”

“Do you like this? I made it myself, and it cost five cents a yard, a mid-summer bargain. I believe I have a genius for being poor.”

“Or, at least, for making the most out of very little. Where are the others?”

“Scattered around in various cool spots. Walter, Connie, Porter, and Mrs. Dixon are on the back porch; Annis—ah! here she is. Come in, ‘my dearest, dear little heart,’” for Annis stood hesitatingly in the door-way. “Oh, do you want me? I forgot all about that pattern I promised to hunt up. I’ll do it now.”

“And I must go and find mother,” said Basil.

Persis put her arm around Annis as they passed up the wide stairway. “This hot weather completely wilts you, doesn’t it, Annis?” she said. “You were never buxom, but now you look really droopy. I don’t believe, as I come to think of it, that you looked much better even when we were in the mountains, for, although you never were a rattle-pate, you have been quieter and less merry than usual.” They had reached the door of their room, and Persis took Annis’s face between her hands, gently kissing her. “Darling,” she went on to say, “you are troubled about something. Tell me what it is. Can I do anything?”

Annis dropped her eyes. “You could,” she made answer, “but I wouldn’t have you for a million worlds.”

Persis drew back and looked at her. “Why, Annis, aren’t you ashamed not to let me? You know I’d do anything—anything at all, even to the giving to you the half of my kingdom,” she concluded, with a smile.

“I know it.”

“You don’t love me, then.”

“Oh, Persis, I do, I do! I’m a wretched, weak, silly girl. I’ve no force of character at all, and you are so strong. Oh, Persis, I do love you! Don’t let that come.”

“What?” Persis cuddled the smaller girl’s head against her shoulder.

“Why, anything—any cloud.”

“I’ve thought some days that there was a little cloud.” Persis spoke slowly. “Once or twice, Annis, you were so offish. I didn’t understand it. It was so very unlike you.”

“I know I’m horrid, I know I am; but I’ve not been happy.”

“I could see that. Is it—is it because of that—that unknown you met in Europe?” The question came in a whisper. Annis lifted her head and looked half startled. The color rushed up to her cheeks, and she broke away from her cousin with a little gesture of protest, which Persis interpreted as meaning to do away with the subject.

“We won’t talk about it then.” She attempted to change the subject by saying, “But I wish you’d let me do that, whatever it is.”

Annis shook her head decidedly, and Persis turned the topic by announcing, “To-morrow we go to the Great Falls. Oh, Annis, you will like it, I know. The only reason I don’t want to go is that I don’t want it over, for that means a breaking up of the party. I suppose the next day there will be the beginning of the separation, for the Dixons will go then. To think we have been on the go for over eight weeks, and now the summer is nearly over. Has your mother decided yet where you will spend the rest of it? I wish you’d go to New England with me.”

“Mamma thinks she doesn’t care for New England this year, and so we shall very likely go to the Water Gap for two or three weeks in September.”

“And then go back home and take your house again? I wonder if Mrs. Phillips will stay in the city with Porter, or come here to Washington with Basil.”

“Mamma thinks she will not take the house for another year. The tenants want to keep it,” Annis replied. Then, after a pause, she asked, “Has Basil decided to settle here?”

“I think so.” Persis spoke unconcernedly. “Oh, don’t you hope it will be clear to-morrow?” she added. “I went once to the Falls when it rained all day, and it was so drippy, and the rocks were so slippery.”

Persis’s hopes were realized, for it proved to be a fine day, a shower having cooled the air and laid the dust. As the horses trotted up the Conduit Road, over Cabin John Bridge, and on up the river road, the occupants of the three carriages caught glimpses of the blue Potomac between the trees, and the opposite shores of Virginia.

Mr. Danforth had promised to join this expedition, and was on hand the evening before they were to start. He was always an addition to a travelling party, and, as a good driver, good athlete, good comrade, was always greeted with a warm welcome. All the boys liked him, and on this occasion he was in the best of spirits.

Arrived at the old hotel by the side of the road, the party proceeded across the canal lock to the rocks.

“Such a way,” exclaimed Connie, “I never saw! Is it the best they can do? The idea of having to scramble across boards and over beams! and, oh, dear! have we got to cross that dreadful shaky little bridge? I can never do it in the world.” And, indeed, it did seem to be a venturesome undertaking, so much so that Mrs. Phillips could not be persuaded to try it, and Mrs. Brown, having gone a few steps, turned back, and no amount of coaxing could induce her to make a second attempt.

“But, mother, it is perfectly safe,” Basil assured her. “It is too bad to have come this far and not to go over to where you can get a view.”

But Mrs. Phillips flatly refused to budge, and the others went on their way. The boys made nothing of it; Annis turned very pale as Basil guided her over; Connie pranced, and protested with little shrieks that she never in the world could venture, even with Walter to go with her. “It swings and teeters so!” she exclaimed. “I am more afraid with the two of us on it than if I were alone, and yet I can’t go by myself.”

“You act just like a skittish horse,” Walter told her. “To be sure, it does sway, but it is perfectly safe.” And at last, with Walter holding her hand, she managed to get on the other side. “Oh, dear!” she sighed, as she reached solid earth; “I feel like a mouse in a trap, for we’ve got to go back the same way, and I dread it so.”

Mr. Danforth and Porter piloted the older ladies, but Persis persisted in making the journey alone. “I can do it better,” she told them.

“You always are brave.” Basil spoke in an aside to her. “I never knew you yet to be wanting in courage, either moral or physical.”

“I’ve not had many tests as yet,” she answered; “and this surely cannot be dangerous, or so many persons would not use it.”

The scramble to the top of the rocks did not seem difficult, and here the view of the falls was obtained.

“Well, it is fine,” Mrs. Dixon declared, as she looked at the eager rushing flood tossing over the rocks. “It is really grand. We’ll sit here and enjoy it, and you young folks can scramble about all you please.”

Naturally that was exactly what the young folks wanted to do, and one after another went farther and farther, fascinated by the invitation which the rocks offered for such explorations.

“I’ve come to the end of my limit at last,” Persis announced, having left Annis a few feet away. Connie, still farther behind, had begun to retrace her steps. The boys were not satisfied, however, and were leaping from one jutting rock to another.

“Here, Annis, give me your hand,” said Persis; “I’m sure you can make one more jump. This is a nice flat rock, there is plenty of room for both of us on it.” And she turned to lend her aid.

At that moment a shout from Mr. Danforth was heard. “Look out, there, Basil! I wouldn’t try that. It looks treacherous.” But he was too late, Basil had made the leap; and as Annis and Persis, clinging together, turned their eyes in Basil’s direction they saw him slip and fall. Sucked in by a swift eddy, he was being borne on down towards the rapid, relentless current.

Mr. Danforth did not lose an instant. Calling to Porter to follow, he made a short cut along the rocks nearer shore, having taken in at a glance the possibility of Basil’s being swept that way, on account of there being a divergence in the flood at that point.

Persis gave one smothered, horror-stricken cry, and clutched Annis fiercely, who uttered a shrill scream of terror. “Oh, Persis! Persis!” Annis cried; “can we do nothing? Oh! must he be killed? I cannot stand it, I cannot! I wish I might go, too; I cannot live if he is gone. Oh, Persis! oh, what shall I do? Oh, Basil! Basil! I would die for you. Oh, save him! save him!” The words came brokenly from the girl’s very heart, and for one second Persis’s hold on her lessened, then she gathered her closer to her.

“Hush, Annis, hush,” she besought her. “All we can do is to pray God to spare him.” And with quivering lips and quickly beating hearts, they stood for what seemed an eternity waiting the result.

Mr. Danforth had thrown himself flat across one of the large rocks, bidding Porter to hold him fast, and as Basil, still clutching feebly at the slippery, elusive crags, reached him, he was caught in the strong arms, which managed to draw him out of danger. Battered and bruised, he was but living.

“Is he safe? Is he badly hurt?” Persis’s voice came, sharp with anxiety.

“He’ll be all right, I think,” came back Mr. Danforth’s reassurance. “I wish we had a drop of brandy.”

“I’ll go get some; I’ll be back in a minute.” She knew on these excursions her Aunt Esther always carried a little flask in her bag, in case of emergency, and she sprang from rock to rock, never thinking of fear or anything but Basil. Once or twice in her haste she fell, but she scrambled up again and went on to the top of the rocks. “Give me the brandy, quick, quick!” she cried, as she came in sight of the figures sitting together.

Mrs. Wickes started to her feet. “What is the matter? Who needs it?” she asked, sharply.

“Basil.” The reply came breathlessly. “I can’t stop. Oh, quick! Walter is coming, he’ll tell you.” For Walter had followed, thinking to overtake Persis in her flight, but she encountered him half-way down the bluff.

“Give it to me,” he cried. “I can get back quicker.” And Persis relinquished the little flask.

Walter’s long legs and sure footing took him swiftly to where Porter and Mr. Danforth were with Basil. By degrees they managed to get the unconscious form to a place of more security, and by degrees they managed to restore consciousness. Other visitors to the place gathered with ready offers of help, and difficult and toilsome as the trip was to the hotel, it was at last accomplished.

“It was a close shave,” some one told them. “A young fellow was drowned here last year through just such an accident.”

A doctor who was at hand pronounced no bones broken, and no internal injuries so far as could be discovered. “He must be kept very quiet,” he advised. “I don’t see how he got off so well as this. A little more and it would have been impossible.”

It was a very solemn and subdued party that travelled slowly back to town. Mrs. Wickes hastened on ahead, and by the time they were able to get Basil to the house all was ready for him.

“Oh, Mr. Dan,” said Persis, with such a ghastly face as was only matched by Annis, “if it hadn’t been for you we should not have Basil.”

Annis’s lips quivered as she, too, gave her praise for courage and promptness.

“It was lucky we were all close together,” Mr. Danforth said. “I could not have managed alone. It was the knowledge that Porter was behind me and Walter behind him that made it possible.”

Poor Mrs. Phillips was completely overcome by the catastrophe, as she realized how perilously near grief and loss had been.

By night Basil was pronounced safe, although he was feverish, and was aching from head to foot.

“He needs quiet and care, and will come out all right,” the doctor assured them. “He has a good constitution, and no bad habits to stand in nature’s way, I judge. A clean, wholesome life is a great safeguard in accident cases,” he added.

“Then Basil has the best of chances,” Mr. Danforth certified. “I’ve known him from boyhood, and his record will bear any sort of a search-light thrown on it.”

“And so the end of the lovely summer has been disaster,” Persis said to her cousin. “How dreadful to think that in the twinkling of an eye such things can come!”

Annis was more than usually subdued. Persis alone knew her secret, and she had feared to be left alone with the older and stronger girl, but when night came, here they were together, and Persis had no word of reproach for her.

But outwardly calm as she was, Persis’s brain was in a whirl. The discovery of what Annis felt was a revelation to her. She did not suspect it. The hint about the somebody abroad had completely misled her. And now that the assurance of Basil’s safety was theirs, this must be met and settled. Happiness for herself at the cost of misery for Annis, that was what it meant; and yet—and yet. “I know which of us Basil cares for,” Persis told herself, “and he is not a flirt; he is not one who makes love to every girl he meets. I’m sure of that.”

She sat so long at the window in the dimly lighted room that after a time Annis said, timidly, “Persis, aren’t you coming to bed?”

“After a while,” was the answer. “I have so much to think about, Annis.”

The little figure in the bed sat up and held out two supplicating hands. “Oh, Persis! Persis!” came the cry. “Why did you ever want me for a friend? I have brought you only misery.”

“Hush!” Persis’s voice was sharp and peremptory. Then she left her place by the window and went over to the bedside. “I wanted you because I loved you,” she said. “I can’t talk it all out now. I will after a while.”

“But he—he loves you.”

“Does he? He has never told me so. There, I said I was not ready to talk.” And she resumed her seat by the window.

The great thing that she could do for her cousin. This was it,—she could give up Basil. A great thing. How great a thing was it? What did it mean to her? Care for him herself? Of course she did. She always had cared. She knew that now. It had been a natural growth, not a sudden fancy. And Basil, he had been more than once on the verge of a confession. She knew that. If she had only let him tell her that day of their mountain ride in the storm, then it would all have been settled, and her duty would be to him, to him alone, but now——Oh, but Annis had deceived her by saying she cared for some one in Europe. No, she didn’t say that. She said she saw some one in Europe for whom she cared. So she did. She saw Basil, and poor, little, unhappy Annis would have gone through life without ever yielding up her secret, but for that dreadful, sudden horror which wrenched it from her.

But Basil doesn’t care for her, Persis next told herself, but might he not if he could be made to believe that she, herself, regarded him only as a good comrade, as a dear counsellor, an old crony, or anything of the kind? Annis, with no one but her mother, a delicate woman who might leave her desolate in a few short years, and she, Persis, so rich in affection, father, mother, sisters, grandmother. Why, she was selfish, of course she was. She would give Annis a chance, at least she could do that, and then, if after that it so happened that Basil persisted in caring for the wrong girl, why, she couldn’t help it.

So she settled it, not without a last struggle, but, as Basil had only that day told her, Persis was always brave. She went to where Annis lay watching her. There was something motherly in the way she leaned over her friend. “Annis,” she began, “nothing must come between us. You must think of me as Basil’s sister, not as anything else. Tell me, dear, has he—did you think, in those days at Paris, that he cared for you? Don’t lock away in your heart anything which will help us to understand.”

“Oh, Persis, how strong you are! I think no girl ever had so loyal a friend.”

“Oh, yes,” the reply came, a little sadly. “Girls, real true, loving, womanly girls, are always loyal. I know they say that you can trust your friends in all affairs save those of love, but I think even there girls can be honest to each other. Tell me all about yourself and Basil. I know he has always liked you and admired you.”

“Yes. I think we have always liked each other, and I used to think, at first, that you and Mr. Dan were fond of each other, so I didn’t try not to care.”

“And in Paris?”

“And there I saw him constantly. He was very good to mamma and me, and went everywhere with us. Mamma used to say it was because we were old friends, and because he felt as if he had a sort of claim on us, since I was your cousin; but—but I hoped it was because he really liked me. Don’t think he ever said sentimental things to me, he never did, but I—perhaps I imagined when he sent me flowers that they meant more. I suppose it was because I wanted to think it was so. But after we came back, and I saw him with you, I felt that all his attentions were because I was your dearest friend; that he liked to be with me because I could talk about you. Not being able to get pudding, he took pie,” she concluded, with a little attempt at jocularity.

“And you have been miserable over it. It is dreadful. But Annis dear, when he finds poor pudding isn’t good for him, and, besides, that it is not attainable, he will conclude that never was anything quite so absolutely satisfactory as good pie.”

“Oh, Persis! No, no! I won’t have you talk so. I believe you are going to do a dreadful thing.”

“How, dreadful?”

“Why you’ll ruin his life for the sake of my foolish, foolish fancy.”

“Ruin his life? not a bit of it. His little preference for me is only a flash in the pan.” Persis spoke lightly. She wondered as she did so, if she were sure that what she said was true. “Now, dear heart,” she continued, “don’t be miserable, I’m going to make a business of persuading your mother that no place in the world will suit you so well as Deal Beach, where the Phillipses are going, and that the Water Gap is horrid, and so you see propinquity may do a great deal. Will you try and be happy for me?”

“I will. Oh, Persis, I was so afraid you did really care. What a friend you are! But promise me, if, after all, you discover that no one but you can make him happy, that you will try to be fonder of him.”

Persis shook her head. “I can’t make any such promise; besides, that is a contingency we don’t have to contemplate just now. He is not going to have the chance to consider me for a moment. It is out of the question, as he will soon find out. It is the kindest way all around.”

She was very brave, there is not a doubt of it, yet it was she who lay wide awake till the gray dawn came stealing into the room, and it was her heart, which, brave as it was, felt a very sorrowful ache as she lay quietly by the side of fair little Annis, to whom hope brought happier dreams than had visited her pillow for many a night.

[Illustration: '[Fleuron]’]