Claas Mowers Disco 340 Disco 300 300C Disco 260 260C Operator's Manual

Claas Mowers Disco 340 Disco 300

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**Claas Mowers Disco 340 Disco 300 300C Disco 260 260C Operator's Manual**
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 "We are a good deal more than half-way through; three quarters, I think."
"Can we get out at the other end? Is there an outlet?"
"Yes—a creek. It takes you, I believe—I have never been so far as that—
to Eustis Landing, a pier on the St. John's beyond ours."
"If we try to go back we shall have to go through that damnable aisle of
miasma again."
"Perhaps I should not faint this time," she said, humbly.
"You don't know whether you would or not; I can't take any risks."
He spoke with bluntness. She sat looking at him; her eyes had a pathetic
expression, her womanish fears and her fatigue had relaxed her usual guard.
"You think I'm rough. Let me be rough while I can, Margaret!"
He sent the boat forward towards the outlet, not back through the aisle of
flowers. "We'll go on," he said.
After a while she called her husband's name again.
"What's the use of doing that?" he asked. "He isn't here."
"Oh, but I am sure he is. Where else could he be?"
"How should I know?—Where he was for eight years, perhaps."
Presently they came to a species of canebrake, very dense and high; there
was no green in sight, only the canes. The channel wound tortuously
through the rattling mass, the slight motion of the water made by the canoe
caused the canes to rattle.
"Keep watch, please," he said; "it's not so wet here. It wouldn't be amusing
to set such a straw-stack on fire."
While they were making their way through this labyrinth, there came a
crash of thunder.
"The storm at last, and we haven't heard the least sound of the tornado that
came before it! That shows what a place this is," he said. "We might as well
be in the heart of a mountain. Well, even if we do suffocate, at least we're
safe from falling trees; if the lightning has struck one, it can't come down,
wedged in as it is in that great tight roof overhead."
There came another crash. "I believe it grows hotter and hotter," he went
on, throwing down his hat. "I am beginning to feel a little queer myself; I
have to tell you, you know, in order that you may be able to act with—with
discrimination, as Dr. Kirby would say."
She had turned quickly. "Do you feel faint?"
"Faint?" he answered, scoffingly. "Never in the world. Am I a woman? I
feel perfectly well, and strong as an ox, only—I see double."
"Yes, that is the air of the swamp."
She took off the black lace scarf she was wearing, dipped it into the
stream, and told him to bind it round his forehead above the eyes.
"Nonsense!" he said, impatiently.
But she moved towards him, and kneeling on the canoe's bottom, bound
the lace tightly round his forehead herself, fastening it with her little gold
pin.
"I must look like a Turk," he exclaimed when she released him.
But the wet bandage cleared his vision; he could see plainly again.
After another five minutes, however, back came the blur. "Shall we ever
get out of this accursed hole?" he cried, pressing his hands on his eyes.
"I can paddle a little; let me take the oar."
But he dashed more water on his head, and pushed her hands away.
"Women never know! It's much better for me to keep on. But you must
direct me,—say 'one stroke on the right,' 'two on the left,' and so on."
"Oh, why did I ever bring you in here?" she moaned, giving no directions
at all, but looking at his contracted eyes with the tears welling in her own.
 "See here, Margaret,—I really don't know what would happen if I should
put this oar down and—and let you pity me! I can tell you once. Now be
warned." He spoke with roughness.
Her tears were arrested. "Two strokes on the right," she said, quickly.
They went on their course again, he putting his oar into the water with a
peculiar deliberation, as though he were taking great care not to disturb its
smoothness; but this was because he was guiding himself by sense of touch.
It was not that all was dark before him, that he saw nothing, it would have
been much easier if there had been nothing to see; but whether his eyes
were open or closed he looked constantly and in spite of himself into a
broad circular space of vivid scarlet, in the centre of which a smaller and
revolving disk of colors like those of peacocks' feathers, continually dilating
and contracting, wearied and bewildered him. In spite of this visual
confusion he kept on.
Their progress was slow. "I think I'll stop for a while," he said, after a
quarter of an hour had passed. They were still among the rattling canes, his
voice had a drowsy tone.
"Oh, don't stop now; we're nearly out."
But he had stopped.
"If I had had any idea you would tire so soon—— Of course if I must take
the oar—and blister my hands——"
"Keep back in your place," he cried, angrily, as she made a movement as
though she were coming to take the paddle from him.
She went on giving the directions, she could scarcely keep the tremor
from her voice, but she did keep it. When she looked at his closed eyes, and
saw the effort he was making—every time he lifted his arms it was like
lifting a gigantic weight, his fancy made it so—she longed to take the oar
from him and let him rest. But she did not dare to, he must not sleep now.
She put out her hand and touched an edge of his coat furtively, where he
would not perceive it; the gentle little touch seemed to give her courage to
say, in a tone of sarcastic compassion, "If, after all, you are going to faint,
though you assured me——"
 "Faint!" said Winthrop,—"what are you talking about?" He straightened
himself and threw back his head. Her taunt had answered its purpose, it had
made him angry and in his anger he sent the boat forward with more force.
Another anxious ten minutes, and then, "We're out!" she said, as she saw
wide water in front. "Now it will be cooler." The channel broadened, they
left the rattling canes behind.
Water was coming slowly down the trees, not in drops but in dark streaks;
this was rain that had made its way through the roof of foliage, scanty
fringe of the immense torrent now falling upon the drenched ground
outside.
"I shall go through to that place you spoke of—Eustis Landing, wasn't it?"
said Winthrop.
"Oh, you are better!"
Her relief showed itself in these words. But much more in her face; its
strained tension gave way, her tears fell. She dried them in silence.
"Because I can speak of something outside of this infernal bog? Yes, I
shall get you safely through now. And myself also. But—it hasn't been
easy!"
"Oh, I know that."
"I beg your pardon, no, you don't; not the half."
In a moment or two more he announced that he was beginning to see
"something besides fireworks." She still continued, however, to direct him.
The swamp had been growing more open. At length the channel brought
them to a spectral lake, with a few dead trees in it here and there hung with
white moss. "I remember this place, the creek opens out just opposite. At
last it's over!"
"And at last I can see. But I must take this thing off; it binds me." And he
unloosed and threw off her lace scarf.
 They found the creek and entered. "It seems strange to see solid ground
again, doesn't it?" he said.
"Then you can see it?"
"As well as ever."
The creek brought them to a waste that was open to the sky.
"Now we can breathe," he said; "I feel as though I should never want to be
under a tree branch again!"
It was not very dark; there was a moon somewhere behind the gray clouds
that closely covered the sky. The great storm had gone westward, carrying
with it the tornado and the rain, and now a cool, moderate, New-England-
feeling wind was beginning to blow.
Winthrop glanced back. The great trees of the Monnlungs loomed up in a
long dark line against the sky; from the low level of the boat in the flat
waste they looked like a line of mountains.
"All the same, you know," he said, contradictorily, "it was very beautiful
in there."
The creek was wide; he went on rapidly. He was quite himself again. "You
look fearfully worn," he said, after a while.
"Must we have all these torches now?" She spoke with irritation, she
could not get away from their light.
"Not if you object to them." He extinguished all but one. "Now put on
some of those wraps; it's cold."
"I do not need them."
"Don't be childish." (There was no doubt but that he was himself again.)
"Here, let me help you on with this cloak."
She submitted.
It took them three-quarters of an hour to reach the landing.
 "This is it, I presume," he said, as he saw the dim outlines of two white
houses at a little distance on the low shore. "I will knock them up, and get
some sort of a place where you can rest."
"If there is any one to row, I should much rather go directly home."
"Always unreasonable. Give me your hands." He leaned forward and took
them. "Cold as ice,—I thought so. You must come up to the house and go to
bed."
"I could not sleep. Let me go home; it is the only place for me."
He still held her hands. "Very well," he said.
"Perhaps they have found Lanse," she went on.
"Old Dinah and Rose? Very likely."
In a few minutes he returned, followed by two negroes, one of whom
carried a lantern. They got out their own boat. Winthrop helped Margaret
into it, and took his place beside her; their canoe was taken in tow. With
strong regular strokes the men rowed down the creek, and out on the broad
St. John's.
When they came in sight of the house on the point it was gleaming with
light; Margaret gave an exclamation.
Dismissing the men, Winthrop went up the path after her. "I am sure he
has come," she said, hurrying on.
"Who? Lanse? Oh no, it's those old goblins of yours who have illuminated
in this way; it's their idea of keeping watch for you."
The doors had been left unfastened, they entered. Inside, everything was
as brilliant as though the house had been made ready for a ball. But there
was not a sound, no one stirred. They went through to the kitchen; and
there, each on her knees before a wooden chair, with her head resting upon
it on her folded arms, appeared the little Africans, sound asleep; the soles of
their shoes, turned up behind them, seemed almost as long as they were.
 Winthrop roused them. "Here," he said; "we're back. Make some coffee
for your mistress as quickly as you can; and you, Rose, light a fire in the
sitting-room."
The queer little old women ran about like frightened hens. They tumbled
over each other, and let everything drop. Winthrop stood over them sternly,
he took the pitch-pine from the distracted Rose and lighted the fire himself.
"Now go and put out all those lights," he said; "and bring in the coffee the
moment it's ready."
He had made Margaret sit down in a low easy-chair, still wrapped in her
cloak, and had placed a footstool for her feet; the fire danced and sparkled,
she sat with her head thrown back, her eyes closed.
"Are you warmer?" he asked. "You were chilled through all the way down
the river; every now and then I could feel you shiver."
"It was more fatigue than cold." His voice had roused her, she sat up. "Oh,
I ought to be doing something—trying—"
"You can do no more now; you must have some coffee, and then you must
go to bed. But, in the mean while, I will do everything possible."
"But you don't believe—I don't know what you believe!" She rose.
He put her back in her chair. "I will believe nothing if you will go and rest
—I mean my beliefs shall not interfere with my actions; I will simply do
everything I can—all I should do if I were sure he was lost, somewhere
about here."
She remained where he had placed her. After a while she said, "I was so
certain he was in the swamp!" Her tired eyes, beginning to glisten a little
with tears, had a childlike look as she raised them to his.
Old Rose now came hurrying in with the coffee, its fragrant aroma filled
the room. Winthrop poured it out himself, and made Margaret swallow it,
spoonful by spoonful, until the cup was empty.
"You have a little color now," he said.
She put the cup down, and rose.
 "You're going? Yes, go; go to bed, and sleep as long as you can, it must be
near dawn. I will meet you here for a late breakfast at eleven."
She still stood there. "But will you—will you really——"
"Haven't I given you my word?" he said. "Are you afraid that I shall not
be tender enough to him? Don't you comprehend that no matter how much I
may hate him myself, his being your husband protects him perfectly,
because, so long as you persist in continuing so subservient, he could visit
anything else upon you?"
She went out without reply.
He sank into the chair she had left vacant to rest for a moment or two; he
was desperately tired.
When he came back to the room at eleven, she was already there. It was a
dark day, with the same New-England-feeling wind blowing over river and
land; there had been spurts of rain, and he was wet. "Why have you no
fire?" he asked.
"It did not seem cold enough."
"It's not cold, but it's dreary. I don't believe you have slept at all?" he
continued, looking at her. Opening the door, he called Rose, and told her to
light the fire. When the old woman had finished her task—it was but a
touch, and again the magic wood was filling the room with its gay light and
faint sweet odor of the pine—he repeated his question. "I don't believe you
have slept at all?"
"How could I sleep!"
He sat down before the fire. "You are wet. And you must be very tired,"
she went on.
"I am glad you have thought of it—I like sympathy. Yes, I am tired; but
the room is cheery now. Let us breakfast in here?"
"You have found no trace?" Her nervousness showed itself in her tone.
"No."
 She went to the door, and gave Rose an order. Then she closed it, and
walked first to one window; then to another.
"Do come and sit down. You wander about like a ghost."
"I will step softly." She began to walk up and down the room with her
light, rather long-paced step. "You are not afraid," she said at last.
"No, I am not afraid; if he were wrecked in mid-ocean, he would make the
whales cook his dinner for him, and see to it, too, that it was a good one."
"Oh, don't speak in that tone; don't jest about him when we cannot tell—
Here we are safe at home, safe and comfortable, when perhaps he—" she
stopped.
"You are haunted by the most useless terrors. 'Safe,' are we? How 'safe'
were we last night, for his sake too, in that deadly swamp?—how safe were
you? And 'comfortable'—I sitting here wet and exhausted, and you walking
up and down, white as a sheet, eating your heart out with anxiety! 'And
home,' did you say? I like that! Pretty place it was to bring you to—hideous
barrack miles from every living thing. Of course you've made it better, you
would make a cave better; he knew you would do it when he brought you
here!"
He changed his bitter tone into a laugh, "Instead of abusing him, I ought
rather to admire him—admire him for his success—he has always done so
entirely as he pleased! If one wishes to be virtuous or heroic, I don't know
that it is the best way; but if one wishes simply to be comfortable, it most
certainly is. You can't philosophize?" he went on, turning his head to look at
her as she continued her walk.
"No, no. Would you mind telling me what you have done?"
"I have three parties out; one has gone up the shore, and one down; the
third is across the river."
"You are very good. For I know you don't believe he is here."
"No, I don't."
"But where, then, can he be?"
 "You have asked me that before. This time I will answer that he is
probably where he intended to be when he left here early yesterday morning
—after ridding himself of Eliot and Dodd."
"You think he planned it. But why should he have been so secret about it?
No one could have prevented him from taking a journey if he wished to
take one."
"You would have prevented it; you wouldn't have thought him strong
enough."
"That would not have deterred him."
"You're right, it wouldn't. Probably he didn't care even to explain that he
did not intend to be deterred, Lanse was never fond of explanations."
"I am not at all convinced."
"I didn't expect to convince you. You asked me, and I had to say
something."
After breakfast—she could eat nothing—he said, "I have sent for a little
steamer; it is to take me to all the landings within ten miles of here. I shall
not be back until late, probably; don't sit up." He left the room.
Fifteen minutes later, he appeared again.
"I was waiting for the steamer down by the water, when I saw the boy who
brings the mail going away; you have had a letter?"
She did not answer. Her hands were empty.
"You heard me coming and concealed it."
"I have nothing to conceal." She rose. "Yes, I have had a letter, Lanse is on
his way to New York; he is taking a journey—for a change."
"You will let me see the letter?"
"Impossible." She was trembling a little, but she faced him inflexibly.
 "Margaret, I beg you to let me see it. Show me that you trust me; you
seem never to do that—yet I deserve—Tell me, then, of your own accord,
what he says. If he has left you again, who should help you, care for you, if
not I?"
"You last of all!" She walked away. "Of course now that I know, I am no
longer anxious,—I was foolish to be so anxious. We are very much obliged
to you for all you have done."
"Very well, if you take that tone, let me tell you that I too have had a letter
—Primus has just brought it from East Angels—it was sent there."
She glanced at him over her shoulder with eyes that looked full of fear—a
fear which he did not stop to analyze.
"It is possible that Lanse has written to me even more plainly than he has
to you," he went on. "At any rate, he tells me that he is going to Italy—it is
the old affair revived—and that he has no present intention of returning.
What he has said in his letter to you, of course I don't know; but it can
hardly be the whole, because he asks me to 'break' it to you. 'Break' it,—he
has chosen his messenger well!"
"O my God," said Margaret Harold.
Her words were a prayer. She sank down on her knees beside the sofa, and
buried her face in her clasped arms.

CHAPTER XXIX.

Evert Winthrop had felt that her words were a prayer, that she was praying
still.
Against what especial danger she was thus invoking aid, he did not know;
before he could speak, old Rose had opened the door, and Margaret,
springing up, was going forward to meet the Rev. Mr. Moore, who with his
usual equable expression entered, hat in hand, to pay Mrs. Harold a short
visit; he had been obliged to come over to the river that morning on
business, and had thought that he would take the occasion for a little social
pleasure as well.
Margaret put out her hands eagerly; "It's wonderful—your coming now!
You will stay with me, won't you?—I am in great trouble."
Mr. Moore took her hand; all the goodness of his nature came into his long
narrow face, making it lovely in its sympathy as he heard her appeal. She
was clinging to him—she had put her other hand on his arm. "You will
stay?" she repeated urgently.
"If I can be of any use to you, most certainly I will stay."
Upon hearing this, she made an effort to recover herself, to speak more
coherently. "I shall need your advice—there are so many things I must
decide about. Mr. Winthrop will tell you—but why should I leave it to him?
I will tell you myself. My husband has gone north, he is going abroad again.
You will understand—it was so sudden. I did not know—" She made
another effort to steady her voice. "If you will stay with me for a day or
two, I will send over to Gracias for anything you may need."
"I will stay gladly, Mrs. Harold."
"Oh, you are good! But I always knew you were. And now for a few
minutes—if you will excuse me—I have only just heard it—I will come
back soon." And with swift step she hastened from the room.
Mr. Moore, his face full of sympathy, turned to Winthrop.
But Evert Winthrop's expression showed only anger; he walked off, with
his back turned, and made no reply.
"Is it true, then?" said Mr. Moore, infinite regret in his mild tones.
Winthrop was standing at the window, he bit his lips with impatience; he
was in no mood for what he would have called "the usual platitudes," and
especially platitudes about Lansing Harold.
It could not be denied that Mr. Moore's conversation often contained
sentences that were very usual.
 "Perhaps he will return," pursued the clergyman, hopefully. "Influences
might be brought to bear. We may be able to reach him?" And again he
looked at Winthrop inquiringly.
But Winthrop had now forgotten his presence, at this very moment he was
leaving the room; he was determined to see Margaret and speak to her, if
but for a second. He found Rose, and sent her with a message; he himself
followed the old woman up the stairs, and stood waiting in the upper hall as
she knocked at Margaret's closed door.
But the door did not open; in answer to Rose's message delivered shrilly
outside the door, Margaret replied from within, "I can see no one at
present."
Rose came back. "She can't see nobody nohow jess dis minute, marse,"
she answered, in an apologetic tone. Then, imaginatively, "Spec she's tired."
"Go back and tell her that I'm waiting here—in the hall, and that I will
keep her but a moment. There is something important I must say."
Rose returned to the door. But the answer was the same. "She done got
mighty tired, marse, sho," said the old servant, again trying to clothe the
refusal in polite terms, though unable to think of a new apology.
"Her door is locked, I suppose?" Winthrop asked. Then he felt that this
was going too far; he turned and went down the stairs, but with a
momentary revival in his breast all the same of the old despotic feeling, the
masculine feeling, that a woman should not be allowed to dictate to a man
what he should say or not say, do or not do; in refusing to see him even for
one moment, Margaret was dictating.
He walked down the lower hall, and then back again. Happening to glance
up, he saw that old Rose was still standing at the top of the stairs; she
dropped one of her straight courtesies as he looked up—a quick ducking
down of her narrow skirt; she was much disturbed by the direct refusal
which she had had to give him.
"I can't stay here, if they are going to watch me," he thought, impatiently.
He turned and re-entered the sitting-room.
 Mr. Moore was putting more wood on the fire. His mind was full of
Margaret and her troubles; but the fire certainly needed replenishing, it
would do no one any good to come back to a cold room, Mrs. Harold least
of all; Winthrop therefore found him engaged with the coals.
Mr. Moore went on with his engineering feats. He cherished no
resentment because Winthrop had left him so suddenly. Still, he had
observed that such sudden exits were sometimes an indication of temper; in
such cases there was nothing better than an unnoticing, and if possible an
occupied, silence; so he went on with his fire.
"It's most unfortunate that there's no one who has any real authority over
her," Winthrop began, still smarting under the refusal. Margaret had chosen
the clergyman as her counsellor; it would be as well, then, to indicate to that
gentleman what course should be pursued.
"You have some plan to recommend to her?" said Mr. Moore, putting the
tongs away and seating himself. He held out his long hands as if to warm
them a little by the flame, and looked at Winthrop inquiringly.
"No, I don't know that I have. But she is sure to be obstinate in any case."
He too sat down, and stared moodily at the flame.
"You think it will be a great grief to her," observed the clergyman, after a
while. "No doubt—no doubt."
"No grief at all, as far as that goes. Lanse has always treated her
abominably." He paused. Then continued, as if there were now good
reasons for telling the whole tale. "Before he had been married a year, he
left her, she did not leave him, as my aunt supposes; he went abroad, and
would not allow her to come to him. There had never been the least fault on
her side; there hasn't been up to this day."
"I cannot understand such fickleness, such dark tendencies towards
change," said Mr. Moore, in rebuking wonder.
"As far as regards change, I ought to say, perhaps, that there hasn't been
much of that," Winthrop answered. "What took him abroad was an old
interest—something he had felt long before his marriage, and felt strongly;
he has never changed in that respect."
 "Do you allude—is it possible that you are alluding to an interest in a
person?" asked Mr. Moore, in a lowered tone.
"It certainly wasn't a thing; I hardly think you would call a beautiful
French woman of rank that, would you?"
Mr. Moore looked at him with a stricken face. "A beautiful French woman
of rank!" he murmured.
"That's what is taking him abroad now, this second time. She threw him
over once, but she has evidently called him back; in fact, he admits it in his
letter to me."
"Oh, sin! sin!" said Middleton Moore, with the deepest sadness in his
voice. He leaned his head upon his hand and covered his eyes.
"I suppose so," answered Winthrop. "All the same, she is the only person
Lanse has ever cared for; for her and her alone he could be, and would be if
he had the chance, perhaps, unselfish; I almost think he could be heroic.
But, you see, he won't have the chance, because there's the husband in the
bush."
"Do you mean to say that this wretched creature is a married woman?"
demanded the clergyman, aghast.
"Oh yes; it was her marriage, her leaving him in the lurch, that made
Lanse himself marry in the first place—marry Margaret Cruger."
"This is most horrible. This man, then, this Lansing Harold, is an
incarnation of evil?"
"I don't know whether he is or not," Winthrop answered, irritably. "Yes, he
is, I suppose; we all are. Not you, of course," he added, glancing at his
companion, and realizing as he did so that here was a man who was an
incarnation of good. Then the opposing feeling swept over him again,
namely, that this man was good simply because he could not be evil; it was
not that he had resisted temptation so much as that he had no capacity for
being tempted. "An old woman," he thought.
He himself was very different from that, he knew well what temptation
meant! A flush crossed his face. "Perhaps Lanse can't help loving her," he
said, flinging it out obstinately.
"A man can always help a shameful feeling of that sort," the clergyman
answered, with sternness. He drew up his tall figure, his face took on
dignity. "We are not the beasts that perish."
"We may not be altogether beasts, and yet we may not be able to help it,"
Winthrop answered, getting up and walking across the room. Margaret's
little work-table stood there, gay with ribbons and fringes; mechanically he
fingered the spools and bright wools it held.
"At least we can control its manifestations," replied Middleton Moore, still
with a deep severity of voice and eyes.
"You would like to have all sinners of that disposition (which doesn't
happen to be yours) consumed immediately, wouldn't you? for fear of their
influencing others," said Winthrop, leaving the work-table and walking
about the room. "In the days of the burnings, now, when it was for strictly
wicked persons of that tendency, I suspect you would have brought a few
fagots yourself—wouldn't you?—even if you hadn't taken a turn at the
bellows."
Mr. Moore turned and surveyed him in unfeigned astonishment.
"I beg your pardon," said the younger man, "I don't know what I'm saying.
I'll go out for a while, and try the fresh air."
When he came back half an hour later, Margaret had returned.
"Ah! you have had a walk? The air is probably pleasant," said the
clergyman, welcoming him kindly. He wished to show that he had forgotten
the bellows. "I was on the point of saying to Mrs. Harold, as you came in,
that in case she should be thinking of leaving this house, I will hope most
warmly that she will find it consistent with her plans to return to us at
Gracias."
"I should much rather stay here," responded Margaret. "I could have
Dinah's son Abram to sleep in the house, if necessary."
"You could never stay here alone, you ought not to think of it," said
Winthrop. "We know better than you do about that." He had seated himself
at some distance from her. Mr. Moore still kept his place before the fire, and
Margaret was beside him; she held a little fan-shaped screen in her hand to
shade her face from the glow.
"I am sure Mr. Moore will say that it is safe," she answered.
"I included him; I said 'we,'" said Winthrop, challengingly.
Mr. Moore extended his long legs with a slightly uneasy movement. "I
regret to say that I fear Mr. Winthrop is right; it would not be safe at
present, even with Abram in the house. The river is no longer what it was"
(he refrained from saying "your northern steamers have made the change;")
"the people who live in the neighborhood are respectable, but the increased
facilities for traffic have brought us dangerous characters."
"Of course you will go back to East Angels," Winthrop began.
"I think not. If I cannot stay here, I shall go north."
"North? Where?"
"There are plenty of places. There is my grandmother's old house in the
country, where I lived when I was a child; it is closed now, but I could open
it; I should like to see the old rooms once more." She spoke quietly, her
manner was that she was taking it for granted that the clergyman knew
everything, that Winthrop had told him all. She was a deserted wife, there
was no need for any of them to go through the form of covering that up.
"That would be a perfectly crazy idea," began Winthrop. Then he stopped.
"We should be exceedingly sorry to lose you, Mrs. Harold—Penelope
would be exceedingly sorry," said Mr. Moore, in his amiable voice. "I can
understand that it would afford you much pleasure to revisit your
childhood's home. But East Angels, too—after so long a stay there, may we
not hope that it presents to you a friendly aspect?"
"I prefer to go north," Margaret answered.
Mr. Moore did not combat this decision; he did not, in truth, know quite
what to advise just at present; it required thought. Here was a woman who
had been cruelly outraged by the scandalous, by the incredibly abandoned
conduct of the worst of husbands. She had no mother to go to (the
clergyman felt this to be an unspeakable misfortune), but she was not a
child; they could not dictate to her, she was a free agent. But women—
women of refinement—were generally timid (he glanced at Margaret, and
decided that she was timid also); she might talk a little about her house at
the north, but probably it would end in her returning to East Angels after all.
"If I find that I don't care for the country-house, the life there, I can go
abroad," Margaret continued. She rose and went out.
This was not much like returning to East Angels!
"Is she thinking, do you suppose, of going to him?" asked the clergyman,
in a cautious voice, when the door was closed.
"I don't know what she is thinking of. She is capable of the most mistaken
ideas!" Winthrop answered.
"She is possessed of a wonderful sense of duty, if she does go; I mean, in
case she is acquainted with the cause of his departure?"
"She is acquainted with everything."
Margaret came back and sat down again. "You decidedly think, then, that I
cannot stay here?" she said to the clergyman.
"Do you wish to stay so very ranch?" he asked, kindly.
"Yes, I should much rather stay, much rather make no change; this is my
home."
"How can you talk in that way?" said Winthrop. He had risen again, and
begun to walk up and down the room; as he spoke, he stopped his walk and
stood before her. "You came here against your will; you disliked the place
intensely; you said so of your own accord, I heard you." "I know I have said
so. Many times. Still, I should like to stay now."
"You cannot. Even Mr. Moore tells you that."
"Yes," said the clergyman, conscientiously, "I must say it though I do not
wish to; the place is unusually lonely, it stands quite by itself; it would be
unwise to remain."
"I must give it up, I see," Margaret answered; "I am sorry. But at least I
can retain the house; I should like to keep it open, too; the servants could
stay here, I suppose."
Winthrop turned and looked at her, a quick surprised suspicion in his
glance.
"I could do that, couldn't I?" she repeated, addressing Mr. Moore.
Again the clergyman looked uncomfortable. He crossed his legs, and
extending the pendent foot a little in its long, thin-soled boot, he looked at it
and moved it to and fro slightly, as if he had been called upon to give an
opinion upon the leather. "I fear," he said, as the result of his meditation,
"that it might not be altogether prudent. The negroes have much hospitality;
with a large house at their command, and nobody near, I fear they might be
tempted to invite their friends to visit them."
"The place would swarm with them," said Winthrop.
"At any rate, I shall keep the house even if I close it," said Margaret. "It
must be ready for occupancy at any time."
"Then you are thinking of coming back?" Winthrop asked. His face still
showed an angry mistrust.
"I may come back. At present, however, I shall go north; and as I prefer to
go immediately, I shall set about arranging the rooms here so that I can
leave them. It will not take long, two days, or three at most; it would be a
great kindness, Mr. Moore, if you would stay with me until I leave—by
next Saturday's steamer, probably."
"I hardly think you will be able to accomplish so much in so short a time,"
answered the clergyman, a good deal bewildered by this display of energy.
To Mr. Moore's idea, a woman who had been deserted by her husband, even
though that husband had been proved to be abnormally vicious, could not
well be in the mood for the necessary counting of chairs, for the proper
distribution of gum-camphor among carpets and curtains, all so important.
 Then, reading again the deep trouble in Margaret's face, under all the
calmness of her manner, he dismissed his objections, and said, heartily, "In
any case, I will stay with you as long as you wish."
"Possibly one of your difficulties is that I am here," said Winthrop to
Margaret. "You cannot expect me to leave you entirely, as long as you are
still in this house, I am, after all, your nearest relative; but of course I could
stay at the hotel." He spoke with extreme coldness.
Margaret, however, did not try to dissipate it by asking him to remain.
He showed that he felt this, for he said, "Perhaps I had better go up at once
and see to getting quarters there."
She did not answer. He walked about aimlessly for a moment or two, and
then left the room.
"Will you go over the house with me now, Mr. Moore—I mean this
afternoon?"
"Certainly. It would be better, I think, to make a list," Mr. Moore
answered, in an interested voice. Mr. Moore enjoyed lists; to him an index
was an exciting object; in devising catalogues, or new alphabetical
arrangements, he had sometimes felt a sense of pleasure that was almost
dissipation.
"You will have three enemies to encounter," he began with much
seriousness. "They are, first, the Mildew. Second, the Moth. Third, the
Damp; the Mouse, so destructive in other climates, will trouble you little in
this. We shall need red pepper."

CHAPTER XXX.

A week later, Margaret was still in the house on the point, she had not
been able to complete as rapidly as she had hoped the arrangements
necessary for leaving it in safe condition behind her. This was not owing to
any lingering on her own part, or to any hesitation of purpose; it was owing