Love in Idleness/Chapter 5
CHAPTER V.
OUIS LAWRENCE had not been at Bar Harbour a week before he became fully aware—if indeed there had previously been any doubt on the subject in his mind—that he was very much in love with Fanny Trehearne. It became clear to him that, although he had believed himself to be in love once or twice before then, he had been mistaken, and that he had never known until the present time exactly what love meant. He was not even sure that he was pleased with the passion, or, at least, with the form in which it attacked him. Sensitive as he was, it took him hard, as the saying is, and he felt that it had the better of him at every turn, and disposed of him in spite of himself at every hour of the day. When he was alone he wondered why he had been asked to the house, and whether Mr. and Mrs. Trehearne, who were abroad, knew anything about it. He was a modest man, and was inclined to underestimate himself, so that it could never have occurred to him that Fanny Trehearne might have been strongly attracted by him during their acquaintance in town, and might have insisted that he should be asked to come and pass a fortnight. Moreover, Fanny lost no opportunity of impressing upon him that he was a great favourite with the three Miss Miners, and she managed to convey the impression that he had been asked chiefly to please them, though she never said so.
Meanwhile, however, it was evident that the three sisters were absorbed in Mr. Brinsley, and that when the latter was present they took very little notice of Lawrence. He laughed at the thought that the three old maids should all be equally in love with the showy Canadian, and he told himself that the thing was ridiculous; that they were merely enthusiastic women,—gushing women, he called them in his thoughts,—who were flattered by the diplomatic and unfailing civilities of a man who was evidently in pursuit of Fanny Trehearne.
For by this time he was convinced that Brinsley had made up his mind to marry Fanny if he could; and he hated him all the more for it, even to formulating wicked prayers for the suitor's immediate destruction. The worst of it was, that the man might possibly succeed. A girl who will and can ride anything, who beats everybody at tennis, and who is as good as most men in a sail-boat, may naturally be supposed to admire a man who does those things, and many others, in a style bordering upon perfection. This same man, too, though not exactly clever in an intellectual way, possessed at least the gifts of fluency and tact, combined with great coolness under all circumstances, so far as Lawrence had observed him. It was hardly fair to assert that he was dishonest because he flattered the three Miss Miners, and occupied himself largely in trying to anticipate their smallest wishes. He did it so well as to make even Fanny Trehearne believe that he liked them for their own sakes, and that his intentions were disinterested and not directed wholly to herself. Of course she knew that he wished to marry her; but she was used to that. Two, at least, of several men who had already informed her that their happiness depended upon winning her, were even now in Bar Harbour,—presumably repeating that or a similar statement to more or less willing ears. As for Lawrence, he could not fairly blame Brinsley for his behaviour—he confessed in secret that he flattered the three Miss Miners himself, with small regard for unprejudiced truth. Besides, they were very kind to him. But he found it hard to speak fairly of Brinsley when alone with Fanny Trehearne.
"I don't like the man," he said, on inadequate provocation, for the twentieth time.
"I know you don't," answered Fanny, calmly, "but that's no reason for letting go of the tiller. Mind the boom! she's going about—no—it's of no use to put the helm up now. We've no way on—let her go! No—I don't mean that—oh, do give it to me!"
And thereupon Fanny, who was sitting forward of him on the weather side, stretched her long arm across him, pushing him back into his corner, and put the helm hard down with her left hand, while she hauled in the sheet as much as she could with her right, bending her head low to avoid the boom as it came swinging over.
Lawrence could not help looking down at her, and he forgot all about the boom, being far too little familiar with boating to avoid it instinctively, when he felt the boat going about. It came slowly, for there was little wind; and the catboat, having no way on to speak of, was in no hurry to right herself and go over on the other tack,—but just as the shadow of the sail warned him that something was coming, he looked up, and at the same instant received the blow full on his forehead, just above his eyes. He wore a soft, knitted woollen cap, which did not even afford the protection of a visor.
Fanny turned her head at once, for the blow had been audible, and she saw what had happened. Lawrence had raised his hand to his forehead instinctively.
"Are you hurt?" asked Fanny, quickly, 
Lawrence did not answer at once. He was half stunned, and still covered his forehead with his hand. The young girl looked at him intently, and there was an expression in her eyes which he, at least, had never seen there—a sudden, scared light which had nothing to do with fear.
"Are you hurt?" she asked again, gently.
His delicate face grew suddenly pale, as the blood, which had rushed up at first under the shock of the blow, subsided as suddenly. Fanny turned her eyes from him and looked ahead and under the sail to leeward. She let out a little more sheet, so that the boat could run very free; for the craft, like most catboats, had a weather helm when the sheet was well aft, and Fanny wanted her hands. Moreover, Lawrence was now on the lee side with her, and the boat would have heeled too far over with the wind abeam. As soon as the sail drew properly, Fanny sat up beside Lawrence, steering across him with her left hand. With her right she could reach the water, and she scooped up what she could in her hollow palm, wetting her sleeve to the shoulder as she did so, for the boat was gaining speed. She dashed the drops in his face.
"Are you hurt?" she asked a third time, drawing away his hand and laying her own wet one upon his forehead.
"Oh no," he answered faintly. "I'm not hurt at all."
She could tell by his voice that he was not speaking the truth, and a moment later, as he leaned against the side of the boat, his head fell back, and his lips parted in a dead faint.
There was no scorn in the young girl's face for a man who could faint so easily, as it seemed; but the scared look came into her eyes again, and without hesitation, still steering with her left hand, she passed her right arm round his neck and supported him. The breeze was almost in her face now, for she was looking astern, and she knew by the way it fanned her whether she was keeping the boat fairly before it.
Lawrence did not revive immediately, and it was fortunate that there was so little wind, or Fanny might have got into trouble. She looked at him a moment longer and hesitated, for the position was a difficult one, as will be admitted. But she was equal to it and knew what to do. Letting his head fall back as it would, she withdrew her arm, let go the helm, and hauled in the sheet as the boat's head came up. As the boom came over toward Lawrence's head, she caught it and lifted it over him, hauled in the slack and made the sheet fast, springing forward instantly to let go the halliards. The gaff came rattling down, and she gathered in the bellying sail hastily and took a turn round everything with the end of the throat halliard, which chanced to be long enough—the gaskets were out of her reach, in the bottom of the boat.
There was little or no sea on, as the tide was near the turning, and the catboat was rocking softly to the little waves when Fanny came aft again. Lawrence's head was still hanging back, his lips were parted, and his eyes were half open, showing the whites in a rather ghastly way. With strong arms the young girl half lifted him, and let him gently down upon the cushions in the stern-sheets. Then she leaned over the side and wetted her handkerchief and laid it upon his bruised forehead. The cold water and the change of position brought him to himself.
He opened his eyes and looked up into her face as she bent over him. Then, all at once, he seemed to realize what had happened, and with an exclamation he tried to sit up. But she would not let him.
"Lie still a minute longer!" she said authoritatively. "You'll be all right in a little while."
"But it isn't anything, I assure you," he protested, looking about him in a dazed way. "Please let me sit up! I won't make a fool of myself again—it's only my heart, you know. It stops sometimes—it wasn't the knock."
"Your heart?" repeated Fanny, with greater anxiety than Lawrence might have expected. "You haven't got heart disease, have you?"
"Oh no—not so bad as that. It's all right now. It will begin to beat very hard presently—there—I can feel it—and then it will go on regularly again. It isn't anything. I fancy I smoke too much—or it's coffee—or something. Please don't look as though you thought it were anything serious, Miss Trehearne. I assure you, it's nothing. Lots of people have it."
"It is serious. Anything that has to do with the heart is serious."
Lawrence smiled faintly.
"Is that a joke?" he asked. "If it is, please let me sit up."
"No—that isn't a reason," answered Fanny, laughing a little, though her eyes were still grave. "You must lie still a little longer. You might faint again, you know. It must be dangerous to have one's heart behaving so strangely."
"Oh—I don't believe so."
"You don't believe so? You mean that it's possible, but that you hope it won't stop? Is that it?"
"Oh—well—perhaps. But I don't think there's any real danger. Besides—if it did, it's easy, you know."
"What's easy?"
"It's an easy death—over at once, in a flash. No lingering and last words and all that." He laughed.
Fanny Trehearne's sunburned cheeks grew pale under their tan, and her cool grey eyes turned slowly away from his face, and rested on the blue water.
"Please don't talk about such things!" she said in a tone that seemed hard to Lawrence.
"Are you afraid of death?" he asked, still smiling.
"I?" She turned upon him indignantly. "No—I don't believe that I'm much afraid of anything—for myself."
"You turned pale," observed the young man, raising himself on his elbow as he lay on the cushions, and looking at her. Her colour came back more quickly than it had gone.
"Did I?" she asked indifferently enough. "It's probably the sun. It's hot, lying here and drifting."
"No. It wasn't the sun," said Lawrence, with conviction. "You were thinking that somebody you are fond of might die suddenly. We were talking about death."
"What difference does it make whom I was thinking of?" She spoke impatiently now, still watching the water.
"It makes all the difference there is, that's all," answered Lawrence. "Won't you tell me?"
"No. Certainly not! Why should I? Look here—if you're well enough to talk, you re well enough to help me to get the sail up again."
"Of course I am—but—" Lawrence showed no inclination to move.
"But what? You're too lazy, I suppose." Fanny laughed. "Let me see your forehead—take your cap off," she added, with a change of tone.
Lawrence thrust the cap back, which did not help matters much, as his hair grew low and partially hid the bruise. The skin was not broken, but it was almost purple, and a large swelling had already appeared.
"It's too bad!" exclaimed Fanny, looking at it, as he bent down his head, and softly touching it with her ungloved hand. "Tell me—do you feel very weak and dizzy still? I was only laughing when I spoke of your helping me with the sail."
"Oh no!" answered Lawrence, cheerfully. "It aches a little, of course, but it will soon go off."
"And your heart?" asked Fanny, anxiously. "Is it all right now? You don't think you'll faint again, do you?"
"Not a bit."
"I'm not sure. You're very pale."
"I'm always pale, you know. It's my nature. It doesn't mean anything. Some people are naturally pale."
"But you're not. You're dark, or brown, and not red, but you're not usually pale. I wish I had some whiskey, or something, to give you."
She looked round the boat rather helplessly, as though expecting to discover a remedy for his weakness.
"Please don't make so much of it," said Lawrence, in a tone which showed that he was almost annoyed by her persistence. "I assure you that I won't have such bad taste as to die on your hands before we get to land!"
Fanny rose to her feet and turned away from him with an impatient exclamation.
"Just keep the helm amidships while I get the sail up," she said, without looking at him, and stepping upon the seat which ran along the side, she was on the little deck in a moment, with both halliards in her hands.
Lawrence sprang forward to help her, forgetting what she had just told him to do.
"Do as I told you!" she exclaimed quickly and impatiently. "Do you know what the tiller is? Well, keep it right in the middle till I tell you to do something else."
"Don't be fierce about it," laughed Lawrence, obeying her.
But when she was not looking, he pressed one hand to his forehead with all his might, as though to drive out the pain, which increased with every minute.
Meanwhile, Fanny laid her weight to the halliards, and the sail went flapping up, throat and peak. The girl was very strong, and had been taught to handle a catboat when she had been a mere child, so that there was nothing extraordinary in her accomplishing unaided a little feat which would have puzzled many a smart young gentleman who fancies himself half a sailor.