"But there is a finer spot just below us," he said--"a creek that
is like no other that I have ever met with in the neighborhood. It
is formed by the Alabama--is as deep in some places, and so narrow,
at times, that a spry lad can easily leap across it."
"Is it far?"
"No--a mile only."
"But your wife may be fatigued, Clifford?" was the suggestion of
Kingsley. She certainly looked so; but I answered for her, and
insisted otherwise. I met her glance as I spoke, but, though she
looked dissatisfaction, her lips expressed none. I could easily
conjecture that she felt none. She was walking with Edgerton--and
while all eyes watched the scenery, he watched her alone. I hurried
forward with Kingsley, but he immediately fell behind, loitered
on very slowly, and left Wharton and myself to proceed together.
I could comprehend the meaning of this. My demon made his suggestion.
"Kingsley suspects them--he sees what you are unwilling to see--he
is not so willing to leave them together."
We reached the stream, and wandered along its banks. It had some
unusual characteristics. It was sometimes a creek, deep and narrow,
but clear; a few steps farther and it became what, in the speech
of the country, is called a branch; shallow, purling soft over a
sand-bed, limpid yellow, and with a playful prattle that put one
in mind of the songs of thoughtless children, humming idly as they
go. The shrubbery along its (sic) seemed to follow its changes.
Where the bluffs were high, the foliage was dense and the trees
large. The places where its waters shallowed, were only dotted
with shrub trees and wild vines, which sometimes clambered across
the stream and wedded the opposing branches, in bonds as hard to
break as those of matrimony. The waters were sinuous, and therefore
slow. They seemed only to glide along, like some glittering
serpent, who trails at leisure his silvery garments through the
woods quietly and slow, as if he had no sort of apprehension.
When we had reached a higher spot of bluff than the rest, Wharton,
who was an active rather than an athletic man, challenged me to
follow him. He made the leap having little space to spare. I had
not done such a thing for some years. But my boyhood had been one
of daring. The school in which I had grown up had given me bodily
hardihood and elasticity; at all events I could not brook defiance
in such a matter, and, with moderate effort, succeeded in making
a longer stride. I looked back at this moment and saw Julia, still
closely attended by Edgerton, just about emerging into view from a
thick copse that skirted the foot of a small hill over which our
course had brought us. I could not distinguish their features.
They were, however, close together. Kingsley was on their right,
a little in advance of them, but still walking slowly. I pointed
my finger toward a shallow and narrow part of the stream as that
which they would find it most easy to cross. A tree had been felled
at the designated point, and just below it, in consequence of the
obstructions which its limbs presented to the easy passage of the
water, several sand bars had been made, by which, stepping from
one to the other, one might cross dryshod even without the aid of
the tree. Kingsley repeated my signal to those behind him, and
led the way. I went on with Wharton, without again looking behind
me.