The old man cursed the wind in his stringent tones. Elim hadn't noticed
anything reprehensible in the wind. It appeared that for a considerable
time there hadn't been any. A capful was stirring now, and humanity--
ever discontented--silently cursed that.
"We're nearly there," he said, returning to Rosemary Roselle.
He was unable to gather any intelligence from her expression.
She rose, and stood with a hand on Indy's shoulder, murmuring
affectionately in the colored woman's ear. The sloop once more headed
at a long angle for the shore. Bramant's Wharf grew visible, projecting
solidly from a verdant bank. They floated silently up to the dock, and
the youth held the sloop steady while Rosemary Roselle and Indy mounted
from its deck. Elim followed, but suddenly he stopped, and his hand
went into his pocket. A half dollar fell ringing into the boat. Elim
indicated the youth; he was now penniless.
X
"The house," Rosemary explained, "is almost a mile in. There is a
carriage at the wharf when they expect you. And usually there is some
one about."
Elim, carrying the cake and bottle, followed over a grassy road between
tangles of blackberry bushes. On either hand neglected fields held a
sparse tangle of last year's weeds; beyond, trees closed in the
perspective. The sun had passed the zenith, and the shadows of walnut
trees fell across the road. Elim's face was grim, a dark tide rose
about him, enveloping his heart, bothering his vision.
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