On Sunday evening Benedicta pretended that she was sleepy; and when Mrs.
Wilkinson told her to go to bed, and get a good night’s rest, she
assented willingly. As a matter of fact, she thought that very likely
she would never go to sleep again. Certainly she didn’t want to waste
time in that way.
She sat down in the dark by the window, where she could look out over
the garden, but she didn’t see it. She had abolished time and space, and
was looking into the middle of the afternoon that had passed.
She saw herself and Francis Dumall sitting on a fallen tree in the
woods, where the sun shone through the leaves in queer bright spots on
his hair, like gold coins. He was dressed in an old belted coat and
tweed trousers that didn’t match, but his shabby clothes were worn with
his own air of careless distinction. He was hatless. Sometimes he looked
like a boy, and sometimes very much of a man.
He had talked about books. He had talked in an enthralling, a marvelous
way. He had made Benedicta resolve to begin to read books herself.
“Why have I gone on like this?” she thought. “Never even trying to
improve my mind, with all the spare time I’ve had! It’s disgraceful. I’m
ashamed of myself. I don’t know what Mr. Dumall must think of me!”
This was somewhat hypocritical, for she had at least a suspicion of what
Mr. Dumall thought of her. He hadn’t talked about books all the time;
nor was it likely that when he had asked if he might come to see her,
he had contemplated nothing but a literary monologue.
In spite of this, however, and in spite of the look in his gray eyes,
which was unmistakably admiration, Benedicta was doubtful.
“He can’t really like me,” she thought.
She did not realize how unworthy of a Miller such humility was. Why
shouldn’t he really like her? What was he but a boy not much older than
herself, and, like herself, obscure and poor? She didn’t even realize
how lovely she was, lost in her ridiculous admiration for him.
“He’s so different from me!” she thought. “He’s not ashamed of being
poor. He doesn’t care one bit about clothes, and dancing, and things
like that. He could hold his own anywhere. Everybody respects him and
likes him. Nan thinks he’s splendid. He is splendid! He’s risen above
his disadvantages, and I haven’t. I’ve let myself be so miserable about
being poor that I’ve neglected everything else. He remembers that he
belongs to a fine old family, and he’s worthy of it!”
She must follow this inspiring example. She must be worthy of her fine,
old family. She wished the magic summer night would pass so that she
might begin. She was filled with impatience and hope, half happy, half
miserable.
She began to dream of the past, when the Dumalls and the Millers were in
their prime, when the two houses blazed with lights in the evening and
were filled with guests, when the estates were intact, when the ladies
exchanged visits, riding along the roads in carriages, and all the
country people uncovered as they passed. All gone now--gone forever!
“I don’t care!” she said, wiping away a tear. “I’d rather have what I
have than ten times the Wilkinsons’ money!”
The result of her meditations was to make her none too gracious to the
Wilkinsons the next morning. She took leave of them, firmly resolving
never to set foot in their house again, because it wasn’t worthy of a
Miller. She was going home to improve her mind, and never to see or
think of any one less august than a Dumall for the rest of her life.
“She’s a high and mighty young woman, I must say!” observed Mr.
Wilkinson, a little hurt by her patronizing farewell.
His wife and daughter were not hurt. They said in the same breath:
“Poor Benedicta!”
“Why?” he wished to know.
They didn’t explain, but the thought both of them had was that it is a
lamentable piece of folly to bite off one’s nose to spite one’s face,
especially in the case of such a delightful nose and such a pretty face
as Benedicta’s.
V
Once inside the Miller stronghold again, Benedicta went from bad to
worse. Her father confirmed and strengthened all her theories. He was
inordinately interested to hear that she had met young Dumall, and he
remembered any number of new things about the two families.
When they sat down to their ill cooked, meager dinner, the fact that it
hadn’t been paid for was amply compensated by eating it with old silver
from old china. Mr. Miller, looking at his child, had not a single pang
of regret that her youth and her loveliness were shut up in that dismal
ruin. He felt, instead, a surge of pride and gratitude that she was a
Miller.
Young Dumall came that very evening, bringing a book for Benedicta; but
he did not show the least desire for a decorous conversation on family
topics with her father.
In spite of his scholarly tastes and his shy, quiet air, he was a young
fellow of enterprise and resolution. He suggested taking a walk, for the
inadequate reason that the moon was up. So Mr. Miller was left
alone--which, after all, was the fate he had chosen for himself.
Benedicta had fixed ideas about courtships. It cannot be denied that,
although she had seen this young man only twice, and had no proper
foundation for such a notion, she believed that this was the beginning
of a courtship. The most singular delight and confusion filled her
heart. She didn’t wish to speak, or wish him to speak. Later, after they
had known each other for weeks and weeks, would come the moment when he
would tell her those wonderful things of which she had read; but now all
she wanted in the world was to walk by his side on the long, dim road,
soft with dust, with the crickets chirping in the parched grass, and the
breeze, sweet with the breath of the fields and the hills, blowing
against her face.
Young Dumall, apparently, had no such ideas about courtships.
“You know,” he said, “I’m poor enough--”
“Oh!” Benedicta interrupted. “What does that matter? It’s something to
be proud of--in these days, when people like the Wilkinsons have so much
money.”
He turned toward her, but it was too dark to read her face.
“I don’t see anything wrong with the Wilkinsons,” he said. “They’re the
best friends I’ve ever had.”
Benedicta was a little nettled at this.
“Of course they’re very nice, and all that,” she answered; “but they’re
not at all our sort.”
“That’s our misfortune,” declared Francis. “Mr. Wilkinson made money
because he worked hard and used his wits. Our sort of people wouldn’t
work, and thought it a fine thing not to have any common sense. _I’m_
not proud of being poor--and I’m not going to stay poor!”
“There are better things in life than hard work and common sense,”
observed Benedicta stiffly.
“I know that,” said he; “but you can’t get or keep those better things
without hard work and common sense. Valuable things have to be paid
for.”
“The very best things can’t be bought,” said she.
“You can’t get them any other way,” said he.
Benedicta was growing rather angry.
“Not good blood,” she said. “Not family and traditions.”
“But, see here!” he interposed. “Haven’t you ever heard or read how the
people we came from--the old Millers and the Dumalls--got what we’re so
proud of now? They bought all they ever had. They often paid with their
lives, and always with the hardest, most dangerous kind of service.
After they’d come to this country and cleared their land, they had to
defend it. All the Dumalls who amounted to anything were fighters in one
way or another--not necessarily soldiers, but men who held their own.
When they stopped fighting--and paying--they didn’t amount to anything
any more. I don’t intend to spend my life talking about what other and
better men have done before me. I’m a man myself, and I mean to do
something worth doing!”
Benedicta was a traitor. She agreed with every word he said. She was so
thrilled by his boyish spirit that she could have wept with pride and
joy. She thought to herself that he was like a knight, that he was the
bravest, finest, most wonderful creature who had ever walked the earth.
“I’m sure you will!” she cried.
He stopped short.
“Do you really think so, Benedicta?” he asked.