CONWAY’S VISITOR.
The year had passed away, and spring had come again without bringing
any changes to the little family at Bright Farm.
Conway was, of course, a frequent visitor; but since Norine’s year of
widowhood had expired he found excuses for calling even more frequently
than usual, the excuses generally being in the nature of candy, or
something equally indigestible, for little Clinton.
If the year just passed had brought no change to the family at the
farm, it had certainly left its imprint on Lester Conway. He looked far
more contented than he had in the past, and there was a certain buoyant
expression on his face that betokened peace of mind and possible hope.
He had waited patiently throughout the year, saying nothing to either
Jim or Norine of his hopes for the future. He loved her far too well to
obtrude his love on her.
He had never even spoken of it, and yet he felt very hopeful. She had
been taken from him once, he thought, but there could be no danger of
losing her again. Surely she would come to value his great love in
time, and then would come the payment for his years of waiting and
longing.
The recompense would surely come. And was it not worth the waiting?
Ay, even though he had to wait his seven years, as Jacob did, he was
content if only the recompense came at last.
He was preparing for a visit to the farm now, and had already secreted
certain toys in his overcoat pocket, when the door of his office
was pushed open without the usual formality of a knock, and he was
confronted by a strange old lady.
She was a tall, thin woman, dressed entirely in black, without one
speck of color from her chin to her feet to mar the awful sombreness of
her attire. She wore a heavy fur-lined circular that reached nearly to
the ground. And even Conway could see that, for all her plainness, his
visitor was very expensively dressed. Not that he noticed it then, for
all his attention was fixed on the woman’s face--a face so strange in
its expression that it looked unlike a face belonging to this world.
She had high cheek bones, pale, colorless eyes that were perpetually
fixed upon vacancy, and a mouth so wide and thin-lipped that the face
looked--with the yellow skin stretched tightly over it--not unlike a
skeleton face, or very much like the face of one long dead.
There was only one emotion expressed by this face. That was
determination inflexible and persistent.
Conway bowed his professional bow, and handed a chair, but for a moment
he was speechless.
“You are Doctor Conway?” his visitor said in a strangely hollow tone.
The doctor bowed again.
“I believe you are acquainted with a family named Darling,” said his
visitor.
It was not a question, although she stared fixedly at him while waiting
his reply. It was an assertion, and left no possible doubt as to her
knowledge of the acquaintanceship.
Conway looked puzzled, and was about to return a negative reply, when
the old lady continued in the same hollow, monotonous tones:
“I refer to James and Norine Darling.”
“Oh, the Brights?” said Conway, blushing a little. “Yes, I
believe--that is, I know them very well;” and he blushed again, vividly
for a man.
Some wise man has said that a blush on a man’s face is proof positive
of truth and honor, and I am inclined to believe him, for very few men
blush nowadays--successfully.
“The name is Darling,” insisted the lady in an inflexible tone.
“Darling? Yes, I believe it is,” stammered Conway, who had begun to
guess the identity of his visitor. “How can I assist you?” he inquired
politely.
“Please tell me all you know of this brother and sister,” said the
lady. “I have come from New York to find out about them, perhaps for
their benefit.”
“There is so much to tell,” said Conway. “And the history of those two
is so strange in some particulars, that, really, to a stranger----”
And he stopped, embarrassed.
“I am not a stranger,” said his visitor, “although I have never seen
those two. You need not fear to tell me anything you know of them.
What are their dispositions?”
Conway spoke very highly of their dispositions. In fact, he was rapidly
becoming enthusiastic, when a glance from his visitor checked him.
“I see you are a good friend of theirs,” she said coldly. “Please tell
me what you can about them as briefly as possible.”
Conway had made a guess as to the identity of his visitor, and he had
so little doubt as to the correctness of his guess that on receiving
this check he proceeded as quietly as possible to give a detailed
history of the brother and sister, only suppressing such things as he
thought might prove offensive to his visitor.
“Have they any relatives?” inquired the lady, when he had finished.
“Only one aunt, I believe,” said Conway, “whom they believe to be old
and very poor.”
“Do they believe that?” demanded the lady, with some degree of interest.
Conway bowed.
There was silence now for some moments, and, although his visitor
stared steadily into vacancy without moving a muscle of her face,
Conway thought he could discern a softer, somewhat less implacable look
about her.
“Do you go there very often?” she inquired abruptly at last.
“Why, yes,” replied the doctor, blushing again. “I go there quite
often; in fact,” he added, in a burst of candor, “I was just about to
start for the farm when you entered.”
“Humph!” said the lady, so impressively that Conway blushed again.
“Is that your conveyance?” she said, looking out at the little rough
pony and shabby gig in front of the office.
Conway admitted that it was.
“I will go with you,” she said, as abruptly as possible. And though
Conway felt very ill at ease, and not altogether pleased at this turn
of affairs, there was nothing left to do but hand his visitor into the
old-fashioned gig and start the pony in the direction of the farm.
There was very little said as the little pony jogged steadily along.
The woman sat bolt upright, with her hands folded in her lap, and
stared straight over the pony’s ears, while Conway stole sidelong
glances at her, and wondered if he were going to be the means of
helping his friends by this ride, or if he were bringing them more
trouble.
“There,” said the doctor, as a turn in the road brought them in sight
of the place. “That is Bright Farm.”
His companion looked at the little cottage and big red barn, and
altogether unconsciously murmured, “Unchanged, altogether unchanged
after all these years.”
Conway suddenly halted the pony.
“Why do you stop?” she inquired.
“See!” said Conway softly, as he pointed to the other side of the road.
“There is Norine.”
The old lady turned her head and looked. Norine was sitting upon a
fallen log at the edge of the woods, in an attitude of deep thought.
Her child lay asleep on her lap, with the bright sunshine turning his
hair to gold. It was a very pretty picture, with the budding woods as
an efficient background, and the sun shining lovingly on the mother and
child. A very pretty picture, Conway thought, and he had quite lost
himself in contemplation of it, when he was aroused by a touch from
his companion. “Turn around,” she said softly, as if in fear of waking
Norine from her thoughts.
And Conway, catching her meaning, turned the little pony around. “Go
ahead!” said the woman impatiently.
“Back?” inquired Conway, in amazement. “Do you not want to see them?”
“I have seen all I want to,” said the woman coldly. And, although
Conway had not seen all he wanted to, by any means, he drove back
obediently.
They rode back in complete silence, until Conway assisted the lady out
at the door of his office. Then she said:
“You are a good man, a _very_ good man, I think, as men go”--qualifying
her phrase a little. “Do you expect to marry Norine?”
“I cannot say that I expect to,” replied Conway, drawing himself up.
“But I certainly hope to.”
“Did she love that scoundrel, do you think?”
Conway said “Yes,” sturdily, but he sighed a little sadly when he said
it.
“I am sorry for you,” said this strange visitor, almost kindly, “but
the Darlings love strong and well.” And then, without another word, she
turned and left him as unceremoniously as she had entered his office.
“Thank the Lord she is only half Darling,” thought the doctor
cheerfully; her departure taking a load off his spirits. “If I can get
the Bright half to love me, I’ll take my chances for the rest;” and he
thoughtfully reëntered his gig and chirped to the little pony.
“Perhaps it will be as well not to mention it,” he thought, referring
mentally to his strange visitor. “There is really very little to tell,
and no use in raising false hopes. Yes,” he concluded thoughtfully,
“better not to mention it at all.” And having made this wise resolve,
Conway chirped to the little pony again, and drove cheerfully on his
way.
And so Norine was left in ignorance of the fact that she had formed
part of a very pleasing picture for the edification of a strange--a
_very_ strange woman.