AUNT MARY’S ANSWER.
Another year had gone by at Bright Farm, and beyond an increase of
quiet happiness there had been no change.
Little Clinton was growing into a stalwart, healthy lad, whose bright
ways lighted up the little cottage like a ray of sunshine, and brought
to Norine a degree of happiness she had never expected to enjoy.
It was a bright spring day, just such a day as when we first made his
acquaintance, that Doctor Conway rode up to the little cottage on the
little rough pony and dismounted at the gate. And although some years
have passed since we found the doctor going upon his fateful errand,
the errand had never yet been done. And Doctor Conway, tying his little
rough pony at the gatepost, had the same resolution in his breast that
he had had on that spring morning three years ago.
Norine, infolded in one of her big aprons, was busy with her household
duties when the doctor entered, and little Clinton, forsaking the cat,
ran to meet him as fast as his chubby little legs could carry him.
He was reasonably sure of something good with every visit, and
delighted in climbing upon the doctor’s knees and exploring that
gentleman’s pockets, hailing each discovery of a plaything or a bit of
candy with a yell of delight.
The doctor’s pockets were unusually prolific to-day, and little Clinton
retired to his corner to gloat over his riches, chuckling in triumph.
“Dear me,” protested Norine, evidently highly pleased, “you will spoil
him, doctor. He is as rough as a little bear, and you should not allow
him to romp over you in that fashion.”
“Spoil him; not a bit of it,” replied Conway, smiling. “Of course he’s
rough, all healthy boys are; but the little rascal knows I like to romp
as well as he does,” and he smiled pleasantly upon both mother and
child.
“Who is ill now, doctor?” inquired Norine, as she deftly pared the
edges of the pie she held in one hand. “It is not the Higgins’ this
time, is it?”
“No; they are well, for a wonder. I only came to see Clinton and--you.”
“Clinton and I are duly grateful, I assure you,” smiled Norine. “This
will be a red-letter day in our calendar, and you shall have an extra
large piece of pie at dinner. Won’t that prove my gratitude?” she
asked, smiling archly.
The doctor smiled a little in return and sighed a little too.
“When will you be done?” he asked, passing his hand over his head.
“A woman’s work is never done,” hummed Norine in reply. “Didn’t you
know that? But then we can manage to find time to entertain our guests
when we want to.”
“I hope you want to in this case,” said Conway, affecting a lightness
he did not feel, “for I want to be entertained.”
“And you shall be,” returned Norine, “as royally entertained as our
limited means will allow.” She stopped and looked at him curiously for
a moment. “You are not ill?” she asked anxiously.
“I? No; why do you ask? Do I look ill?”
“Not exactly ill,” said Norine, considering. “But you look as if
something unusual had happened.”
“Perhaps I expect something unusual to happen soon,” replied Conway,
flushing a little.
“What is it?” inquired Norine. She had washed her hands and was
standing before him trying to untie the big apron. “Dear me, what a
knot,” she said, forgetting the question.
“Let me untie it,” said Conway; and Norine turned her back to him that
he might reach the obdurate knot, puckering up her little mouth the
while with a look of deep concern.
Now there are few things more trying to the average lover than the
untying of his sweetheart’s apron strings. There is something in
the close proximity necessary for the operation that is very trying
to one’s nerves. And then when the knot is at last undone, and the
mischievous apron slowly drawn away, there is something so tantalizing
in the disappearance of the strings that it is almost impossible not to
follow them with one’s arms and take forcible possession at once.
Conway must have had wonderful power over himself that he did not do
this, for the big apron, when removed, disclosed a waist captivating
enough in all conscience. But he did not, he only bent close--very
close to her ear, and whispered:
“Norine, you know I love you.”
Norine started from him with a little cry of fright.
“Oh, no!” she cried. “Do not say it.”
“How can I help saying it,” he returned sadly. “I have loved you
so long and so patiently. I have waited so long, oh, so long!
Norine--Norine, you know this, you must know how I have suffered. Can
not you give me a little love in return?”
Poor Norine was weeping bitterly.
“I did know it, Lester, and I have always dreaded this. Oh, Lester!”
she said, giving him her hands with a gesture of perfect frankness, “I
do love you, for you are a noble man--I love you as dearly as I can
ever love. But, Lester, I dare not love you in that way. For little
Clinton’s sake, I must never marry again. Let me love you, Lester; let
us be friends, dear friends. We will forget this, and you will never
mention it again.”
“Mention it again,” cried Conway passionately, “I must mention it
again. I can not help it.” He drew her close to him, in spite of her
feeble resistance. “You say you dare not love me, Norine, and yet you
love me. What does it mean?”
“It is for Clinton’s sake,” faltered Norine.
“Can not you trust me to be a father to Clinton?” he asked
reproachfully.
“Not him--for his father’s sake,” stammered Norine, drawing herself
away from him. “You do not know, Lester--you can not understand; but I
must never marry again.”
“Yet you love me?”
“Yes,” she moaned; “I love you. But, oh! Lester, I can never marry
you--I must not.”
“You will not, you mean,” he said bitterly, as he turned away.
She put her hand quietly upon his arm.
“I am sorry, Lester,” she said, “but I could not help it, and--oh,
don’t you understand?--I can not help it now! I dare not, for his sake.”
Conway’s face worked convulsively, but he made no reply. He was deathly
pale, and it required no words to tell the passion that was consuming
him.
“You will not leave me?” cried Norine pitifully. “I can not lose your
friendship.”
“You never shall, Norine,” he said huskily--“you never shall; but is
there no hope?”
Norine only shook her head sorrowfully.
Conway turned sadly away. When he got to the door he turned to look at
her.
Norine ran to him, and put both arms around his neck.
“My poor, dear brother!” she cried, and kissed him.
There were pity and affection in that caress, but no hope, and Conway
went out of the house a despairing man.
On the next day there were two letters in the post office for Lester
Conway, and one directed to Norine Darling, in his care.
Conway opened his letters. The first was from a firm of lawyers in
New York, and notified him as briefly as possible that he had been
named as executor of the last will and testament of Miss Mary Darling,
deceased, and that he was to file his bond and apply for letters of
administration at once.
The other letter was in a cramped female hand. It was very short. It
simply said:
“DOCTOR CONWAY: I think you are a good man, and I have asked you to
see that my will is carried out according to my wishes. You have
sufficient influence over my nephew and niece to get them to comply
with my wishes. I have asked them both to resume their proper names.
But I have no objection to having my niece change her name for yours.”
This letter was dated nearly a year back, and was signed “Mary Darling.”
Conway was not strong enough to go to the farm that day, but he sent
Norine’s missive by a messenger, with a kindly note from himself,
telling of her aunt’s visit to the farm.
“I have not seen the will yet,” he wrote, “but I congratulate you
heartily on your good fortune.” And he signed it “Your brother Lester,”
and he even underscored the “brother” to give it emphasis. But Lester
Conway only saw in this sudden fortune for his friends another and
higher wall between his love and himself.
Norine’s letter was almost as brief as his. It said:
“MY DEAR NORINE: You wrote me a very kindly letter once, and I, in
my foolish obstinacy, disregarded it. I have visited you since
then, though perhaps you do not know it, and I write you now to beg
your forgiveness. You will get this when I am gone, perhaps to meet
my brother, and I warn you by my own sufferings not to disregard my
request.
“I have laid very few restrictions on you, but those few I demand that
you will sacredly comply with. This sad quarrel has lasted through two
generations. Let us end it now, resume your father’s name, take my
wealth, and may you be happy.
“Your aunt, MARY DARLING.”
“Jim,” said Norine, when he came in from his work, “we have got an
answer from Aunt Mary at last,” and she handed him the letter.
Jim read it over several times.
“I can’t understand it,” he said. “I did not know that she had any
wealth. How could she have visited us without our knowing it?”
Norine reluctantly gave him the letter from Conway.
“This will explain it,” she said.
Jim read Conway’s account of the visit. But when he spoke again his
words had no reference to either the visit or their unexpected fortune.
“Your _brother_ Lester,” he said. “What does that mean, Norry?”
Norine’s head sank lower and her face flushed, but she made no reply.
“Norry,” said Jim sadly, “has Lester asked you to marry him?”
Norine nodded without looking up.
“And you refused him?”
“Yes, Jim; I refused him.”
Jim walked the floor for a moment without speaking.
“I am very sorry,” he said at last. “I had rather know that you were
Lester Conway’s wife than to be the richest man in America.”
And leaving his sister in tears, Jim marched indignantly out of the
house.