IN THE SUMMER TIME.
The first return of warm weather found James and Norine Darling at the
little farm, and also found Lester Conway there to welcome them.
He had expected to find some change in Norine, but was not prepared for
the great change that one year’s prosperity, with the advantages of
city life, had wrought in her.
That was because he had not taken “dress” into account. He had expected
to find her improved mentally and physically, but he had never
contemplated any change in her appearance.
He had eliminated, in his masculine way, the subject of dress
altogether, and in consequence he was dazzled by the magnificence of
the apparition that descended from the carriage.
Norine had found her power in dress, as most handsome women do, I
fancy, at one time or another.
She had departed arrayed in the greatest effort of the village
dressmaker; she returned, and lo! she had been clothed by an artist.
I would not have you think that Norine had become vain or frivolous.
It was not that, for she was very simply and modestly attired. But
there is a magnificence in simplicity, no less striking than is the
other extreme. And when poor Conway went to assist this evolution of
“dress” from the carriage, his heart leaped for a moment with pride
and rapture, and the next instant sank to the lowest depths of despair.
The simple grub of the mountains had evolved into the glittering
butterfly of the metropolis.
“Why, Lester, you have not welcomed me at all!” cried Norine, as she
stood with her eyes and cheeks flaming with joy at being back. “I
thought,” she said, pouting a little, “that you would be glad to see
me!”
“Glad?” cried Conway, but his eyes told the rest, and when he imprinted
a brotherly kiss of welcome on her rounded cheek, there was a shyness
in Norine’s receipt of the caress not altogether compatible with
sisterly affection.
“I am so glad to be back!” she said, beaming on the good Mrs. Higgins.
“No matter where I live, this will always be my home. Oh, how lovely
everything looks!” and she gave a little sigh of rapture.
“Yes,” said Jim, who had come up with little Clinton in his arms,
“there is no place like home. Now, I intend to have a pretty cottage
put up this summer, and then we will have things something like----”
“Why, Jim Bright!” exclaimed Norine, forgetting the new name in her
indignation, “you shall do nothing of the kind. The old place shall not
be changed at all. It would be desecration to touch it.”
“Oh, all right,” replied Jim placidly. “If you are going to run the
place, that settles it;” and he marched into the house with a great
appearance of injury.
Norine and Conway came slowly up the little path together. She slipped
her hand shyly under his arm.
“I do not think you are looking very well, Lester,” she said. “What is
it?”
“Oh, there is nothing the matter with me,” replied Conway, passing his
hand over his hair with that old gesture of his. “There is nothing at
all the matter--now. I have been working pretty hard, and I have been a
little lonesome at times, nothing more.”
“I am afraid you will not be very glad to have me back to trouble you,”
murmured Norine. “For I do trouble you dreadfully, I know.”
“I am more than glad to have you back,” said Conway, pressing the hand
that rested so lightly on his arm. “And you must not trouble me. You
must remember, and”--with a little break in his voice--“be merciful.”
Norine made no answer to this, but she glanced softly at him as she
entered the house, and her gayety seemed somewhat diminished.
Yet they were all very happy together that day; it was such a joyful
home-coming. Jim went over the farm with his agent and general
factotum, Higgins, and found many things to commend, while Norine was
equally pleased with the care that Mrs. Higgins had taken with the
house.
And Conway took Master Clinton to the big red barn and introduced him
to all the animals and fowls of the farm, bringing him back presently
in a perfect fever of delight over a certain speckled calf that Conway
had gravely assured him had been sent expressly for him.
And then Norine had donned one of the big aprons, and had insisted on
helping Mrs. Higgins to prepare dinner, whereupon Conway had valiantly
seized the bread knife and expressed his determination to help them
both.
They got rid of him, however, after some parley, and the two women were
left alone.
“How nice everything is looking, Mrs. Higgins,” said Norine. “I had no
idea that you could make the place look so pretty. And where did you
get all those pretty vines? Why, the house will be covered with flowers
by July.”
“Oh, them?” replied Mrs. Higgins, with her usual snort. “I didn’t get
’em; ther doc brot ’em over an’ stuck ’em in ther groun’ hisself. Ther
doc’s gettin’ kinder cranky over flowers, I guess. He made the old man
spade up that place over there, and planted it hisself. I told him I
wanted thet place for the kitchen ’arbs; but lawk, he didn’t pay no
’tention ter me, but jes went on a-stickin’ in his seeds, like I hadn’t
sed nothin’ ’tall.”
“Why, where are they?” cried Norine anxiously. “I can see no flowers?”
“Ther hain’t no flowers ter see, yit, an’ I don’t believe there’ll
be none,” replied Mrs. Higgins, whisking away at some eggs that she
was beating. “There’s some green stuff er comin’ up, but ’tain’t
like no flowers I ever seen;” and she ended with a palpable sniff of
disapproval.
Norine hurried out to the little plot that had cost Conway so much
care. There was a border of dark leaves around the outside, and some
tender shoots springing up at irregular intervals. But through the
centre of the plot there was springing up some tender green shoots
different from the rest, and Norine dropped on her knees with a little
scream of delight, for there, just discernible above the dark ground,
in the tenderest of tender green leaves, was her own name--Norine.
Her eyes became suspiciously moist at the sight of this, and her breast
heaved a little.
“He is so good and thoughtful,” she murmured; and then she gave a
little fluttering sigh and returned quietly to the house.
“Did you see hit?” inquired Mrs. Higgins, as she entered.
Norine nodded.
“I’ll hev ther old man spade it all up for yer if yer like,” resumed
Mrs. Higgins pacifically. “I don’t take no stock in hit myself.”
“Spade it up?” cried Norine, flushing indignantly. “You must not touch
it at all. I will care for it myself.”
Whereupon Mrs. Higgins snorted, but said no more, only there was a sly,
almost pleased expression on her grim face, very much as if she had
drawn Norine on as far as she wanted to.
The woods were still damp from the spring rains, so Norine was obliged
to confine herself to the house and grounds for the day.
Conway had left immediately after dinner to look after some of his
patients; but he had promised to come out again in the evening.
So Norine busied herself in unpacking her trunks and putting things in
order for her summer stay.
Then there were the little presents for the Higginses to be presented
and commented upon, and altogether Norine found the day slip past and
evening come long before she had finished.
“Never mind,” she said to Mrs. Higgins. “The rest can wait.”
And she went out to the gate, and was there when Conway arrived.
“I am afraid that you should have something around you,” he said at
once. “The evenings are chilly yet.”
“There,” cried Norine; “you commence at me already, and I came out on
purpose to meet you, too.”
“I could better appreciate your kindness if it were not at the expense
of your health,” replied Conway coolly. “You had better go in and get a
shawl, and come to meet me again. I will wait here for you.”
Norine laughed, but went for the shawl, nevertheless, leaving Conway
leaning over the gate and pulling his mustache thoughtfully, as he
watched her run lightly up the path.
“Oh, Lester,” said Norine as she returned, panting a little, from her
run. “I want to thank you for your kindness, and I don’t know how to do
it. That flower-bed is just lovely.”
She had joined him now, and they were walking slowly up the road.
“I am amply repaid if it pleases you,” Conway replied, laughing a
little. “I was very uneasy about that bed, for it was my first attempt
at gardening, and I was in doubt as to the result. Now, since it
pleases you, I am rather proud of my work.”
“No wonder; it is pretty enough to make any one proud. I am half
inclined to try it myself.”
“Do so,” advised Conway. “I will give you some of the seed, and I think
you will do better than I did; for I am afraid I pushed the season
along a little in my experiment. But there, I wanted you to see it when
you returned. And now,” he broke off abruptly, “tell me about New York.
Have you plenty of company?”
“Oh, plenty!” answered Norine, raising her eyebrows expressively; “and
very entertaining company, too. We have a very pleasant house there,”
she went on, “and some very pleasant friends.”
“And lovers, I suppose?” inquired Conway gloomily.
“Oh, lovers, of course,” replied Norine mischieviously. “But then,” she
added, “old friends are dearest.”
“I am glad you did not forget us all,” said Conway. “But tell me how
you have enjoyed yourself?”
And then Norine, pouting a little at his abtuseness, entered into a
minute account of their city life; and they were in the midst of it
when they returned to the house.
Conway was almost a daily visitor at the cottage after this.
“His people were shamefully healthy that summer,” he said, “and he was
not half busy enough.” But I fancy that he had all the practice he
wanted, for all that, and perhaps neglected a little of what he had.
But if he did neglect his practice, there was no complaint made, and so
he could idle through the greater part of the summer with Norine.
“It is shameful the way we go on,” said Norine, one day. “I declare,
we do nothing but wander through the woods together, when we should be
doing something useful. Just think; you, a physician, with the lives of
so many in your hands, and I almost an old woman.”
“I don’t see that you are getting very old,” replied Conway, looking at
her critically. “Look at me now. I am getting gray.”
And he passed his hand thoughtfully over his head.
“But I am nearly as old as you are,” retorted Norine. “And see what a
great boy Clinton is getting to be! We both ought to be doing something
useful.”
“We are,” replied Conway lazily; “at least I am. I am storing my mind
with your wise sayings. I shall pass them all off as original after you
go.”
“Nonsense!” laughed Norine, blushing a little. “Don’t be a goose,
Lester. Really, I am ashamed of myself.”
“It is very pleasant,” commented Conway.
He was lying flat on his back in the shade, with his hands clasped
under his head.
“Yes, it is very pleasant,” assented Norine; “and I shall dread leaving
the little place.”
Conway let his head fall, and gazed blankly at the blue sky overhead.
“She was right,” he thought. “It was all very foolish--the bliss of her
presence was supreme now, but there was the parting to come.”
He had not allowed himself to feed on false hopes; he had no
expectation of winning her love. He had simply been content to enjoy
the bliss of her presence without speculating on the future. But she
was right--there was the parting to come; and he shrank coward-like
from its bitterness.
As he lay there supinely at her feet, he wondered if it were not better
to end it all, and speculated over the old problem: Was his life worth
the living, after all?
This summer had been full of pleasure for him. Many a man would be
content to die for so much, rather than stand the bitterness that was
to follow.
Then his strong common sense asserted itself, and he shook himself
together and glanced at Norine. She was sitting with her hands folded
together in her lap, and gazing into vacancy. He looked at her sadly
for a moment, and then turned his eyes away.
“She is thinking of him,” he thought bitterly, and he sighed
unconsciously.
Norine woke from her reverie.
“My! what a sigh that was!” she said, laughing. “Tell me what you were
thinking about to cause so doleful a sigh.”
Conway did not smile in return. He turned his head so as to see her
face.
“I was thinking of the future,” he said quietly.
Norine’s face wore a troubled look for a moment.
“Don’t think ill of the future,” she said. “Who can tell what it may
have in store for you?”
“You will return to Bright Farm next summer, I suppose?” hazarded
Conway abruptly.
“Next summer is a long way off yet,” replied Norine. “I hope to come,
of course; but you are not to expect me to spend all my summers in
idleness. I will have work to do.”
“What great work are you contemplating?” inquired Conway.
“Well, there is Clinton’s education, for one thing, and that
necessitates an improvement in my own. I will study--I would not care
to have my boy think me ignorant when he grows up.”
Conway entered heartily into this.
“I think you are right,” he said. “Not that you are ignorant, for
you are not, but because good reading is of great benefit to all,
and it is well for a woman in your position to broaden your ideas as
much as possible, that you may be better able to do what good you can
understandingly.”
“I was not thinking of myself,” protested Norine, “but of Clinton.”
“Oh, you will trouble yourself too much about him, of course,” replied
the doctor, gazing fondly at her. “That is to be expected from a woman.
Do not commence with him too soon; it is better that his mind should
remain fallow for a time; then put him into some good public school,
and he will take care of himself. If he has to rough it a little, it
will be all the better for him. I am only saying this professionally,”
continued Conway. “I have no idea of being able to convince you. You
will coddle the lad as most mothers do, and probably spoil him before
he is ten years old.”
“I shall do nothing of the sort,” returned Norine indignantly. “It is
all well enough for you to talk, but you coddle him, as you call it, a
great deal more than I do, and so does Jim;” and she marched into the
house with her head erect and cheeks burning.
And so the summer passed, and the chilly evenings began to herald the
coming of fall, and the little family at the cottage were getting ready
for their return to the city.
Norine had been through the woods with a little basket of things for
the Higgins children, and returned, as was usual with her, by way of
the little hut in the woods.
It was a very dilapidated little hut now, and would have fallen long
ago but that Conway, knowing how often she went there, took a little
care of it for her.
She had been singing merrily as she came through the woods, but the
song stopped when she came in sight of the shanty; and as she stopped
at the door and looked around the place, her face became thoughtful.
“I wonder if he knows?” she said softly. “I wonder if it grieves him in
the other world to know that I care for some one else? Not that you are
forgotten, dearest,” she said, as if she were holding a conversation
with some imaginary person. “I do not love you any the less, but I
can’t help loving him too;” and she looked down as if she had made
a shameful confession. “Oh, I don’t know what to do!” she cried
piteously. “If I only knew--if I only knew!” and she turned sadly from
the door.
Conway did not come that day. Truth to tell, the doctor found this
parting harder to bear than even he had anticipated, and he hardly
dared to trust himself with Norine. But on the next day he came. There
was only one more day now before their departure.
“Come,” he said; “shall we go through the woods once more?” And she got
her hat, with her heart fluttering ominously, and joined him.
They were both silent and preoccupied as they went over the well-known
places together, and they were nearing home again before they either of
them awoke from their trance.
“And this is the last time,” said Conway at last; “and after to-morrow
we part?”
Norine tried to make some trifling reply, but could not accomplish it.
“Perhaps next summer----” she began weakly.
“We can neither of us tell where we will be next summer,” replied
Conway gloomily, and then lapsed into silence.
They were nearly home, when she laid her hand timidly on his arm.
“I want to tell you something,” she said, “if you will not blame me.”
He stopped and looked at her, but made no reply. What was there that he
could blame _her_ for?
“You are such an old friend,” she said, standing before him with
downcast eyes and fluttering hands. “You are such an old friend, you
will understand me and not think any wrong of me. But, oh, Lester! you
have been so good, and--and I like you so much, that I wanted to tell
you, before I go, that if you want me to, very bad, I will be your
wife.”
And then before he could recover from his stupor; before he could even
take her in his arms, she was flying homeward as if possessed of wings,
leaving him faint with his sudden happiness.
She was home before he got there, and had locked herself in her room.
But she would see him to-morrow, she said, and he went home reeling
with the happiness that as yet he could scarcely understand.
How he passed the night he never knew. He lived in another world.
That this happiness he had waited so long for should come to him so
unexpectedly was almost incomprehensible, and a dozen times that night
he woke to wonder if it were not all a dream.
Good, motherly Mrs. Allan was somewhat startled at the sudden change in
his appearance. But when he called her Norine and abstractedly stirred
his coffee with his fork, she understood it all; and there came a
gentle glow in her motherly heart as she thought that now, perhaps, she
and her darling Lettie might be reunited.
Of course, he was at the little cottage early in the morning,
unnecessarily early, perhaps; but he could wait no longer. He found Jim
in the garden.
“Congratulate me!” he cried joyously. “She is mine at last!”
“Thank the Lord!” replied Jim piously. “I do congratulate you heartily;
but I knew she wanted to marry you all the time.”
Conway did not stop to hear him. Going into the kitchen, he found
Norine--alone. She met him gladly. And as they stood there, heart to
heart, her soft arms around him, her tender lips pressed close to his,
the joy of possession filled his heart, and he was at peace.
Of course, there must be some alloy to all this happiness. He must
wait yet another year, Jim protested; but Conway could not; he was too
happy. She wished it, though, and he would wait.
When the carriage came at last, and the brother and sister had left the
little farm, Conway contrasted this with their last parting.
The little cottage was desolate again. The chill winds of autumn blew
through the leafless branches of the trees. The Higginses were as
disconsolate as before. But to Lester Conway the world was altogether
different.