"Because--because I wish you to so much!"
"And am I such a contrary-minded person that you can't trust me to
behave myself, under ordinary provocation?"
"You may think the provocation is extraordinary."
"Well, let's see." He got himself over the wall, and allowed her to
scramble after him.
She asked herself whether, if he had the traditions of a society man, he
would have done that; but somehow, when she looked at his dreamy face,
rapt in remote thought that beautified it from afar, she did not care
for his neglect of small attentions. She said to herself that if a woman
could be the companion of his thoughts that would be enough; she did not
go into the details of arranging association with thoughts so far off as
Maxwell's; she did not ask herself whether it would be easy or possible.
She put the cushion into the hammock for a pillow, but he chose to sit
beside her on the bench between the pine-tree boles, and the hammock
swayed empty in the light breeze that woke the sea-song of the boughs
over them.
"I don't know exactly how to begin," she said, after a little silence.
"If you'll tell me what you want to say," he suggested, "I'll begin for
you."
"No, thank you, I'll begin myself. Do you remember, the other day, when
we were here, and were talking of the difference in peoples' pride?"
"Purse pride and poverty pride? Yes, I remember that."
"I didn't like what you said, then; or, rather, what you were."
"Have you begun now? Why didn't you?"
"Because--because you seemed very worldly."
"And do you object to the world? I didn't make it," said Maxwell, with
his scornful smile. "But I've no criticisms of the Creator to offer. I
take the world as I find it, and as soon as I get a little stronger, I'm
going back to it. But I thought you were rather worldly yourself, Miss
Hilary."
"I don't know. I don't believe I am, very. Don't you think the kind of
life Matt's trying to live is better?"
"Your brother is the best man I ever knew--"
"Oh, isn't he? Magnificent!"
"But life means business. Even literary life, as I understand it, means
business."
"And can't you think--can't you wish--for anything better than the life
that means business?" she asked, she almost entreated. "Why should you
ever wish to go back to the world? If you could live in the country away
from society, and all its vanity and vexation of spirit, why wouldn't
you rather lead a literary life that didn't mean business?"
"But how? Are you proposing a public subscription, or a fairy
godmother?" asked Maxwell.
"No; merely the golden age. I'm just supposing the case," said Louise.
"You were born in Arcady, you know," she added, with a wistful smile.
"Arcady is a good place to emigrate from," said Maxwell, with a smile
that was not wistful. "It's like Vermont, where I was born, too. And if
I owned the whole of Arcady, I should have no use for it till I had seen
what the world had to offer. Then I might like it for a few months in
the summer."
"Yes," she sighed faintly, and suddenly she rose, and said, "I must go
and put the finishing touches. Good-by, Mr. Maxwell"--she mechanically
gave him her hand. "I hope you will soon be well enough to get back to
the world again."
"Thank you," he said, in surprise. "But the great trial you were going
to make of my patience, my docility--"
She caught away her hand. "Oh, that wasn't anything. I've decided not.
Good-by! Don't go through the empty form of coming back to the house
with me. I'll take your adieus to mamma." She put the cushion into the
hammock. "You had better stay and try to get a nap, and gather strength
for the battle of life as fast as you can."
She spoke so gayly and lightly, that Maxwell, with all his subtlety,
felt no other mood in her. He did not even notice, till afterwards, that
she had said nothing about their meeting again. He got into the hammock,
and after a while he drowsed, with a delicious, poetic sense of her
capricious charm, as she drifted back to the farmhouse, over the sloping
meadow. He visioned a future in which fame had given him courage to tell
her his love.
Mrs. Hilary knew from her daughter's face that something had happened;
but she knew also that it was not what she dreaded.