It might reasonably be supposed that the event last narrated disturbed
my life. It did in a measure, and for a time, but I was not very long in
bringing it back to its accustomed channel.
Strange as it may seem, although we lived across the street from one
another, I saw nothing of Mr. Chance for many weeks. Perhaps it is not
strange though, after all, since each of us was taking pains to avoid
the other, and we knew each other's habits of life pretty well by this
time.
But if I didn't see him, I heard of him frequently enough, for Mrs.
Purblind rarely ever met me without saying something about "Dolph," as
she called him. She was exceedingly fond of him, and with good cause,
for he was a most affectionate, thoughtful, unselfish brother. He was
very different from her, and they were not confidential friends, when
serious matters were concerned, but they were companionable,
nevertheless.
It is not likely Mrs. Purblind realized that she was shut out from
something that deeply concerned her brother; but she worried about him.
She was certain he was ill--he had little appetite, and was in no way
like himself, she said. Miss Sprig wondered what had come over him.
I believe Mrs. Purblind must have been deaf as well as blind, otherwise
the neighborhood gossip regarding Mr. Chance and myself, which was rife
a year ago, would certainly have reached her. Evidently she had heard
nothing, and she continued to keep my innermost breast in a secret
ferment, by pouring her fears and speculations into my ear. She even
confided in me that she had for a long time suspected the existence of
an affair between Miss Sprig and her brother, but this young woman
declared that he never paid her the slightest attention of a matrimonial
character; that he'd been very kind to her, very jolly, and friendly,
but that was all.
I think that if Mount Vesuvius had leaped out of me, and taken its
departure, I could scarce have felt more relieved. I really had been
harboring a volcano for some time, and it was a hot tenant.
Shortly after hearing this latter piece of Mrs. Purblind's news, another
bit was added.
"Dolph has gone away," she said, one day; "left suddenly, this morning.
He confessed to being played out, and I'm sure he looks it. He's gone on
to Buffalo, to brother Dave's."
That night I sat down and wrote a letter; when one has done wrong, his
first conscious act should be to confess.
I was in a trying position; one is at such a time. Two months had
elapsed, and Mr. Chance might have changed his mind and intent. Men do,
occasionally; women, too. And indeed he never had asked me to marry him.
True, that is the supposition when a man, with any real manhood about
him, tells a woman he loves her--when he shows her marked attentions, in
fact; but, as I said to Mr. Chance, I did not intend to take such things
for granted. I had not changed in that respect. I had, however, become
convinced that I was harsh and unjust to him. It is a blundering teacher
who takes badness in a child for granted--does not wait for proof. It is
an inspired teacher who ignores the bad sometimes, even after it has
been proven. To think the worst, so some of the psychologists tell us,
will often create the worst. Even a cook does well to make the most of
her materials. Her dishes will be likely to turn out ill, if she treats
the ingredients with disrespect. It would seem that I, who had in a
manner made a specialty of matrimonial cookery, had something yet to
learn. Randolph Chance had given me a lesson.
In my letter, I said that time and thought had shown me I had done him a
wrong, and that I was very sorry; that, no doubt, he had changed in some
feelings, and it was, perhaps, not likely we should meet very soon; but
that I wished him to know I realized my mistake, and that I was still
his friend.
The second day after I had written, I heard from him; our letters were
penned the same night, and must have crossed each other. In his he said
he had held off as long as he could, but was coming right back from
Buffalo to see me. He was certain he could explain everything; he had
nothing to hide, and he hoped I would let him tell me what was in his
heart; that for months he had known but one real wish, one real
aspiration--to win me for his wife. He begged me to let him begin anew,
and make an effort to attain this great end.
That evening, in the gloaming, I was at my study window. I could look
into the parlor of the Thrush home. A shadow had fallen upon that dear
nest; one of the little birdies had flown away, but it was now forever
sheltered from all storms in the dear Christ's bosom, so all was well.
The gentle little mother was nearly crushed at first, even more so than
the father, though he felt the loss deeply; but erelong she lifted her
sweet face, and smiled through her tears. And now, at the end of two
weeks, she was to her husband, at least, as cheerful as ever, even more
tender, and she made the home as bright as before. So many women are
selfish in their grief, unwise too. They act as if their husbands were
aliens, and did not share the sorrow. It is true the man usually
recovers sooner than the woman from such a blow, but no one should blame
him for that. His nature is different, necessarily different; not in
kind, but in degree. It has to be; his is the outside battle; he must
needs be rugged. But "a man's a man for a' that," and the woman who
shuts him out in the hour of bereavement, or who darkens the home
continuously, and overcasts its good cheer, is both selfish and foolish.
In such cases husband and wife are parted, instead of being brought
nearer to one another, as they should be when they have a little
ambassador in the court of Heaven.
My heart was very tender that evening, and as I sat beside the glowing
fire, before the lamps were lighted, my thoughts ran to Mrs. Purblind.
The poor little woman had seemed sad of late, and I guessed, without
word from her, that it was because her husband was going out so much at
night. I did wish she could see some things as they really were.
She sat there with me that evening--in spirit, at least, on the opposite
side of the fireplace, and her mournful face touched me deeply.
"He doesn't seem to care for his home," she said sadly.
"Make him care for it. Man is a domestic animal. If he doesn't stay at
home, something is wrong."
"I do all I can," she answered in a dull tone.
"No doubt you do now," I said; "but learn more, and then you will
improve."
"I was looking over some trunks in the attic to-day, and I came across
my wedding gown. It called up so much! I can't get over it--" and she
sobbed aloud.