That is what George asked me, and out of all the long talk we had this
evening this is the one thing which I keep hearing over and over. Why
should it tease me so? It is certainly a simple question, and when two
persons have been engaged six years there need no longer be any false
sensitiveness about things of this sort. About what sort? Do I mean that
the time has come when George would not mind hurting my feelings? It may
as well come out. As Father used to say: "You cannot balance the books
until the account is set down in full." Well, then, I mean that there is
a frankness about a long engagement which may not be in a short one, so
that when George and I meet after a separation it is natural that almost
the first question should be,--
"How long is it that we have been engaged?"
The question is certainly an innocent one,--although one would think
George might have answered it himself. How much did the fact that he
talked afterward so eagerly about the Miss West he met while at his
aunt's, and of how pretty she is, have to do with the pain which the
question gave me? At my age one might think that I was beyond the
jealousies of a school-girl.
We have been engaged six years and four months and five days. It is not
half the time that Jacob served for Rachel, although it is almost the
time he bowed his neck to the yoke for Leah, and I am afraid lest I am
nearer to being like the latter than the former. I always pitied Leah,
for she must have understood she had not her husband's love; any woman
would perceive that. Six years--and life is so short! Poor George, it
has not been easy for him! He has not even been able to wish that the
obstacle between us was removed, since that obstacle is Mother. Surely
she is my first duty; and since she needs me day and night, I cannot
divide my life; but I do pity George. He is wearing out his youth with
that old frump of a housekeeper, who makes him uncomfortable with an
ingenuity that seems to show intellectual force not to be suspected from
anything else. But she is a faithful old soul, and it is not kind to
abuse her.
"How long is it that we have been engaged?"
I have a tendency to keep on writing that over and over all down the
page as if this were the copy-book of a child at school. How Tom used to
admire my writing-books in our school-days! His were always smudged and
blotted. He is too big-souled and manly to niggle over little things;
and he laughed at the pains I took, turning every corner with absurd
care. He was so strong and splendid on the ice when we went skating over
on Getchell's Pond; and how often and often he has drawn me all the way
home on my sled!
But all that was ages and ages ago, and long before I even knew George.
It never occurred to me until to-night, but I am really growing old. The
birthdays that Tom remembered, and on which he sent me little bunches of
Mayflowers, have not in the least troubled me or seemed too many. I have
not thought much of birthdays of late years, but to-night I realize that
I am twenty-nine, and that George has asked me,--
"How long is it that we have been engaged?"
January 7. Sackcloth and ashes have been my portion for days, and if I
could by tearing from my diary the last leaves blot out of remembrance
the foolish things I have written, it would be quickly done. My New
Year's resolutions were even less lasting than are those in the jokes
of the comic papers; and I am ashamed all through and through. I have
tried to reason myself into something resembling common sense, but I am
much afraid I have not yet entirely accomplished it. I have said to
myself over and over that it would be the best thing for George if he
did fall in love with that girl he saw at Franklin, and go his way
without wasting more time waiting for me. He has wasted years enough,
and it is time for him to be happy. But then--has he not been happy? Or
is it that I have been so happy myself I have not realized how the long
engagement was wearying him? He must have wearied, or he could never
have asked me--
No, I will not write it!
January 8. George came over last night, and was so loving and tender
that I was thoroughly ashamed of all the wicked suspicions I have had.
After all, what was there to suspect? I almost confessed to him what a
miserable little doubter I had been; but I knew that confession would
only be relieving my soul at the expense of making him uncomfortable. I
hated to have him think me better than I am; but this, I suppose, is
part of the penalty I ought to pay for having been so weak.
Besides,--probably it was only my weakness in another form, the petty
jealousy of a small soul and a morbid fancy,--he seemed somehow more
remote than I have ever known him, and I could not have told him if I
would. We did not seem to be entirely frank with each other, but as if
each were trying to make the other feel at ease when it was not really
possible. Of course I was only attributing my own feelings to him, for
he was dearly good.
He told me more about his visit to Franklin, and he seems to have seen
Miss West a good deal. She is a sort of cousin of the Watsons, he says,
and so they had a common ground. When she found that he lived so near to
the Watsons she asked him all kinds of questions. She has never seen
them, having lived in the West most of her life, and was naturally much
interested in hearing about her relatives. I found myself leading him on
to talk of her. I cannot see why I should care about this stranger.
Generally I deal very little in gossip. Father trained me to be
interested in real things, and meaningless details about people never
attracted me. Yet this girl sticks in my mind, and I am tormented to
know all about her. It cannot be anything he said; though he did say
that she is very pretty. Perhaps it was the way in which he said it. He
seemed to my sick fancy to like to talk of her. She must be a charming
creature.
January 9. Why should he not like to talk of a pretty girl? I hope I am
not of the women who cannot bear to have a man use his eyes except to
see their graces. It is pitiful to be so small and mean. I certainly
want George to admire goodness and beauty, and to be by his very
affection for me the more sensitive to whatever is admirable in others.
If I am to be worthy of being his wife, I must be noble enough to be
glad at whatever there is for him to rejoice in because of its
loveliness: and yet as I write down all these fine sentiments I feel my
heart like lead! Oh, I am so ashamed of myself!
January 10. Miss Charlotte came in this afternoon, looking so thin, and
cold, and tall, that I have been rather sober ever since.
"I wish I had on shoes with higher heels," I said to her as we shook
hands; "then perhaps I shouldn't feel so insignificant down here."
She looked down at me, laughing that rich, throaty laugh of hers.
"Mother always used to say she knew the Kendalls couldn't have been
drowned in the Flood," she answered, "for they must all have been tall
enough to wade to Mt. Ararat."
"You know the genealogy so far back that you must be able to tell
whether she was right."
"I don't go quite so far as that," she said, sitting down by the fire,
"but I know that my great-great-grandfather married a Privet, so that I
always considered Judge Privet a cousin."
"If Father was a cousin, I must be one too," said I.
"You are the same relation to me on one side," Miss Charlotte went on,
"that Deacon Webbe is on the other. It's about fortieth cousin, you see,
so that I can count it or not, as I please."
"I am flattered that you choose to count us in," I told her, smiling;
"and I am sure also you must be willing to count in anybody so good as
Deacon Webbe."
"Yes, Deacon Webbe is worth holding on to, though he's so weak that he'd
let the shadow of a mosquito bully him. The answer to the question in
the New England Primer, 'Who is the meekest man?' ought to be 'Deacon
Webbe.' He used up all the meekness there was in the whole family,
though."
"I confess that I never heard Mrs. Webbe called meek," I assented.
"Meek!" sniffed Miss Charlotte; "I should think not. A wasp is a
Sunday-school picnic beside her. While as for Tom"--
She pursed up her lips with an expression of disapproval so very marked
I was afraid at once that Tom Webbe must have been doing something
dreadful again, and my heart sank for his father.
"But Tom has been doing better," I said. "This winter he"--
"This winter!" she exclaimed. "Why, just now he is worse than ever."
"Oh, dear," I asked, "what is it now? His father has been so unhappy
about him."
"If he'd made Tom unhappy it would have been more to the purpose. Tom's
making himself the town talk with that Brownrig girl."
"What Brownrig girl?"
"Don't you know about the Brownrigs that live in that little red house
on the Rim Road?"
"I know the red house, and now that you say the name, I remember I have
heard that such a family have moved in there. Where did they come from?"
"Oh, where do such trash come from ever?" demanded Miss Charlotte. "I'm
afraid nobody but the Old Nick could tell you. They're a set of drunken,
disreputable vagabonds, that turned up here last year. They were
probably driven out of some town or other. Tom's been"--
But I did not wish to hear of Tom's misdeeds, and I said so. Miss
Charlotte laughed, as usual.
"You never take any interest in wickedness, Ruth," she said
good-naturedly. "That's about the only fault I have to find with you."
Poor Deacon Webbe! Tom has made him miserable indeed in these years
since he came from college. The bitterness of seeing one we love go
wrong must be unbearable, and when we believe that the consequences of
wrong are to be eternal--I should go mad if I believed in such a creed.
I would try to train myself to hate instead of to love; or, if I could
not do this--But I could not believe anything so horrible, so that I
need not speculate. Deacon Daniel is a saint, though of course he does
not dream of such a thing. A saint would not be a saint, I suppose, who
was aware of his beatitude, and the deacon's meekness is one of his most
marked attributes of sanctity. I wonder whether, in the development of
the race, saintliness will ever come to be compatible with a sense of
humor. A saint with that persuasively human quality would be a
wonderfully compelling power for good. Deacon Daniel is a fine influence
by his goodness, but he somehow enhances the desirability of virtue in
the abstract rather than brings home personally the idea that his
example is to be followed; and all because he is so hopelessly without a
perception of the humorous side of existence. But why do I go on writing
this, when the thought uppermost in my mind is the grief he will have if
Tom has started again on one of his wild times. I do hope that Miss
Charlotte is mistaken! So small a thing will sometimes set folk to
talking, especially about Tom, who is at heart so good, though he has
been wild enough to get a bad name.
January 11. Things work out strangely in this world; so that it is no
wonder all sorts of fanciful beliefs are made out of them. There could
hardly be a web more closely woven than human life. To-day, when I had
not seen Tom for months, and when the gossip of last night made me want
to talk with him, chance brought us face to face.
Mother was so comfortable that I went out for an hour. The day was
delightful, cold enough so that the walking was dry and the snow firm,
but the air not sharp to the cheek. The sun was warm and cheery, and the
shadows on the white fields had a lovely softness. I went on in a sort
of dream, it was so good to be alive and out of doors in such wonderful
weather. I turned to go down the Rim Road, and it was not until I came
in sight of the red house that I remembered what Miss Charlotte said
last night. Then I began to think about Tom. Tom and I have always been
such good friends. I used to understand Tom better in the old
school-days than the others did, and he was always ready to tell me what
he thought and felt. Nowadays I hardly ever see him. Since I became
engaged he has almost never come to the house, though he used to be here
so much. I meet him only once or twice a year, and then I think he tries
to avoid me. I am so sorry to have an old friendship broken off like
that. The red house made me think of Tom with a sore heart, of all the
talk his wild ways have caused, the sorrow of his father, and the good
that is being lost when a fellow with a heart so big as Tom's goes
wrong.
Suddenly Tom himself appeared before my very eyes, as if my thought had
conjured him up. He came so unexpectedly that at first I could hardly
realize how he came. Then it flashed across me that he must have walked
round the red house. I suppose he must have come out of a back door
somewhere, like one of the family; such folk never use their front
doors. He walked along the road toward me, at first so preoccupied that
he did not recognize me. When he saw my face, he half hesitated, as if
he had almost a mind to turn back, and his whole face turned red. He
came on, however, and was going past me with a scant salutation, when I
stopped him. I stood still and put out my hand, so that he could not go
by without speaking.
"Good-afternoon, Tom," I said. "Isn't it a glorious day?"
He looked about him with a strange air as if he had not noticed, and I
saw how heavy and weary his eyes were.
"Yes," he answered, "it is a fine day."
"Where do you keep yourself, Tom?" I went on, hardly knowing what I
said, but trying to think what it was best to say. "I never see you, and
we used to be such good friends."
He looked away, and moved his lips as if he muttered something; but when
I asked what he said, he turned to me defiantly.
"Look here, Ruth, what's the good of pretending? You know I don't go to
see you because you're engaged to George Weston. You chose between us,
and there's the end of that. What's more, you know that nowadays I'm not
fit to go to see anybody that's decent."
"Then it is time that you were," was my answer. "Let me walk along with
you. I want to say something."
I turned, and we walked together toward the village. I could see that
his face hardened.
"It's no sort of use to preach to me, Ruth," he said, "though your
preaching powers are pretty good. I've had so much preaching in my life
that I'm not to be rounded up by piety."
I smiled as well as I could, though it made me want to cry to hear the
hard bravado of his tone.
"I'm not generally credited with overmuch piety, Tom. The whole town
thinks all the Privets heathen, you know."
"Humph! It's a pity there weren't a few more of 'em."
I laughed, and thanked him for the compliment, and then we went on in
silence for a little way. I had to ignore what he said about George, but
it did not make it easier to begin. I was puzzled what to say, but the
time was short that we should be walking together, and I had to do
something.
"Tom," I began, "you may not be very sensitive about old friendships,
but I am loyal; and it hurts me that those I care for should be talked
against."
"Oh, in a place like Tuskamuck," he returned, at once, I could see, on
the defensive, "they'll talk about anybody."
"Will they? Then I suppose they talk about me. I'm sorry, Tom, for it
must make you uncomfortable to hear it; unless, that is, you don't count
me for a friend any longer."
He threw back his head in the way he has always had. I used to tell him
it was like a colt's shaking back its mane.
"What nonsense! Of course they don't talk about you. You don't give
folks any chance."
"And you do," I added as quietly as I could.
He looked angry for just the briefest instant, and then he burst into a
hard laugh.
"Caught, by Jupiter! Ruth, you were always too clever for me to deal
with. Well, then, I do give the gossips plenty to talk about. They would
talk just the same if I didn't, so I may as well have the game as the
name."
"Does that mean that your life is regulated by the gossips? I supposed
that you had more independence, Tom."
He flushed, and stooped down to pick up a stick. With this he began
viciously to strike the bushes by the roadside and the dry stalks of
yarrow sticking up through the snow. He set his lips together with a
grim determination which brought out in his face the look I like least,
the resemblance to his mother when she means to carry a point.
"Look here, Ruth," he said after a moment; "I'm not going to talk to you
about myself or my doings. I'm a blackguard fast enough; but there's no
good talking about it. If you'd cared enough about me to keep me
straight, you could have done it; but now I'm on my way to the Devil,
and no great way to travel before I get there either."
We had come to the turn of the Rim Road where the trees shut off the
view of the houses of the village. I stopped and put my hand on his arm.
"Tom," I begged him, "don't talk like that. You don't know how it hurts.
You don't mean it; you can't mean it. Nobody but yourself can send you
on the wrong road; and I know you're too plucky to hide behind any such
excuse. For the sake of your father, Tom, do stop and think what you are
doing."
"Oh, father'll console himself very well with prayers; and anyway he'll
thank God for sending me to perdition, because if God does it, it must
be all right."
"Don't, Tom! You know how he suffers at the way you go on. It must be
terrible to have an only son, and to see him flinging his life away."
"It isn't my fault that I'm his son, is it?" he demanded. "I've been
dragged into this infernal life without being asked whether I wanted to
come or not; and now I'm here, I can't have what I want, and I'm
promised eternal damnation hereafter. Well, then, I'll show God or the
Devil, or whoever bosses things, that I can't be bullied into a
molly-coddle!"
The sound of wheels interrupted us, and we instinctively began to walk
onward in the most commonplace fashion. A farmer's wagon came along, and
by the time it had passed we had come to the head of the Rim Road, in
full sight of the houses. Tom waited until I turned to the right, toward
home, and then he said,--
"I'm going the other way. It's no use, Ruth, to talk to me; but I'm
obliged to you for caring."
I cannot see that I did any good, and very likely I have simply made him
more on his guard to avoid giving me a chance; but then, even if I had
all the chance in the world, what could I say to him? And yet, Tom is so
noble a fellow underneath it all. He is honest and kind, and strong in
his way; only between his father's meekness and his mother's
sharpness--for she is sharp--he has somehow come to grief. They have
tried to make him religious so that he would be good; and he is of the
sort that must be good or he will not be religious. He cannot be pressed
into a mould of orthodoxy, and so in the end--But it cannot be the end.
Tom must somehow come out of it.
January 13. When George came in to-night I was struck at once with the
look of pleasant excitement in his face.
"What pleases you?" I asked him.
"Pleases me?" he echoed, evidently surprised. "Isn't it a pleasure to
see you?"
"But that's not the whole of it," I said. "You've something pleasant to
tell me. Oh, I can read you like a book, my dear; so it is quite idle
trying to keep a secret from me."
He seemed confused, and I was puzzled to know what was the matter.
"You are too wise entirely," was his reply. "I really hadn't anything to
tell."
"Then something good has happened," I persisted; "or you have heard good
news."
"What a fanciful girl you are, Ruth," George returned. "Nothing has
happened."
He walked away from me, and went to the fire. He was strangely
embarrassed, and I could only wonder what I had said to confuse him. I
reflected that perhaps he was planning some sort of a surprise, and felt
I ought not to pry into his thoughts in this fashion whatever the matter
was that interested him. I sat down on the other side of the hearth, and
took up some sewing.
"George," I asked, entirely at random, "didn't you say that the Miss
West you met at Franklin is a cousin of the Watsons?"
I flushed as soon as I had spoken, for I thought how it betrayed me that
in my desire to hit on a new subject I had found the thought of her so
near the surface of my mind. I had not consciously been thinking of her
at all, and certainly I did not connect her with George's strangeness of
manner. There was something almost weird, it seems to me now, in my
putting such a question just then. Perhaps it was telepathy, for she
must have been vividly in his thoughts at that moment. He started,
flushed as I have never seen him, and turned quickly toward me.
"What makes you think that it was Miss West?"
"Think what was Miss West?" I cried.