"I can't help it, Ruth," was his retort. "I am bitter. I've been banged
over the head with religion ever since I was born, and told that I was
'a child of the covenant' till I hate the very thought of the whole
business. Whatever you do, don't give anybody the right to twit
Thomasine with being 'a child of the covenant.' She has enough to bear
in being the child of her parents."
"Don't, Tom," I begged him. "You hurt me."
Without thinking what I did I put my hand on his arm. He brushed it
lightly with his fingers, looking at it in a way that almost brought
tears to my eyes. I took it off quickly, but I could not face him, and I
got away at once. Poor Tom! He is so lonely and so faithful. I am so
sorry that he will keep on caring for me like that. No woman is really
good enough not to tremble at the thought of absorbing the devotion of a
strong man; and it seems wicked that I should not love Tom.
June 25. The rose I transplanted to Mother's grave is really, I believe,
going to bloom this very summer. I am glad the blossoms on Father's
should have an echo on hers.
June 29. Babies and diaries do not seem to go very well together. There
is no tangible reason why I should not write after the small person is
asleep, for that is the time I have generally taken; but the fact is I
sit working upon some of Tomine's tiny belongings, or now and then sit
in the dark and think about her. My journal has been a good friend, but
I am afraid its nose is out of joint. Baby has taken its place. I begin
to see I made this book a sort of safety-valve for poor spirits and
general restlessness. Now I have this sweet human interest in my life I
do not need to resort to pen and ink for companionship. The dear little
rosy image of Thomasine is with me all the time I seem to be sitting
alone.
June 30. Last night I felt as if I was done with relieving my mind by
writing in an unresponsive journal; to-night I feel as if I must have
just this outlet to my feelings. Last night I thought of baby; to-night
I am troubled about her father.
I saw Tom this afternoon at work in the hayfield, looking so brown and
so handsome that it was a pleasure to see him. He had the look of a man
who finds work just the remedy for heart-soreness, and I was happy in
thinking he was getting into tune with wholesome life. I was so pleased
that I took the footpath across the field as a mere excuse to speak to
him, and I thought he would have been glad to see me. I came almost up
to him before he would notice me, although I think he must have seen me
long before. He took off his hat as I came close to him, and wiped his
forehead.
"Tom," I said at once, "I came this way just to say how glad I am to see
you look as if you were getting contented with your work. You were
working with such a will."
I do not know that it was a tactful speech, but I was entirely
unprepared for the shadow which came over his face.
"I was trying to get so completely tired out that I should sleep like a
log to-night," he answered.
Before anything else could be said Deacon Daniel came up, and the talk
for the rest was of the weather, and the hay, and nothings. I came away
as sad as I had before been pleased. I can understand that Tom is sore
in his heart. He is dominant, and his life is made up of things which he
hates; he is ambitious, and he is fond of pleasure. He has no pleasure,
and he can see nothing before him but staying on with his father. It is
true enough that it is his own fault. He has never been willing to stick
to work, and the keenest of his regrets must be about his own ill-doing.
He is so generous, however, and so manly and kind that I cannot bear to
see him grow hard and sad and bitter. Yet what can I do to help it?
Certainly this is another case for asking if I am my brother's keeper. I
am afraid that I was resigned not to be the keeper of Mrs. Weston, but
with Tom it is different. Poor Tom!