Mrs. Lindley had arranged for her son a small apartment on the
second floor, and it was in his own library and smoking-room that
Richard, comfortable in a leather-chair by a reading-lamp, after
dinner, opened Laura's ledger.
The first page displayed no more than a date now eighteen months
past, and the line:
"Love came to me to-day."
The next page was dated the next day, and, beneath, he read:
"That was all I _could_ write, yesterday. I think I was too
excited to write. Something seemed to be singing in my breast. I
couldn't think in sentences--not even in words. How queer it is
that I had decided to keep a diary, and bound this book for it,
and now the first thing I have written in it was _that_! It will
not be a diary. It shall be _your_ book. I shall keep it sacred to
You and write to You in it. How strange it will be if the day ever
comes when I shall show it to You! If it should, you would not
laugh at it, for of course the day couldn't come unless you
understood. I cannot think it will ever come--that day! But
maybe---- No, I mustn't let myself hope too much that it will,
because if I got to hoping too much, and you didn't like me, it
would hurt too much. People who expect nothing are never
disappointed--I must keep that in mind. Yet _every_ girl has a
_right_ to hope for her own man to come for her some time, hasn't
she? It's not easy to discipline the wanting to hope--since
_yesterday_!
"I think I must always have thought a great deal about you without
knowing it. We really know so little what we think: our minds are
going on all the time and we hardly notice them. It is like a
queer sort of factory--the owner only looks in once in a while and
most of the time hasn't any idea what sort of goods his spindles
are turning out.
"I saw You yesterday! It seems to me the strangest thing in the
world. I've seen you by chance, probably two or three times a
month nearly all my life, though you so seldom come here to call.
And this time wasn't different from dozens of other times--you
were just standing on the corner by the Richfield, waiting for a
car. The only possible difference is that you had been out of town
for several months--Cora said so this morning--and how ridiculous
it seems now, didn't even know it! I hadn't noticed it--not with
the top part of my mind, but perhaps the deep part that does the
real thinking had noticed it and had mourned your absence and was
so glad to see you again that it made the top part suddenly see
the wonderful truth!"
Lindley set down the ledger to relight his cigar. It struck him
that Laura had been writing "very odd Stuff," but interesting; and
certainly it was not a story. Vaguely he recalled Marie
Bashkirtseff: hadn't she done something like this? He resumed the
reading:
"You turned and spoke to me in that lovely, cordial, absent-minded
way of yours--though I'd never thought (with the top part) what a
lovely way it was; and for a moment I only noticed how nice you
looked in a light gray suit, because I'd only seen you in black
for so long, while you'd been in mourning for your brother."
Richard, disturbed by an incredible idea, read these last
words over and then dismissed the notion as nonsense.
". . . While you'd been in mourning for your brother--and it
struck me that light gray was becoming to you. Then such a queer
thing happened: I felt the great kindness of your eyes. I thought
they were full of--the only word that seems to express it at all
is _charity_--and they had a sweet, faraway look, too, and I've
_always_ thought that a look of wistful kindness was the loveliest
look in the world--and you had it, and I saw it and then suddenly,
as you held your hat in your hand, the sunshine on your hair
seemed brighter than any sunshine I had ever seen--and I began to
tremble all over. I didn't understand what was the matter with me
or what had made me afraid with you not of you--all at once, but I
was so hopelessly rattled that instead of waiting for the car, as
I'd just told you I meant to, I said I'd decided to walk, and got
away--without any breath left to breathe with! I _couldn't_ have
gotten on the car with you--- and I couldn't have spoken another
word.
"And as I walked home, trembling all the way, I saw that strange,
dazzling sunshine on your hair, and the wistful, kind look in your
eyes--you seemed not to have taken the car but to have come with
me--and I was uplifted and exalted oh, so strangely--oh, how the
world was changing for me! And when I got near home, I began to
walk faster, and on the front path I broke into a run and rushed
in the house to the piano--and it was as if my fingers were
thirsty for the keys! Then I saw that I was playing to you and
knew that I loved you.
"I love you!
"How different everything is now from everything before. Music
means what it never did: Life has leaped into blossom for me.
Everywhere there is colour and radiance that I had never seen--the
air is full of perfume. Dear, the sunshine that fell upon your
head has spread over the world!
"I understand, as I never understood, that the world--so dazzling
to me now--was made for love and is meaningless without it. The
years until yesterday are gray--no, not gray, because that was the
colour You were wearing--not gray, because that is a beautiful
colour. The empty years until yesterday had no colour at all. Yes,
the world has meaning only through loving, and without meaning
there is no real life. We live only by loving, and now that this
gift of life has come to me I love _all_ the world. I feel that I
must be so kind, kind, _kind_ to _everybody_! Such an odd thing
struck me as my greatest wish. When I was little, I remember
grandmother telling me how, when she was a child in pioneer days,
the women made the men's clothes--homespun--and how a handsome
young Circuit Rider, who was a bachelor, seemed to her the most
beautifully dressed man she had ever seen. The women of the
different churches made his clothes, as they did their husbands'
and brothers.' you see--only better! It came into my head that
that would be the divinest happiness that I could know--to sew for
you! If you and I lived in those old, old times--you _look_ as if
you belonged to them, you know, dear--and You were the young
minister riding into the settlement on a big bay horse--and all
the girls at the window, of course!--and I sewing away at the
homespun for you!--I think all the angels of heaven would be
choiring in my heart--and what thick, warm clothes I'd make you
for winter! Perhaps in heaven they'll let some of the women sew
for the men they love--I wonder!
"I hear Cora's voice from downstairs as I write. She's often so
angry with Ray, poor girl. It does not seem to me that she and Ray
really belong to each other, though they _say_ so often that they
do."
Richard having read thus far with a growing, vague uneasiness,
looked up, frowning. He hoped Laura had no Marie Bashkirtseff idea
of publishing this manuscript. It was too intimate, he thought,
even if the names in it were to be disguised.
. . . "Though they _say_ so often that they do. I think Ray is in
love with _her_, but it can't be like _this_. What he feels must
be something wholly different--there is violence and wildness in
it. And they are bitter with each other so often-- always `getting
even' for something. He does care--he is frantically `_in_ love'
with her, undoubtedly, but so insanely jealous. I suppose all
jealousy is insane. But love is the only sanity. How can what is
insane be part of it? I could not be jealous of You. I owe life to
you--I have never lived till now."
The next writing was two days later:
. . . . "To-day as I passed your house with Cora, I kept looking
at the big front door at which you go in and out so often--_your_
door! I never knew that just a door could look so beautiful! And
unconsciously I kept my eyes on it, as we walked on, turning my
head and looking and looking back at it, till Cora suddenly burst
out laughing, and said: `Well, _Laura_!' And I came to myself--and
found her looking at me. It was like getting back after a journey,
and for a second I was a little dazed, and Cora kept on laughing
at me, and I felt myself getting red. I made some silly excuse
about thinking your house had been repainted--and she laughed
louder than ever. I was afraid then that she understood--I wonder
if she could have? I hope not, though I love her so much I don't
know why I would rather she didn't know, unless it is just my
_feeling_ about it. It is a _guardian_ feeling--that I must keep
for myself, the music of these angels singing in my heart--singing
of You. I hope she did not understand--and I so fear she did. Why
should I be so _afraid_?" . . .
. . . . "Two days since I have talked to You in your book after
Cora caught me staring at your door and laughed at me--and ten
minutes ago I was sitting beside the _actual_ You on the porch! I
am trembling yet. It was the first time you'd come for months and
months; and yet you had the air of thinking it rather a pleasant
thing to do as you came up the steps! And a dizzy feeling came
over me, because I wondered if it was seeing me on the street
_that_ day that put it into your head to come. It seemed too much
happiness--and risking too much--to let myself _believe_ it, but I
couldn't help just wondering. I began to tremble as I saw you
coming up our side of the street in the moonlight--and when you
turned in here I was all panic--I nearly ran into the house. I
don't know how I found voice to greet you. I didn't seem to have
any breath left at all. I was so relieved when Cora took a chair
between us and began to talk to you, because I'm sure I couldn't
have. She and poor Ray had been having one of their quarrels and
she was punishing him. Poor boy, he seemed so miserable--though he
tried to talk to me--about politics, I think, though I'm not sure,
because I couldn't listen much better than either of us could
talk. I could only hear Your voice--such a rich, quiet voice, and
it has a sound like the look you have--friendly and faraway and
wistful. I have thought and thought about what it is that makes
you look wistful. You have less to wish for than anybody else in
the world because you have Yourself. So why are you wistful? I
think it's just because you _are_!
"I heard Cora asking you why you hadn't come to see us for so
long, and then she said: `Is it because you dislike me? You look
at me, sometimes, as if you dislike me!' And I wished she hadn't
said it. I had a feeling you wouldn't like that `personal' way of
talking that she enjoys--and that--oh, it didn't seem to be in
keeping with the dignity of You! And I love Cora so much I wanted
her to be finer--with You. I wanted her to understand you better
than to play those little charming tricks at you. You are so good,
so _high_, that if she could make a real friend of you I think it
would be the best thing for her that could happen. She's never had
a man-_friend_. Perhaps she _was_ trying to make one of you and
hasn't any other way to go about it. She can be so _really_ sweet,
I wanted you to see that side of her.
"Afterwhile, when Ray couldn't bear it any longer to talk to me,
and in his desperation brazenly took Cora to the other end of the
porch almost by force, and I was left, in a way, alone with you
what did you think of me? I was tongue-tied! Oh, oh, oh! You were
quiet--but _I_ was _dumb_! My heart wasn't dumb--it hammered! All
the time I kept saying to myself such a jumble of things. And into
the jumble would come such a rapture that You were there--it was
like a paean of happiness--a chanting of the glory of having You
near me--I _was_ mixed up! I could _play_ all those confused
things, but writing them doesn't tell it. Writing them would only
be like this: `He's here, he's _here_! Speak, you little fool!
He's here, he's here! He's sitting beside you! _speak_, idiot, or
he'll never come back! He's here, he's beside you you could put
out your hand and touch him! Are you dead, that you can't speak?
He's here, he's here, he's _here_!'
"Ah, some day I shall be able to talk to you--but not till I get
more used to this inner song. It seems to _will_ that nothing else
shall come from my lips till _it_ does!
"In spite of my silence--my outward woodenness--you said, as you
went away, that you would come again! You said `soon'! I could
only nod but Cora called from the other end of the porch and
asked: `_How_ soon?' Oh, I bless her for it, because you said,
`Day after to-morrow.' Day after tomorrow! Day after to-morrow!
_Day after tomorrow_!
. . . . "Twenty-one hours since I wrote--no, _sang_--`Day after
to-morrow!' And now it is `To-morrow!' Oh, the slow, golden day
that this has been! I could not stay in the house--I walked--no, I
_winged_! I was in the open country before I knew it--with You!
For You are in everything. I never knew the sky was blue, before.
Until now I just thought it was the sky. The whitest clouds I ever
saw sailed over that blue, and I stood upon the prow of each in
turn, then leaped in and swam to the next and sailed with _it_!
Oh, the beautiful sky, and kind, green woods and blessed, long,
white, dusty country road! Never in my life shall I forget that
walk--this day in the open with my love--You! To-morrow!
To-morrow! To-morrow! _To-morrow_!"
The next writing in Laura's book was dated more than two months
later:
. . . . "I have decided to write again in this book. I have
thought it all out carefully, and I have come to the conclusion
that it can do no harm and may help me to be steady and sensible.
It is the thought, not its expression, that is guilty, but I do
not believe that my thoughts are guilty: I believe that they are
good. I know that I wish only good. I have read that when people
suffer very much the best thing is for them to cry. And so I'll
let myself _write_ out my feelings--and perhaps get rid of some of
the silly self-pity I'm foolish enough to feel, instead of going
about choked up with it. How queer it is that even when we keep
our thoughts respectable we can't help having absurd _feelings_
like self-pity, even though we know how rotten stupid they are!
Yes, I'll let it all out here, and then, some day, when I've cured
myself all whole again, I'll burn this poor, silly old book. And
if I'm not cured before the wedding, I'll burn it then, anyhow.
"How funny little girls are! From the time they're little bits of
things they talk about marriage--whom they are going to marry,
what sort of person it will be. I think Cora and I began when she
was about five and I not seven. And as girls grow up, I don't
believe there was ever one who genuinely expected to be an old
maid. The most unattractive young girls discuss and plan and
expect marriage just as much as the prettier and gayer ones. The
only way we can find out that men don't want to marry us is by
their not asking us. We don't see ourselves very well, and I
honestly believe we all think--way deep down--that we're pretty
attractive. At least, every girl has the idea, sometimes, that if
men only saw the whole truth they'd think her as nice as any other
girl, and really nicer than most others. But I don't believe I
have any hallucinations of that sort about myself left. I can't
imagine--now--_any_ man seeing anything in me that would make him
care for me. I can't see anything about me to care for, myself.
Sometimes I think maybe I could make a man get excited about me if
I could take a startlingly personal tone with him from the
beginning, making him wonder all sorts of you-and-I perhapses--but
I couldn't do it very well probably--oh, I couldn't make myself do
it if I could do it well! And I shouldn't think it would have much
effect except upon very inexperienced men--yet it does! Now, I
wonder if this is a streak of sourness coming out; I don't feel
bitter--I'm just thinking honestly, I'm sure.
"Well, here I am facing it: all through my later childhood, and
all through my girlhood, I believe what really occupied me
most--with the thought of it underlying all things else, though
often buried very deep--was the prospect of my marriage. I
regarded it as a certainty: I would grow up, fall in love, get
engaged, and be married--of course! So I grew up and fell in love
with You--but it stops there, and I must learn how to be an Old
Maid and not let anybody see that I mind it. I know this is the
hardest part of it, the beginning: it will get easier by-and-by,
of course. If I can just manage this part of it, it's bound not to
hurt so much later on.
"Yes, I grew up and fell in love with You--for you will always be
You. I'll never, never get over _that_, my dear! You'll never,
never know it; but I shall love You always till I die, and if I'm
still Me after that, I shall keep right on loving you then, of
course. You see, I didn't fall in love with you just to have you
for myself. I fell in love with You! And that can never bother you
at all nor ever be a shame to me that I love unsought, because you
won't know, and because it's just an ocean of good-will, and every
beat of my heart sends a new great wave of it toward you and Cora.
I shall find happiness, I believe, in service--I am sure there
will be times when I can serve you both. I love you both and I can
serve her for You and you for her. This isn't a hysterical mood,
or a fit of `exaltation': I have thought it all out and I know
that I can live up to it. You are the best thing that can ever
come into her life, and everything I can do shall be to keep you
there. I must be very, very careful with her, for talk and advice
do not influence her much. You love her--she has accepted you, and
it is beautiful for you both. It must be kept beautiful. It has
all become so clear to me: You are just what she has always
needed, and if by any mischance she lost you I do not know what
would become----"
"Good God!" cried Richard. He sprang to his feet, and the heavy
book fell with a muffled crash upon the floor, sprawling open upon
its face, its leaves in disorder. He moved away from it, staring
at it in incredulous dismay. But he knew.