GOOD-NIGHT.
During the latter part of Margaret's stay at Shellbeach, the doctor
noticed that he never saw her alone; and as formerly he had observed,
with amusement, Miss Spelman's many admirable reasons for leaving
the room, he imagined that Miss Lester had been the cause of the
change. "She wants to prevent my going too far," he said to himself;
and then with a rather bitter laugh, "She need not be afraid." He
often met her riding alone on the Marchioness, or caught sight of
her at sunset on the beach with her little dog, but they had very
little satisfactory conversation of any kind together. Once or twice
she made allusions before him to a "period of importance," or to a
"momentous decision," or to the "turning-point of her existence,"
which was at hand; but it was always as a joke, and she seemed to
enjoy his surprise and embarrassment.
"She does not want me to forget July 18th, the date of our absurd
agreement," he said mentally. "What a fool I was to allow such a
nonsensical arrangement! I wish I were well out of the scrape."
At last, on the evening of the appointed day, Miss Spelman gave a
little tea-party and Dr. James was present. He had resolved that
he would decline; but he was curious to see what Miss Lester would
do and say, and so, at some inconvenience to himself, he made his
appearance among the guests. He happened once to have expressed his
dislike to pink bonnets, and indeed to that color for any part of a
lady's dress; and lo, on this occasion Margaret came to meet him,
radiantly smiling in rose-colored muslin, with delicate roses to
match in her hair and on her breast! It was extremely becoming, the
doctor perceived, and he saw also that her spirits were at their
height. He inwardly groaned at the prospect of the evening before
him. It was pleasant, however; even he acknowledged it. Margaret's
mischievous remarks were few, and she seemed to have the power of
drawing people out and making every one appear his best; every one,
the doctor felt, except himself. In vain he exerted himself to be
agreeable and unconscious; he was grave and preoccupied. The thought
of that dreadful letter which he had promised to write that very
evening weighed on his mind, and he was perplexed by doubts and
questions concerning it, himself, and Miss Lester. Was he not taking
her words too literally? Had she the remotest idea of writing to him?
or would it not end in his making an utter fool of himself? No; never
before had she been so handsome, so gay, so universally kind. Little
Miss Spelman caught the infectious cordiality, and beamed upon her
guests with overflowing hospitality.
The windows and doors stood open, the sweet breath of roses was in
the air, and suddenly from the garden came the sound of instruments.
A serenade! Miss Spelman and every one looked at each other in
surprise, for the music was not such as was obtainable in Sealing.
But a glance at Margaret convinced all that she was the author of
this unexpected pleasure. She said in a low voice to her aunt, "This
is my contribution to the general festivity;" and it was indeed
a delightful addition. The band played at intervals through the
evening, the music varying from grave to gay, from solemn to pathetic.
The Shellbeach tea-parties were early affairs, and at ten o'clock
the guests reluctantly departed, almost all driving home to Sealing,
and a few from the neighboring houses walking slowly along the road,
with the sweet notes of the music still in their ears. Dr. James
lingered. Why, he could not have told; and it was with a start that,
turning away from the window, he saw that he was the very last. He
apologized; but Miss Selina coming to him, kindly took his hand,
"You are a true friend, you know, Dr. James," she said, "and should
feel yourself at home."
Margaret was at the door, bidding good-night to the last guests, when
the doctor, after warmly shaking Miss Spelman's hand, came into the
hall for his hat. She walked with him down the little path to the
front gate, while the air of the "Last Rose of Summer" came to them
from the garden, and for the first time that evening he saw that her
face was serious.
"I would like to walk home with you, in this lovely moonlight," she
said.
"Well, will you not come? I will gladly accompany you back."
"No; there will not be time. You forget that you and I have an
engagement at eleven o'clock this evening." Then, as he did not know
how to reply, she continued, "I shall send you a note, to-morrow
morning, at seven, and the boy will bring me back, not an answer, for
it will not be that, but a corresponding note from you."
"Yes, Miss Lester, it shall be ready, if you say so."
"I do. Good night, Dr. James. Give me your hand; we are friends, are
we not?"
"I believe we are. Yes, Miss Lester, I know we are friends to-night."
"And we shall be friends to-morrow; remember that I say so.
Good-night."
She leaned on the little gate, and watched him as he walked away
without once turning back. The music stopped, and a voice was heard
calling, "Margaret!" She slowly walked into the house, and, sitting
quietly down by her aunt on the sofa, told her that Jessie Edgar's
marriage was fixed for the first day of September, and she was going
to Newport, to be with Jessie till the wedding.
"Yes, my dear," returned Miss Selina rather plaintively. "I must not
be selfish; but when do you think of leaving me?"
"To-morrow."
Poor Miss Spelman was astounded, shocked, and hurt; but Margaret
pacified and consoled her. She assured her that it was a great deal
better than if they had had this separation hanging over them for
weeks, and if she had been obliged to take a formal leave of every
body.
"Now I have bidden them good-by in the pleasantest way," she said;
"they are all pleased with me, and so must you be, too, dear, dear
Aunt Selina! We are too good friends to disagree about this."
"But you will come back after the wedding, dear? You feel this is
your home, do you not?"
"I will come back, but not immediately. I mean to pass next winter
in New York; and you will come and make me a long visit, to make up
for my living on you so long here." And Margaret drew so bright a
picture of the good times they would have together in New York that
Miss Spelman bade her good-night quite happily. Margaret's movements
were always so sudden that the quiet old lady was not, after all, as
surprised as might have been expected.
"It was just like her," she said; "such decision of mind, such energy
of character!"