For three weeks after that Jerome never saw Lucina at all. He avoided
the sight of her in every way in his power. He went to Dale and
returned after dark; he stayed away from meeting. He also strove hard
to drive, even the thought of her, from his mind. He got out his
algebra and Latin books again; every minute during which he was not
at work, and even during his work, he tried to keep his mind so full
that Lucina's image could not enter. But sometimes he had a
despairing feeling, that her image was so incorporated with his very
soul, that he might as well strive to drive away a part of himself.
He had no longer any jealousy of Lawrence Prescott. One day Lawrence
had come to the shop when he was at work, and asked to speak to him a
moment outside. He told him how matters stood between himself and
Elmira. "I like your sister," Lawrence had said, soberly and
manfully. "I don't see my way clear to marrying her yet, and I told
her so. I want you to understand it and know just what I mean. I've
got my way to make first. I don't suppose--I can count on much
encouragement from father in this. You know it's no disparagement to
Elmira, Jerome. You know father."
"Does your father know about it?" asked Jerome.
"I told mother," Lawrence answered, "and she advised me to say
nothing about it to father yet. Mother thought I had better go on and
study medicine, and get ready to practice, and perhaps then father
might think better of it. She says we are both young enough to wait
two or three years."
Jerome, in his leather apron, with his grimy hands, and face even,
darkened with the tan of the leather, looked half suspiciously and
bitterly at this other young man in his fine cloth and linen, with
his white hands that had never done a day's labor. "You know what you
are about?" he said, almost roughly. "You know what you are, you know
what she is, and what we all are. You know you can't separate her
from anything."
"I don't want to," cried Lawrence, with a great blush of fervor.
"I'll be honest with you, Jerome. I didn't know what to do at first.
I knew how much I thought of your sister, and I hoped she thought
something of me, but I knew how father would feel, and I was
dependent on him. I knew there was no sense in my marrying Elmira, or
any other girl, against his wishes, and starving her."
"There are others he would have you marry," said Jerome, a pallor
creeping through the leather grime on his face.
Lawrence colored. "Yes, I suppose so," he said, simply; "but it's no
use. I could never marry any other girl than Elmira, no matter how
rich and handsome she was, nor how much she pleased father, even if
she cared about me, and she wouldn't."
"You have been--going a little with some one else, haven't you?"
Jerome asked, hoarsely.
Lawrence stared. "What do you mean?"
"I--saw you riding--"
"Oh," said Lawrence, laughing, "you mean I've been horseback-riding
with Lucina Merritt. That was nothing."
"It wasn't nothing if she thought it was something," Jerome said,
with a flash of white face and black eyes at the other.
Lawrence looked wonderingly at him, laughed first, then responded
with some indignation, "Good Lord, Jerome, what are you talking
about?"
"What I mean. My sister doesn't marry any man over another woman's
heart if I know it."
"Good Lord!" said Lawrence. "Why, Jerome, do you suppose I'd hurt
little Lucina? She doesn't care for me in that way, she never would.
And as for me--why, look here, Jerome, I never so much as held her
hand. I never looked at her even, in any way--" Lawrence shook his
head in emphatic reiteration of denial.
"I might as well tell you that Lucina was the one I meant when I said
father would like others better," continued Lawrence, "but Lucina
Merritt would never care anything about me, even if I did about her,
and I never could. Handsome as she is, and I do believe she's the
greatest beauty in the whole county, she hasn't the taking way with
her that Elmira has--you must see that yourself, Jerome."
Jerome laughed awkwardly. Nobody knew how much joy those words of
Lawrence Prescott's gave him, and how hard he tried to check the joy,
because it should not matter to him except for Elmira's sake.
"Did you ever see a girl with such sweet ways as your sister?"
persisted Lawrence.
"Elmira is a good girl," Jerome admitted, confusedly. He loved his
sister, and would have defended her against depreciation with his
life, but he compared inwardly, with scorn, her sweet ways with
Lucina's.
"There isn't a girl her equal in this world," cried her lover,
enthusiastically. "Don't you say so, Jerome? You're her brother, you
know what she is. Did you ever see anything like that cunning little
face she makes, when she looks up at you?"
"Elmira's a good girl," Jerome repeated.
Lawrence had to be contented with that. He went on, to tell Jerome
his plans with regard to the engagement between himself and Elmira.
He was clearly much under the wise influence of his mother. "Mother
says, on Elmira's account as well as my own, I had better not pay
regular attention to her," he said, ruefully, yet with submission.
"She says to go to see her occasionally, in a way that won't make
talk, and wait. She's coming to see Elmira herself. I've talked it
over with her, and she's agreed to it all, as, of course, she would.
Some girls wouldn't, but she--Jerome, I don't believe when we've been
married fifty years that your sister will ever have refused to do one
single thing I thought best for her."
Jerome nodded with a puzzled and wistful expression, puzzled because
of any man's so exalting his sister when Lucina Merritt was in the
world, wistful at the sight of a joy which he must deny himself.
When he went home that night he saw by the way his mother and sister
looked up when he entered the room that they were wondering if
Lawrence had told him the news, and what he thought of it. Elmira's
face was so eager that he did not wait. "Yes, I've seen him," he
said.
Elmira blushed, and quivered, and bent closer over her work.
"What did I tell you?" said his mother, with a kind of tentative
triumph.
"You don't know now what Doctor Prescott will say," said Jerome.
"Lawrence says his mother thinks his father will come round
by-and-by, when he gets started in his profession; he always liked
Elmira."
"Well, there's one thing," said Jerome, "and that is--of course you
and Elmira are not under my control, but no sister of mine will ever
enter any family where she is not welcome, with my consent."
"Lawrence says he knows his father will be willing by-and-by," said
Elmira, tremulously.
"You know Doctor Prescott always liked your sister," said Ann
Edwards.
"Well, if he likes her well enough to have her marry his son, it's
all right," said Jerome, and went out to wash his hands and face
before supper.
That night Lawrence stole in for a short call. When Elmira came
up-stairs after he had gone, Jerome, who had been reading in his
room, opened his door and called her in.
"Look here, Elmira," said he, "I don't want you to think I don't want
you to be happy. I do."
Elmira held out her arms towards him with an involuntary motion. "Oh,
Jerome!" she whispered.
The brother and sister had always been chary of caresses, but now
Jerome drew Elmira close, pressed her little head against his
shoulder, and let her cry there.
"Don't, Elmira," he said, at length, brokenly, smoothing her hair.
"You know brother wants you to be happy. You are the only little
sister he's got."
"Oh, Jerome, I couldn't help it!" sobbed Elmira.
"Of course you couldn't," said Jerome. "Don't cry--I'll work hard and
save, and maybe I can get enough money to give you a house and
furniture when you're married, then you won't be quite so beholden."
"But you'll--get married yourself, Jerome," whispered Elmira, who had
built a romance about her brother and Lucina after the night of the
party.
"No, I shall never get married myself," said Jerome, "all my money is
for my sister." He laughed, but that night after Elmira was fast
asleep in her chamber across the way, he lay awake tasting to the
fullest his own cup of bitterness from its contrast with another's
sweet.
The longing to see Lucina, to have only the sight of her dear
beautiful face to comfort him, grew as the weeks went on, but he
would not yield to it. He had, however, to reckon against odds which
he had not anticipated, and they were the innocent schemes of Lucina
herself. She had hoped at first that his call was only deferred, that
he would come to see her of his own accord, but she soon decided that
he would not, and that all the advances must be from herself, since
she was undoubtedly at fault. She had fully resolved to make amends
for any rudeness and lack of cordiality of which she might have been
guilty, at the first opportunity she should have. She planned to
speak to him going home from meeting, or on some week day on the
village street--she had her little speech all ready, but the chance
to deliver it did not come.
But when she went to meeting Sunday after Sunday, dressed in her
prettiest, looking like something between a rose and an angel, and no
Jerome was there for her soft backward glances, and when she never
met him when she was alone on the village street, she grew impatient.
About this time Lucina's father bought her a beautiful little white
horse, like the milk-white palfrey of a princess in a fairy tale, and
she rode every day over the county. Usually Squire Eben accompanied
her on a tall sorrel which had been in his possession for years, but
still retained much youthful fire. The sorrel advanced with long
lopes and fretted at being reined to suit the pace of the little
white horse, and Squire Eben had disliked riding from his youth,
unless at a hard gallop with gun on saddle, towards a distant lair of
game. Both he and the tall sorrel rebelled as to their nerves and
muscles at this ladylike canter over smooth roads, but the Squire
would neither permit his tender Lucina to ride fast, lest she get
thrown and hurt, or to ride alone.
Lawrence Prescott never asked her to ride with him in those days.
Lucina in her blue habit, with a long blue plume wound round her hat
and floating behind in the golden blowing of her curls, on her pretty
white horse, and the great booted Squire on his sorrel, to her side,
reined back with an ugly strain on the bits, were a frequent
spectacle for admiration on the county roads. No other girl in Upham
rode.
It was one day when she was out riding with her father that Lucina
made her opportunity to speak with Jerome. Now she had her horse,
Jerome was finding it harder to avoid the sight of her. The night
before, returning from Dale by moonlight, he had heard the quick
tramp of horses' feet behind him, and had had a glimpse of Lucina and
her father when they passed. Lucina turned in her saddle, and her
moon-white face looked over her shoulder at Jerome. She nodded;
Jerome made a stiff inclination, holding himself erect under his load
of shoes. Lucina was too shy to ask her father to stop that she might
speak to Jerome. However, before they reached home she said to her
father, in a sweet little contained voice, "Does he go to Dale every
night, father?"
"Who?" said the Squire.
"Jerome Edwards."
"No, I guess not every day; not more than once in three days, when
the shoes are finished. He told me so, if I remember rightly."
"It is a long walk," said Lucina.
"It won't hurt a young fellow like him," the Squire said, laughing;
but he gave a curious look at his daughter. "What set you thinking
about that, Pretty?" he asked.
"We passed him back there, didn't we, father?"
"Sure enough, guess we did," said the Squire, and they trotted on
over the moonlit road.
"Looks just like the back of that dapple-gray I had when you were a
little girl, Pretty," said the Squire, pointing with his whip at the
net-work of lights and shadows.
He never thought of any significance in the fact that for the two
following days Lucina preferred riding in the morning in another
direction, and on the third day preferred riding after sundown on the
road to Dale. He also thought nothing of it that they passed Jerome
Edwards again, and that shortly afterwards Lucina professed herself
tired of riding so fast, though it had not been fast for him, and
reined her little white horse into a walk. The sorrel plunged and
jerked his head obstinately when the Squire tried to reduce his pace
also.
"Please ride on, father," said Lucina; her voice sounded like a
little silver flute through the Squire's bass whoas.
"And leave you? I guess not. Whoa, Dick; whoa, can't ye!"
"Please, father, Dick frightens me when he does so."
"Can't you ride a little faster, Pretty? Whoa, I tell ye!"
"In just a minute, father, I'll catch up with you. Oh, father,
please! Suppose Dick should frighten Fanny, and make her run, I could
never hold her. Please, father!"
The Squire had small choice, for the sorrel gave a fierce plunge
ahead and almost bolted. "Follow as fast as you can, Pretty!" he
shouted back.
There was a curve in the road just ahead, the Squire was out of sight
around it in a flash. Lucina reined her horse in, and waited as
motionless as a little equestrian statue. She did not look around for
a moment or two--she hoped Jerome would overtake her without that. A
strange terror was over her, but he did not.
Finally she looked. He was coming very slowly; he scarcely seemed to
move, and was yet quite a distance behind. "I can't wait," Lucina
thought, piteously. She turned her horse and rode back to him. He
stopped when she came alongside. "Good-evening," said she,
tremulously.
"Good-evening," said Jerome. He made such an effort to speak that his
voice sounded like a harsh trumpet.
Lucina forgot her pretty little speech. "I wanted to say that I was
sorry if I offended you," she said, faintly.
Jerome had no idea what she meant; he could, indeed, scarcely take
in, until later, thinking of them, the sense of her words. He tried
to speak, but made only an inarticulate jumble of sounds.
"I hope you will pardon me," said Lucina.
Jerome fairly gasped. He bowed again, stiffly.
Lucina said no more. She rode on to join her father. That night,
after she had gone to bed, she cried a long while. She reflected how
she had never even referred to the matter in question, in her suit
for pardon.