The next afternoon Jerome went to Miss Camilla's tea-party. Sitting
in the arbor, whose interior was all tremulous and vibrant with green
lights and shadows, as with a shifting water-play, sipping tea from
delicate china, eating custards and the delectable plum-cake, he
tasted again one of the few sweet savors of his childhood.
Jerome, in the arbor with three happy young people, taking for the
first time since his childhood a holiday on a work-day, seemed to
comprehend the first notes of that great harmony of life which proves
by the laws of sequence the last. The premonition of some final
blessedness, to survive all renunciation and sacrifice, was upon him.
He felt raised above the earth with happiness. Jerome seemed like
another person to his companions. The wine of youth and certainty of
joy stirred all the light within him to brilliancy. He had naturally
a quicker, readier tongue than Lawrence Prescott, now he gave it
rein.
He could command himself, when he chose and did not consider that it
savored of affectation, to a grace of courtesy beyond all provincial
tradition. In his manners he was not one whit behind even Lawrence
Prescott, with his college and city training, and in face and form
and bearing he was much his superior. Lawrence regarded him with
growing respect and admiration, Elmira with wonder.
As for Miss Camilla, she felt as if tripping over her own inaccuracy
of recollection of him. "I never saw such a change in any one, my
dear," she told Lucina the next day. "I could scarcely believe he was
the little boy who used to weed my garden, and with so few advantages
as he has had it is really remarkable."
"Father says so, too," remarked Lucina, looking steadily at her
embroidery.
Miss Camilla gazed at her reflectively. She had a mild but active
imagination, which had never been dispelled by experience, for
romance and hearts transfixed with darts of love. "I hope he will
never be so unfortunate as to place his affections where they cannot
be reciprocated, since he is in such poor circumstances that he
cannot marry," she sighed, so gently that one could scarcely suspect
her of any hidden meaning.
"I do not think," said Lucina, still with steadfast eyes upon her
embroidery, "that a woman should consider poverty if she loves."
Then her cheeks glowed crimson through her drooping curls, and Miss
Camilla also blushed; still she attributed her niece's tender
agitation to her avowal of general principles. She did not once
consider any danger to Lucina from Jerome; but she had seen, on the
day before, the young man's eyes linger upon the girl's lovely face,
and had immediately, with the craft of a female, however gentle, for
such matters, reached half-pleasant, half-melancholy conclusions.
It was gratifying and entirely fitting that her beautiful Lucina
should have a heart-broken lover at her feet; still, it was sad, very
sad, for the poor lover. "When the affections are enlisted, one
should not hesitate to share poverty as well as wealth," she
admitted, with a little conscious tremor of delicacy at such
pronounced views.
"I do not think Jerome himself wants to be married," said Lucina,
quickly.
Miss Camilla sighed. She remembered again the young man's fervent
eyes. "I hope he does not, my dear," she said.
"_I_ do not intend to marry either. I am never going to be married at
all," said Lucina, with a seeming irrelevance which caused Camilla to
make mild eyes of surprise and wonder sadly, after her niece had gone
home, if it were possible that the dear child had, thus early, been
crossed in love.
Lucina, ever since Jerome's confession of love, had experienced a
curious revulsion from her maiden dreams. She had such instinctive
docility of character that she was at times amenable to influences
entirely beyond her own knowledge. Not understanding in the least
Jerome's attitude of renunciation, she accepted it for herself also.
She no longer builded bridal air-castles. She still embroidered her
chair-covers, thinking that they would look very pretty in the north
parlor, and some of the old chairs could be moved to the garret to
make room for them. She gazed at her aunt Camilla with a peaceful eye
of prophecy. Just so would she herself look years hence. Her hair
would part sparsely to the wind, like hers, and show here and there
silver instead of golden lustres. There would be a soft rosetted cap
of lace to hide the thinnest places, and her cheeks, like her aunt's,
would crumple and wrinkle as softly as old rose leaves, and, like her
aunt, in this guise she would walk her path of life alone.
Lucina seemed to see, as through a long, converging tunnel of years,
her solitary self, miniatured clearly in the distance, gliding on,
like Camilla, with that sweet calm of motion of one who has left the
glow of joy behind, but feels her path trend on peace.
"I dare say it may be just as well not to marry, after all," reasoned
Lucina, "a great many people are not married. Aunt Camilla seems very
happy, happier than many married women whom I have seen. She has
nothing to disturb her. I shall be happy in the way she is. When I am
such an old maid that my father and mother will have died, because
they were too old to live longer, I will leave this house, because I
could not bear to stay here with them away, and go to Aunt Camilla's.
She will be dead, too, by that time, and her house will be mine. Then
I, in my cap and spectacles, will sit afternoons in the summer-house,
and--perhaps--he--he will be older than I then, and white-haired, and
maybe stooping and walking with a cane--perhaps--he will come often,
and sit with me there, and we will remember everything together."
In all her forecasts for a single life, Lucina could not quite
eliminate her lover, though she could her husband. She and Jerome
were always to be friends, of course, and he was to come and see her.
Lucina, when once Jerome had begun to visit her, never contemplated
the possibility of his ever ceasing to do so. He did not come
regularly--the wisdom of that was tacitly understood between them;
since there was to be no marriage, there could necessarily be no
courtship. There was never any sitting up together in the north
parlor, after the fashion of village lovers. Jerome merely spent an
hour or two in the sitting-room with the Squire and his wife and
Lucina. Sometimes he and the Squire talked politics and town affairs
while Lucina and her mother sewed. Sometimes the four played whist,
or bezique, for in those days Jerome was learning to take a hand at
cards, but he had always Mrs. Merritt for his partner, and the Squire
Lucina. Indeed, Lucina would have considered herself highly false and
treacherous had she manifested an inclination to be the partner of
any other than her father. Sometimes the Squire sat smoking and
dozing, and sometimes he was away, and in those cases Mrs. Merritt
sewed, and Jerome and Lucina played checkers.
It tried Jerome sorely to capture Lucina's men and bar her out from
the king-row, and she sometimes chid him for careless playing.
Sometimes, after Jerome was gone and Lucina in bed, Abigail Merritt,
who had always a kind but furtively keen eye upon the two young
people, talked a little anxiously to the Squire. "I know that he does
not come regularly and he sees us all, but--I don't know that it is
wise for us to let them be thrown so much together," she would say,
with a nervous frown on her little dark face.
The Squire's forehead wrinkled with laughter, but he was finishing
his pipe before going to bed, and would not remove it. He rolled
humorously inquiring eyes through the cloud of smoke, and his wife
answered as if to a spoken question. "I know Jerome Edwards doesn't
seem like other young men, but he is a young man, after all, and, if
we shouldn't say it, I am afraid somebody will get hurt. We both know
what Lucina is--"
"You don't mean to say you're afraid Lucina will get hurt,"
spluttered the Squire, quickly.
"It isn't likely that a girl like Lucina could get hurt herself,"
cried Abigail, with a fine blush of pride.
"I suppose you're right," assented the Squire, with a chuckle. "I
suppose there's not a young fool in the country but would think
himself lucky for a chance to tie the jade's shoestring. I guess
there'll be no hanging back of dancers whenever she takes a notion to
pipe, eh?"
"She has not taken a notion to pipe, and I doubt if she will at
present," said Abigail, with a little bridle of feminine delicacy,
"and--he is a good young man, though, of course, it would scarcely be
advisable if she did fancy him, but she does not. Lucina has never
concealed anything from me since she was born, and I know--"
"Then it's the boy you're worrying about?"
Abigail nodded. "He's a good young man, and he has had a hard
struggle. I don't want his peace of mind disturbed through any means
of ours," said she.
The Squire got up, shook the ashes out of his pipe, and laid it with
tender care on the shelf. Then he put his great hands one upon each
of his wife's little shoulders, and looked down at her. Abigail
Merritt had a habit of mind which corresponded to that of her body.
She could twist and turn, with the fine adroitness of a fox, round
sudden, sharp corners of difficulty, when her husband might go far on
the wrong road through drowsy inertia of motion; but, after all, he
had sometimes a clearer view than she of ultimate ends, past the
petty wayside advantages of these skilful doublings and turnings.
She could deal with details with little taper-finger touches of
nicety, but she could not judge as well as he of generalities and the
final scope of combinations. It was doubtful if Abigail ever fairly
appreciated her own punch.
"Abigail," said the Squire, looking down at her, his great bearded
face all slyly quirked with humor--"Abigail, look here. There are a
good many things that you and I can do, and a few that we can't do. I
can fish and shoot and ride with any man in the county, and bluster
folks into doing what I want them to mostly, if I keep my temper; and
as for you--you know what you can do in the way of fine stitching,
and punch-making, and house-keeping, and you and I together have got
the best, and the handsomest, and the most blessed"--the Squire's
voice broke--"daughter in the county, by the Lord Harry we have. I
can shoot any man who looks askance at her, I can lie down in the mud
for her to walk over to keep her little shoes dry, and you can fix
her pretty gowns and keep her curls smooth, and watch her lest she
breathe too fast or too slow of a night, but there we've got to stop.
You can't make the posies in your garden any color you have a mind,
my girl, and I can't change the spots on the trout I land. We can't,
either of us, make a sunset, or a rainbow, or stop a thunder-storm,
or raise an east wind. There are things we run up blind against, and
I reckon this is one of 'em. It's got to come out the way it will,
and you and I can't hinder it, Abigail."
"We can hinder that poor boy from having his heart broken."
The Squire whistled. "Lock the stable-door after the colt is stolen,
eh?"
"Eben Merritt, what do you mean?"
"I mean that the boy comes here now an then, not courting the girl,
as I take it, at all, and shows so far no signs of anything amiss,
and had, in my opinion, best be let alone. Lord, when I was his age,
if a girl like Lucina had been in the question, and anybody had tried
to rein me up short, I'd have kicked over the breeches entirely. I'd
have either got her or blown my brains out. That boy can take care of
himself, anyhow. He'll stop coming here of his own accord, if he
thinks he'd better."
Abigail sniffed scornfully with her thin nostrils.
"Wait and see," said the Squire.
"I shall wait a long time before I see," she said, but she was
mistaken. The very next week Jerome did not come, then a month went
by and he had not appeared once at the Squire's house.