MISS EDITH IS DISAPPOINTED
As soon as we had begun to walk under the apple-trees she turned to me
and said: "I don't think you ought to take this letter and the bill to
Mrs. Chester. It would not be right. There would be something cruel
about it."
"What do you mean?" I exclaimed.
"Of course I do not know exactly the state of the case," she answered,
"but I will tell you what I think about it as far as I know. You must
not be offended at what I say. If I am a friend to anybody--and I
would be ashamed if I were not a friend to you--I must tell him just
what I think about things, and this is what I think about this thing:
I ought to take these papers to Mrs. Chester. I know her well enough,
and it is a woman who ought to go to her at such a time."
"That message was intrusted to me," I said. "Of course it was," she
answered, "but the bear man did not know what he was doing. He did not
understand the circumstances."
[Illustration: "'I DON'T THINK YOU OUGHT TO TAKE THIS LETTER'"]
"What circumstances?" I asked.
She gave me a look as if she were going to take aim at me and wanted
to be sure of my position. Then she said: "Percy told us he thought
you were courting Mrs. Chester. That was pure impertinence on his
part, and perhaps what father said at the table was impertinence too,
but I know he said it because he thought there might be something in
Percy's chatter, and that you ought to understand how things stood.
Now, you may think it impertinence on my part if you choose, but it
really does seem to me that you are very much interested in Mrs.
Chester. Didn't you intend to walk down to the Holly Sprig when you
were starting out by yourself this morning?"
"Yes," said I, "I did."
"I thought so," she replied. "That, of course, was your own business,
and what father said about her being unwilling to marry again need not
have made any difference to you if you had chosen not to mind it. But
now, don't you think, if you look at the matter fairly and squarely,
it would be pretty hard on Mrs. Chester if you were to go down to her
and make her understand that she really is a widow, and that now she
is free to listen to you if you want to say anything to her? This may
sound a little hard and cruel, but don't you think it is the way she
would have to look at it?"
She stopped as she spoke, and I turned and stood silent, looking at
her.
"My first thought was," she said, "to advise you to tell father about
all this, and take his advice about telling her, but I don't think you
would like that. Now, would you like that?"
"No," I answered, "I certainly would not."
"And don't you really think I ought to go to her with the message, and
then come back and tell you how she took it and what she said?"
For nearly a minute I did not speak, but I knew she was right, and at
last I admitted it.
"I am glad to hear you say so!" she exclaimed. "As soon as dinner is
over I shall drive to the Holly Sprig."
We still walked on, and she proposed that we should go to the top of a
hill beyond the orchard, where there was a pretty view.
"You may think me a strange sort of a girl," she said, presently, "but
I can't help it. I suppose I am strange. I have often thought I would
like very much to talk freely and honestly with a man about the
reasons which people have for falling in love with each other. Of
course I could not ask my father or brother, because they would simply
laugh at me and tell me that falling in love was very much like the
springing up of weeds--generally without reason and often
objectionable. But you would be more likely to tell me something which
would be of advantage to me in my studies."
"Your studies!" I exclaimed. "What in the world are you studying?"
"Well, I am studying human nature--not as a whole, of course, that's
too large a subject, but certain phases of it--and I particularly want
to know why such queer people come together and get married. Now I
have great advantages in such a study, much greater than most girls
have."
"What are they?" I asked.
"The principal one is that I never intend to marry. I made up my mind
to that a good while ago. There is a great deal of work that I want to
do in this world, and I could not do it properly if I were tied to a
man. I would either have to submit myself to his ways, or he would
have to submit himself to my ways, and that would not suit me. In the
one case I should not respect him, and in the other I should not
respect myself."
"But suppose," said I, "you should meet a man who should be in perfect
harmony with you in all important points?"
"Ah," she said, "that sort of thing never happens. You might as well
expect to pick up two pebbles exactly alike. I don't believe in it.
But if at any time during the rest of my life you show me any examples
of such harmony, I will change my opinions. I believe that if I can
wait long enough, society will catch up with me. Everything looks that
way to me."
"It may be that you are right," I answered. "Society is getting on
famously. But what is it you want to ask me?"
"Simply this," she replied. "What is it which interests you so much in
Mrs. Chester?"
I looked at her in astonishment. "Truly," I exclaimed, "that is a
remarkable question."
"I know it," she replied, "and I suppose you are saying to yourself,
'Here is a girl who has known me less than three days, and yet she
asks me to tell her about my feeling towards another woman.' But,
really, it seems to me that as you have not known that other woman
three days, as much friendship and confidence might spring up in the
one case as affection in the other."
"Affection!" said I. "Have I said anything about affection?"
"No, you have not," she replied; "and if there isn't any affection, of
course that ends this special study on my part."
We reached the top of the hill, but I forgot to look out upon the
view. "I think you are a strange girl," I said, "but I like you, and I
have a mind to try to answer your question. I have not been able quite
to satisfy myself about my feelings towards Mrs. Chester, but now I
think I can say that I have an affection for her."
"Good!" she exclaimed. "I like that! That is an honest answer if ever
there was one. But tell me why it is that you have an affection for
her. It must have been almost a case of love at first sight."
"It isn't easy to give reasons for such feelings," I said. "They
spring up, as your father would say, very much like weeds."
"Indeed they do," she interpolated; "sometimes they grow in the middle
of a gravel path where they cannot expect to be allowed to stay."
I reflected a moment. "I don't mind talking about these things to
you," I said. "It seems almost like talking to myself."
"That is a compliment I appreciate," she said. "And now go on. Why do
you care for her?"
"Well," said I, "in the first place, she is very handsome. Don't you
think so?"
"Oh yes! In fact, I think she is almost what might be called exactly
beautiful."
"Then she has such charming manners," I continued. "And she is so
sensible--although you may not think I had much chance to find out
that. Moreover, there is a certain sympathetic cordiality about her--"
"Which, of course," interrupted my companion, "you suppose she would
not show to any man but you."
"Yes," said I. "I am speaking honestly now, and that's the way it
strikes me. Of course I may be a fool, but I did think that a sympathy
had arisen between us which would not arise between her and anybody
else."
Miss Edith laughed heartily. "I am getting to know a great deal about
one side of the subject," she said. "And now tell me--is that all? I
don't believe it is."
"No," I answered, "it is not. There is something more which makes her
attractive to me. I cannot exactly explain it except by saying that it
is her surrounding atmosphere--it is everything that pertains to her.
It is the life she lives, it is her home, it is the beauty and peace,
the sense of charm which infuses her and everything that belongs to
her."
"Beautiful!" said Miss Edith. "I expected an answer like that, but not
so well put. Now let me translate it into plain, simple language. What
you want is to give up your present life, which must be awfully
stupid, and go and help Mrs. Chester keep the Holly Sprig. That would
suit you exactly. A charming wife, charming surroundings, charming
sense of living, a life of absolute independence! But don't think,"
she added, quickly, "that I am imputing any sordid motives to you. I
meant nothing of the kind. You would do just as much to make the inn
popular as she would. I expect you would make her rich."
"Miss Edith Larramie," said I, "you are a heartless deceiver! It makes
my blood run cold to hear you speak in that way."
"Never mind that," she said, "but tell me, didn't you think it would
be just lovely to live with her in that delightful little inn?"
I could not help smiling at her earnestness, but I answered that I did
think so.
She nodded her head reflectively. "Yes," she said, "I was right. I
think you ought to admit that I am a good judge of human nature--at
least, in some people and under certain circumstances."
"You are," said I. "I admit that. Now answer me a question. What do
you think of it?"
"I don't like it," she said. "And don't you see," she added, with
animation, "what an advantage I possess in having determined never to
marry? Very few other girls would be willing to speak to you so
plainly. They would be afraid you would think that they wanted you,
but, as I don't want anybody, you and I can talk over things of this
kind like free and equal human beings. So I will say again that I
don't like your affection for Mrs. Chester. It disappoints me."
"Disappoints you!" I exclaimed.
"Yes," she said, "that is the word. You must remember that my
acquaintance with you began with a sort of a bump. A great deal
happened in an instant. I formed high ideas of you, and among them
were ideas of the future. You can't help that when you are thinking of
people who interest you. Your mind will run ahead. When I found out
about Mrs. Chester I was disappointed. It might be all very
delightful, but you ought to do better than that!"
[Illustration: "'DO YOU THINK YOU COULD HIT IT WITH AN APPLE?'"]
"How old are you?" I asked.
"Twenty-two last May," she replied.
"Isn't that the dinner-bell I hear in the distance?" I said.
"Yes," she answered, "and we will go down."
On the way she stopped, and we stood facing each other. "I am greatly
obliged to you," she said, "for giving me your confidence in this way,
and I want you to believe that I shall be thoroughly loyal to you, and
that I never will breathe anything you have said. But I also want you
to know that I do not change any of my opinions. Now we understand
each other, don't we?"
"Yes," I answered, "but I think I understand you better than you
understand me."
"Not a bit of it," she replied; "that's nonsense. Do you see that
flower-pot on the top of the stump by the little hill over there?
Percy has been firing at it with his air-gun. Do you think you could
hit it with an apple? Let's each take three apples and try."
It was late in the afternoon when Miss Edith returned from the Holly
Sprig, where she and Genevieve had driven in a pony-cart. I was with
the rest of the family on the golf links a short distance from the
house, and it was some time before she got a chance to speak to me,
but she managed at last.
"How did she take the news?" I eagerly asked.
The girl hesitated. "I don't think I ought to tell you all she said
and did. It was really a private interview between us two, and I know
she would not want me to say much about it. And I don't think you
would want to hear everything."
I hastened to assure her that I would not ask for the particulars of
the conversation. I only wished to know the general effect of the
message upon her. That was legitimate enough, as, in fact, she
received the message through me.
"Well, she was very much affected, and it would have been dreadful if
you had gone. Oh the whole, however, I cannot help thinking that the
Italian's letter was a great relief to her, particularly because she
found that her husband had been killed by mistake. She said that one
of the greatest loads upon her soul had been the feeling that he had
had an enemy who hated him enough to kill him. But now the case is
very different, and it is a great comfort to her to know it."
"And about the murderer?" I said. "Did you ask her if she wanted steps
taken to apprehend him?"
"Yes," she said, "I did speak of it, and she is very anxious that
nothing shall be done in that direction. Even if the Italian should be
caught, she would not have the affair again publicly discussed and
dissected. She believes the man's story, and she never wants to hear
of him again. Indeed, I think that if it should be proved that the
Italian killed Mr. Chester on purpose, it would be the greatest blow
that could be inflicted upon her."
"Then," said I, "I might as well let the negro man go his way. I have
not paid him his passage-money to the city. I knew he would wait until
he got it, and it might be desirable to take him into custody."
"Oh no," she said. "Mrs. Chester spoke about that. She doesn't want
the man troubled in any way. He knew nothing of the message he
carried. Now I am going to tell father about it--she asked me to do
it."
That evening was a merry one. We had charades, and a good many other
things were going on. Miss Willoughby was an admirable actress, and
Miss Edith was not bad, although she could never get rid of her
personality. I was in a singular state of mind. I felt as if I had
been relieved from a weight. My spirits were actually buoyant.
"You should not be so unreasonably gay," said Miss Edith to me. "That
may be your way when you get better acquainted with people, but I am
afraid some of the family will think that you are in such good spirits
because Mrs. Chester now knows that she is a widow."
"Oh, there is no danger of their thinking anything of that sort," I
said. "Don't you suppose they will attribute my good spirits to the
fact that the man who took my bicycle to Waterton brought back my big
valise, so that I am enabled to look like a gentleman in the parlor?
And then, as he also brought word that my bicycle will be all ready
for me to-morrow, don't you think it is to be expected of me that I
should try to make myself as agreeable as possible on this my last
evening with all you good friends?"
She shook her head. "Those excuses will not pass. You are abnormally
cheerful. My study of you is extremely interesting, but not altogether
satisfactory."