The place we went to is very historic and interesting. Something
happened there that was very important in American history, but I have
forgotten what it was. Whythe told me, and as it doesn't matter, being
over for such a long time, I haven't tried to remember. The sky was so
wonderful and the river so winding and lovely and the air so delicious
that yesterdays did not seem important and only to-day counted; and it
was when we were sitting under a beautiful big water-oak that Whythe
began to be terribly sentimental and say things that would have been
more suitable for moonlight and shadows and things of that sort. But
suitable or not, they were thrilly to hear, and I would have enjoyed
hearing them if it hadn't been for an abominable feeling that Billy was
right beside me hearing every word also, and with a look on his face as
if he thought my new friend was the foolest yet. And presently when I
couldn't stand it any longer (I mean stand Billy standing by) I got up
suddenly and told Whythe it was time to go home.
I interrupted him in the midst of a beautiful sentence about my
eyelashes, I think, or maybe it was something else, I don't remember;
but anyhow when I jumped up he was very much surprised and wanted to
know what was the matter. I couldn't tell him, but I was perfectly
furious with Billy and the look on his face, which seemed to say what
I'd heard him say often about fool-flum talk and feather-headed fellows
and things of that sort. And I was so mad I rode so fast Whythe
couldn't keep up with me or continue the conversation, but it has been
continued since. That is the main theme, though the variations are
always different. Whythe never seems to give out on variations.
Of course, all of Miss Susanna's boarders, which are only four besides
myself, had something to say in general about the faithlessness of men
and the flirtatiousness of girls, and how times had changed, and how
you couldn't put your hand on any human being and feel you could trust
him in these days, and how men were gobbled up before they had got
their breath good after painful experiences, and dozens of other things
on that order. And I had such a good time listening to them, though
they didn't talk directly to me, that I'd forget at times and nearly
screech out loud at the tones of voice in which they did me up, and
then I would remember and try to look serious. But seriousness doesn't
seem to fit my face--that is, seriousness over sillinesses--and it
wouldn't stay on very long.
They thought it very indelicate in me to walk away with Elizabeth's
sweetheart right before her eyes--that is, Mrs. General Games did, but
Miss Araminta Armstrong, who is over fifty and by nature sentimental
and sympathetic, said she supposed it was natural for youth to seek
consolation, and Whythe, poor dear, had been so heartbroken at
Elizabeth's behavior that he had been receptive to other influences of
a pleasing nature, and she didn't think they ought to be so hard on
him. And then, after more talk of that sort, she would sigh and look
away at the mountains in the distance with a loved-and-lost look in her
eyes, and Miss Bettie Simcoe would sit up and snort.
There's nothing sentimental or sympathetic about Miss Bettie. Neither
is there anything in the earth below or the heavens above that she has
not an opinion of her own about, but the one concerning which she has
the most decided opinions is Man. She doesn't mince matters when she
gets on him. Also, she is an authority on God. She can tell you
exactly why He does things, and she quotes Him as if He were her most
confidential friend, and the only thing which stumps her is why He made
such a mess of what is considered His most important work. Mention a
male person's name and up go her eyebrows and down come the corners of
her lips and on the side goes her head, and nothing need be said for
her opinion to be understood. She is positively triumphant over
Whythe. She goes around with a "Didn't-I-tell-you-so?" expression
oozing out of every feature of her face, and I think she tells
Elizabeth she is fortunate to have discovered his fickleness so soon.
If Elizabeth thinks she is fortunate she has a queer way of showing it.
She must cry a good deal at night, judging by her eyes in the morning,
but the thing that's most the matter with her is madness. She can't
take it in that Whythe is showing no signs of anxiousness to make up.
She imagined, I suppose, when they had their fuss that it wouldn't last
very long and that he would give in to whatever she wanted, and now
that he isn't giving in she is so freezingly furious with me she barely
speaks to me. She seems to think it is my fault and that my coming
just when I did is the cause of the whole trouble. Though she never
says anything directly to me, she makes remarks in my presence about
the way men flirt in Twickenham Town and how dangerous it is,
especially for young girls who have never had any experience in things
of that sort and are deceived by it; and as she talks I just rock and
rock if in a chair, and swing and swing if in a hammock, until she has
said a good many nasty things, and then I get up and go up-stairs and
bring down a box of candy Whythe has sent me and offer it to her with
my most Christian forgiveness and most understanding smile, and,
strange to say, she never takes a piece!
I don't mind her remarks. They're natural, and if she wasn't such a
horrid little teapot I'd do anything I could to straighten out things;
but until she behaves herself I won't. I am having a very interesting
time being in love, and why should I stop just because a man she broke
with isn't grieving, but is keeping himself in practice saying to me
what he used to say to her? I am not going to stop until I think it is
time and until both have learned a few things they ought to know before
they get married. She is a vain, selfish, pretty piece of spoiledness,
and I don't believe she knows what real loving means. She is the sort
that wants what it hasn't got, and all the more if she thinks anybody
else is apt to get it. If she had any sense she would get a beau _pro
tem_. That is the best thing on earth to bring a man back to the
straight and narrow, and Whythe is the kind of man who needs to be
brought every now and then.
I gave her that for nothing one morning--I mean the suggestion in
general, though of course not personal--and she looked at me as if
trying to understand. And then something came in her face that must
have been an idea in her brain (her brain is slow), for, two days
afterward, she said she was going away. A week later she went to see a
rich aunt on her father's side who has a summer home somewhere and
corrals young men and compels them to come to it, Miss Bettie Simcoe
says. When she was gone a great weight seemed lifted off everybody,
and even the servants breathed better. As for Miss Susanna, she was
that lightened and relieved, though naturally not saying so, that she
looked ten years younger, and I know now it is true that some people in
a house are like fruit-cake on a weak stomach. They make life hard. I
didn't say my prayers that night. I just sang the Doxology three times
as loud as I could and jumped into bed. Praise is prayer.