In June, Tessa gathered roses for Miss Jewett, and every evening filled
the tall glass vase with white roses for the tea-table; in June,
Dunellen Institute closed for the season and Dinah was graduated;
henceforth she would be a young lady of leisure, or a young lady seeking
a vocation. In June, Mrs. Wadsworth scolded Tessa for "taking it so
coolly about the dreadful thing that had come upon young Harrison."
"How many times have you called to see Laura since her poor brother has
been so poorly?"
"I have called every two days," answered Tessa in her quietest tones.
"Oh, you have! Why didn't you say so? You are so still that people think
you do nothing but pick roses. Anxious as I am, you might have told me
how he was getting on. How was he yesterday?"
"Comfortable."
"Did you see him?"
"Yes."
"Was he sitting up?"
"Yes, he had been sitting up half an hour."
"How does he look?"
"His eyes are deep in his head, his voice is as weak as a child's, he
burst into tears because Laura did not come when he touched his bell for
her."
"Was he cheerful?"
"He smiled and talked."
"Are you going to-day?"
"Yes; Dr. Lake will call for me about five."
"You and Dr. Lake are getting to be great friends."
"Are we?"
"Do you know what he says about Felix?"
"He can say nothing but that he may never be himself again."
"Yes, he did; but you mustn't repeat it; promise me."
"There is no need for me to promise."
"He said that his mind will grow weaker and weaker. Do you know that he
has been having _fits_ for two years?"
"Yes, I am aware of it."
"Isn't it a dreadful, horrible thing? But he always was a little wild
and queer, not quite like other folks. I was sure that he would die; he
may yet, he may have a relapse. I should think that they would rather
have him dead than grow silly. I suppose that Laura will never be
married now; he will never be fit to be left alone. His father can marry
though, and that would leave her free. I never object to second
marriages, do you?"
"That depends upon several things."
"My father was married three times. I had two stepmothers, and might
have had four if he had lived longer. Some people think, but I never
did, that an engagement is as good as a marriage, do you?"
"Yes."
"Of course, I knew that you would think so. But I never had any
high-flown ideas about engagements. I was engaged to John Gesner--your
father doesn't know it to this day--he has high and mighty ideas about
things like you. _You_ ought to have some feeling about Felix Harrison,
then, for he always wanted you. Professional men are always poor; Dr.
Lake is not much of a 'catch.'"
"I think he is--or will be--to the woman who can appreciate him."
"I beseech you don't you go to appreciate him."
"I do now--sufficiently," she answered, smiling.
Two weeks later, having seen Felix several times during the interval,
Dine brought her a letter late in the afternoon.
Felix always had written her name in full, saying that it was prettier
than the one that she had given herself in baby-days; the penmanship
appeared like a child's imitation of his bold strokes.
Not daring and not caring to open it immediately, she put on her hat and
went out to walk far past the end of the planks down into the green
country. She thought that she knew every tree and every field all the
long way to the Harrison Homestead.
Opening the letter at last, she read:
"My Friend,--I suppose you know all the truth. I wrung it out of Dr.
Greyson to-day after you left me. You may have known it all the time.
Father has known it, but not Laura. I shall never be what I once was; I
know it better than any physician can tell me. If I live to forget every
thing else (and I may), I think that I shall never forget that night.
But I shall not let my mind go without a struggle; I shall read, I shall
write, I shall travel, when I am able. I have been reading Macaulay
to-day. I shall be a burden to father and Laura, and to any who may
nurse me for wages. But I shall not be a burden to you. I know that you
meant that _you_ would never break our covenant, when you said:
'Promises are made to be kept,' but _I_ will break it. I am breaking it
now. You did belong to me when you last said good-by and laid your
young, strong hand over my poor fingers; but you do not belong to me as
you read this. As I can not know the exact moment when you read it, I
can never know when you cease to belong to me. Laura and father intend
to take me away; do not come to me until I return. No one knows. In all
my ravings, I never spoke your name; it was on my mind that I had
promised not to speak of it, and I never once forgot. But your presence
was in every wild and horrible dream; you were being scalped and drowned
and burned alive, and often and often you sat beside me holding my hand;
many many times you came to me and said, 'I will keep my word,' but
something took you away; you never went of your own accord. I have asked
them all what I raved about and every name that I spoke, but no one has
answered 'Tessa.' Write to me this once, and never again, and tell me
that you agree, that you are willing to break the bond that held us
together such a little while. I am a man, and a selfish one at that,
therefore I rejoice that you _were_ mine. You can have but one answer to
give. I will not accept any devotion from you that may hinder your
becoming the happy wife of a good man. Do not be too sorry for me. Laura
will expect you to write to her, but I pray you, do not write; I should
look for your letters and they would take away the little fortitude I
have. Be a good girl; love somebody by and by. You have burned a great
many letters that I have written. This is the last."
"F. W. H."
Again and again she read it, pausing over each simple, full utterance.
He could never say to her again, "You have spoiled my life." She had
done her best to atone for the sorrow that she had so unwittingly caused
him, and it had not been accepted by Him who had planned all her life.
There was nothing more for her to do. The letter was like him. She
remembered his kindly, gracious ways; his eagerness to be kind to her,
how he would sit or stand near her to watch her as she talked or worked;
how timidly he would touch her dress or her hand; how his face would
change if she chanced to look up at him; how his pale green eyes would
glitter when she preferred the society of Gus Hammerton or any other of
the Dunellen boys, ever so long ago, as they were boys and girls
together; almost as long ago as when she was a little girl and he a big
boy and he would bring her fruit and flowers! On their Saturday
excursions after nuts or berries or wild flowers, how he would fall
behind the others when she did and catch her hand if they heard a noise
in the woods or lost themselves for half a minute among a new clump of
trees.
In the long, happy weeks that she had passed at the Homestead, in the
days when his mother was alive, how thoughtful he had been of her
comfort, how he had tried to please her in work or play! One evening
after they had all been sitting together on the porch and telling
stories, she had heard his mother say to his father: "Tessa has great
influence over Felix, I hope that she will marry him."
"I won't," her rebellious little heart had replied. And at bedtime she
had told Laura that she meant to marry a beautiful young man with dark
eyes who must know every thing and wear a cloak. "And Felix has light
eyes," she had added.
She laughed and then sighed over the foolish, innocent days when
girlhood and womanhood had meant only wonderful good times like the good
times in fairy tales and Bible stories.
Then for the last time she read his letter and tore it into morsels,
scattering them hither and thither as she walked.
She had done all she could do; he could not keep hold of her hand any
longer.
The last bit of paper fluttered on the air; she gave a long look towards
the dear old Homestead; she could see the spires of the two churches at
Mayfield, the brass rooster on the school-house where Felix had taught,
and then she turned homeward to write the letter that would release him
from the covenant whose keeping had been made impossible to them. As she
turned, the noise of wheels was before her, the dust of travel in her
face; she lifted her eyes in time to return a bow from Ralph Towne and
to feel the smile that lighted the face of the white-haired lady at his
side.
In the dusk she came down-stairs, dressed for a walk, with several
letters in her hand.
"Whither does fancy lead you, daughter?" her father asked as she was
passing through the sitting-room. He was lying upon the lounge with a
heavy shawl thrown over him; his voice came quick and sharp as though he
were in pain.