If Miss Jewett had not been once upon a laughing time a girl herself,
she would have wondered where the girls in Dunellen found so much to
laugh about. Nan Gerard laughed. Sue Greyson laughed, and Tessa
Wadsworth laughed; they laughed separately, and they laughed together;
they cried separately, too, but they did not cry together. Nan knew that
it was September, because she had planned to come to Dunellen in
September; Sue knew, because so few days remained before her
wedding-day; and Tessa knew, because she found the September golden rod
and pale, fall daisies in her long walks towards Mayfield; she knew it,
also, because her book was copied and at the publishers', awaiting the
decision over which she trembled in anticipation night and day. One
morning, late in the month, she found at the post-office a long, thick,
yellow envelope, containing two dozens of pictures; several of them she
had seen long ago in Sunday-school books, those that were new to her,
appeared cut or torn from some book; the letter enclosed with the
pictures requested her to write a couple of books and to use those
pictures.
"I've heard of illustrating books," she laughed to herself, "but it
seems that I must illustrate pictures."
Coaxing Miss Jewett into her little parlor, she showed her the pictures,
and read aloud the letter.
"I think it is a great compliment to you," said the little woman,
admiringly. "You do not seem to think of that."
"Father will think so. You and he are such humble people, that you think
me exalted! Women have become famous before they were as old as I."
"You may become famous yet."
"It isn't in me. Genius is bold; if it were in me, I should find some
way of knowing it. My work is such a little bit, such a poor little bit.
But I do like the letter."
"You will be glad of it when you are old."
"I am glad of it now."
She read it again: the penmanship was straggling and ugly.
"I do not know how to talk to you; you remind me of Tryphena and
Tryphosa; St. Paul would know what to say to you. You seem to have no
worldliness in your aims. Your style is impressive. I think that we can
keep your pen busy. Your last manuscript is still in the balance."
"If it be found wanting, what shall I do! The suspense wears upon me."
"I begin to understand why mediocrity is long-lived. Don't be a goose,
child."
Mr. Wadsworth was at his desk; he read the letter through twice without
comment.
"Well!" she said, playing with a morsel of pink blotting paper.
"It's _beautiful_, daughter."
She wondered why it did not seem so much to her as it did to him and to
Miss Jewett.
"I expect that Dine will take to authorship next."
Tessa's lips were keeping a secret, for Dine was writing a little story.
When had she ever failed to attempt the thing that Tessa had done? She
had not taken Tessa's place in school, and had been graduated much
nearer the foot of her class than Tessa had ever stood; still she had
Tessa's knack of writing stories, and telling stories, and had, at her
urging, written a story for boys, which Tessa had criticised and copied;
Dinah's penmanship being very pretty, but not at all plain. The letter
made no allusion to the fate of Dinah's story; somewhat anxious about
this, she slipped the bulky envelope into her pocket and turned her face
homewards. Her winter's work was laid out for her; there was nothing to
do but to do it.
So full was she with plans for the books that she did not hear steps
behind her and at her side until Sue Greyson nudged her.
"Say, Tessa, turn down Market Street with me; I have something to tell
you." The serious, startled voice arrested her instantly. What new and
dreadful thing had Sue been doing now? Her only dread was for Dr. Lake.
"I've been ordering things for dinner; we have dinner at four, so I can
afford to run around town in the morning. I'm in a horrid fix and
there's nobody to help me out."
"What about?"
"_I_ haven't been doing any thing; it's other people; it's always other
people," she said plaintively, "somebody is always doing something to
upset my plans. You do not sympathize with me, you never do."
"I do not know how to sympathize with any thing that is not
straightforward and true, and your course is rather zigzag."
"Dr. Towne said--"
"You haven't been talking to _him_," interrupted Tessa, flushing.
"No, only he called to see father and I was home alone and he asked me
what ailed me and I had to tell him that I didn't want to be married."
"Well, what could he say?"
"He said, 'Stay with your father and be a good girl,'" laughed Sue, "the
last thing I would think of doing. Father looks so glum and says, 'Oh,
my little girl, what shall I do without you! I wish that fellow was at
the bottom of the sea!' So do I, too. I don't see why I ever promised to
marry him! I think that I must have been bereft of my senses."
"Why not ask him to wait a year--you will know your own mind--if you have
any--by that time."
"Oh, deary me! I'd be married to John Gesner or some other old fool with
money by that time! You don't mind being an old maid, but _I_ do!"
"How do you know that I don't mind?" Tessa could not forbear asking.
"Oh, you wouldn't be so happy and like to do things. I believe that I
like Gerald a great deal better any way."
She grew frightened at Tessa's stillness; there was not one sympathetic
line in the stern curving of her lips.
"Have you told Dr. Lake that?"
"You needn't cut me in two," laughed Sue uneasily, "men can't _sue_
women for breach of promise can they?"
"Answer me, please."
Sue hesitated, colored, stammered, finally confessed in a weak voice
that tried hard to be brave, "Yes, I have! There now! You can't hurt me!
Father said last night that if I had taken Lake he would have given me
the house and every thing in it 'for the old woman to keep house with,'
you know! And then he said that it was hard for me to leave him now that
he is growing old, that he would have to marry somebody that wouldn't
care for him, that he never had had much pleasure in his life, that
Gerald was a good physician and they could work together and how happy
we might all have been! He was mad enough though when he first
discovered that Gerald was in love with me; he threatened to send him
off. But that's his way! He is one thing one day and another thing the
next! And I couldn't help it, Tessa, I really, _really_ couldn't, but I
was so homesick and just then Gerald came in--he looked so tired, his
cough has come back, too--and when he said 'How many days yet, Susan?' I
said quick, before I thought, 'I like you a hundred times better! I
would rather marry you than Stacey.' And then he turned so white that I
thought he was dead, and he said something, I don't know whether it was
swearing or praying--and caught me in his arms, and said after that he
would never let me go! And then I said--I said--I couldn't help it--that I
would write to Stacey and send back the ring and he took it off and
tossed it out the window! I And then I made him go and find it! Stacey
can give it to some other girl. I didn't hurt it. I always took it off
when I swept or wet my hands. Life is so uncertain, I thought that he
might want it again."
"Life _is_ uncertain. I never realized it until this minute."
"Now your voice isn't angry," said poor Sue eagerly. "I want you to
think that I have done right."
"When my moral perceptions are blunted, I will."
"Go away, saying 'moral perceptions.' I don't know what Dr. Towne will
think either. Well, what's did can't be undid! Now Gerald says that I
sha'n't put it off, but that I've got to marry him on that day. I know
that you think it is horrid, but you never have lovers, so you don't
know! I don't see why, either. You are a great deal prettier than I am.
When I am tired, I am the lookingest thing, but you always look sweet
and peaceful. Don't you think that I ought to please father and stay
home? Why don't you say something? Are you struck dumb?"
"I can not understand it--yet."
"I think that I have made it plain enough," cried Sue, angrily. "You
must be very stupid. You like Gerald so much--I used to be jealous--that
you ought to be glad for him!"
"I do like him. I like him so well, Sue, that I want him to have a
faithful and true wife. O, Sue! Sue Greyson! What are you to take that
man's life into your hands?"
"I don't know what you mean. I love him, of course! If you think so much
of him, why don't you marry him?"
"The question is not worth a reply."
"You ought to comfort me; I haven't any mother," returned Sue,
miserably.
"It is well for her that you haven't."
"I don't see why you can't let me be comfortable," whined Sue; "every
thing would be lovely if you didn't spoil it all. Gerald is as wild as a
lunatic. He shall write to Stacey or father shall, or I'll be married
beforehand and send him the paper. I could do it in ten days. Do come
home with me, I want you to see my wedding dress! It's too lovely for
any thing. My travelling dress is an elegant brown; I got brown to
please Stacey, but Gerald likes it."
"It's a good idea to choose a color that gentlemen like generally; life
is so uncertain."
"So it is," replied Sue, unconsciously. "I think that you might
congratulate me," she added, with her hysterical laugh. "You didn't
think that your gold thimble would make pretty things for Dr. Lake's
wife, did you?"
"I congratulate _you_! I hope that I may congratulate him, in time. Dr.
Lake is trying to pour a gallon into a half pint. I hope that one of you
will die before you make each other very miserable."
"You mean thing," said Sue, almost crying.
"I do not mean to hurt you, Sue, but you are doing something that is
wretched beyond words. Don't you care at all for that poor fellow who
loves you?"
"Gerald loves me, too," she answered proudly. "You are ugly to me, and I
haven't any body that I dare talk to but you. Mary Sherwood says that
telling you things is like throwing things into the sea; nobody ever
finds them."
"I must be very full of rubbish."
"We are going to Washington on our bridal trip; we can't stay long, for
father will not spare Gerald. I shall ask nobody but Dr. Towne and his
mother, and Miss Jewett, and you, and Dine. Will you come?" she asked
hesitatingly.
"I will come for Dr. Lake's sake."
"I got a letter from Stacey this morning. I haven't opened it yet; it
will make me very sad. I wish that I wasn't so sensitive about things.
It's a dreadful trouble to me. I looked in the glass the first thing
this morning expecting that my hair would be all white. I'm dying to
show you my things; do come home with me."
"Sue, do you ever say your prayers?"
"To be sure I do," she replied, with a startled emphasis.
"Then be sure to say them before you write to that poor fellow."
"I wish that you would write for me. Will you come the night before and
stay all night with me? I shall be so afraid that the roof will tumble
in, or somebody come down the chimney to catch me, that I sha'n't sleep
a wink."
The curves of Tessa's lips relented. "Yes, I will come. If somebody come
they shall catch me, too."
"You are a darling, after all. We are to be married about noon; Day is
to send in the breakfast and the waiters--that _was_ the plan, and if
father isn't _too_ mad, I suppose he'll do the same now."
She stood still at the corner. "Well, if I do not see you--good-by till
the last night of your girlhood."
"Last night of my girlhood," repeated Sue. "What are the other hoods?"
"Womanhood."
"Oh, yes, and _widowhood_," she said lightly.
Tessa turned the corner and walked rapidly along the pavement.
"Motherhood," she was thinking, "the sweetest hood of all! But I can
sooner think of that in connection with a monkey or a butterfly than
with Sue."
At the next corner another interruption faced her in the forms of Mary
Sherwood and laughing Naughty Nan.
The lively chat was ended with an expostulation from Nan. "Now, Mary
Sherwood, hurry. You know that I must do several things this afternoon.
I'm going to Mayfield and Green Valley with the handsome black bear,
Miss Wadsworth."
It was the day for her afternoon with Mrs. Towne; it had chanced that
she had given to her every Tuesday afternoon. It touched her to find the
white-haired, feeble, old lady watching for her at the window. Tessa
loved her because she was cultured and beautiful; she loved her voice,
her shapely, soft hands, her pretty motions, her elegant and becoming
dress, and because--O, foolish Tessa, for a reason that she had tossed
away, scorning herself--she was Ralph Towne's mother. Not once in all
these times had she met Dr. Towne in his own home; not until this
afternoon in which he was to take Miss Gerard driving.
"My mother is engaged with callers, Miss Tessa; she asked me to take you
to her sitting-room, and to take care of you for half an hour."
"I am sorry to trouble you," said she confusedly. "I want to see Miss
Jewett; I will return in half an hour."
"And not give me the pleasure of the half hour? When have you and I had
half an hour together?"
She remembered.
"On the last night of the old year, was it not? Come with me and 'take
off your things.' Isn't that the thing to say?"
Unwillingly she followed him; he wheeled a chair into one of the wide
windows overlooking the Park, laid away hat, sacque, and gloves, then
seated himself lazily in the chair that he had wheeled to face her own.
It was almost like the afternoons in the shabby parlor at home; so like
them that she could not at first lift her eyes; in a mirror into which
she had glanced, she had noticed how very pale lips and cheeks were and
how dark her eyes were glowing.
He bent forward in a professional manner and laid two fingers on her
throbbing wrist. "Miss Tessa, what are you doing to lose flesh so?"
With that, she lifted her eyes, the color coming with a rush. "Wouldn't
you like to see my tongue, too?"
"I know your tongue; it has a sharp point."
"I am sorry."
"No you are not," he answered settling himself back in an easy position,
and taking a penknife from his pocket to play with. The small knife,
with the pearl handle; how often she had seen that in his fingers. "You
are a student, of human nature; tell me what you think of me."
How could she give to that amused assurance the bare, ugly truth!
"How many times have you changed your mind about me?"
"Once, only once."
"Then your first impression of me was not correct."