Tessa dropped the curtains, arranged the heavy crimson folds, and
lighted the gas.
"I shall do this many times in my imagination before spring," she said.
"The curtains in my room, Dine says, are Turkey red, and my gas will be
one tall sperm candle. Just about twilight you will feel my ghost
stealing in, the curtains will fall, and invisible hands play among
them, the jets will start into light, and then the perfume of a kiss
will touch your forehead and hair. The perfume shall be that of a pansy
or a day-lily, as you prefer."
"I would rather have your material lips; I am not fond of ghostly
visitants; I shall feel you always beside me; I shall not forget you
even in my sleep."
"You are too kind to me," said Tessa, after a moment, during which she
had donned her brown felt hat and buttoned her long brown cloth cloak.
The feeble old lady in the arm-chair flushed like a girl under the
gratitude of Tessa's eyes; her eyes filled slowly as Tessa came to her
and kissed her.
"I am very old womanish about you; it must be because I am not strong; I
would never let you go away out of my presence if I could hinder it."
"I want to stay with you; I am never happier than I am in this room; but
I must go; it is a promise; and I must go to-morrow. Uncle Knox will
meet me at the train with a creaky old buggy and a half-blind white
horse; then we shall drive six miles through a flat country with
farm-houses scattered here and there to a cunning little village
containing one church and one store and about forty dwellings. Our
destination is a small house near the end of the principal street where
live the most devoted old couple in the world! Aunt Theresa and Uncle
Knox are a pair of lovers; it is beautiful to see them together; it is
worth travelling across the continent; they never forget each other for
an instant, and yet they make no parade of their affection; I am sure
that they will both die upon the same day of the same disease. Their
life is as lovely as a poem. I have often wondered how they attained it,
if it were perfect before they were married or if it _grew_."
She was standing under the chandelier buttoning her gloves, with her
earnest face towards the lady in the arm-chair.
"It _grew_," said a voice behind her. Dr. Towne had entered unperceived
by either. "Is that all?"
"Isn't that enough?" she asked slightly flushing.
"Yes, I think that it is enough; but I know that it was born and not
made. It did not become perfect in a year and a day. See if your aunt
hasn't had an experience that she will not tell you."
"And my uncle?" she asked saucily.
"Men do not parade their experiences."
"Providing they have any to parade," she replied lightly. "I'm afraid
that I don't believe in men's experiences."
"Don't say that, my dear," said Mrs. Towne anxiously.
"I will not," Tessa answered, suddenly sobered, "not until I forget Dr.
Lake."
"Am I to have the mournful pleasure of taking you home, Miss Tessa? My
carriage is at the door."
"I have tried to persuade her to stay all the evening," said Mrs. Towne.
"I have an engagement. My encyclopedia is coming to-night to talk over
to me something that I have been writing."
"Is he your critic?" inquired Dr. Towne.
"Yes, and an excellent one, too. Don't you know that he knows every
thing?"
"Then perhaps he can tell me something that I want to know. Would it be
safe to ask him?"
"If it is to be found in a book he can tell you," said Tessa seriously.
"It is not to be found in any poem that was ever written or in any song
that was ever sung."
"Then it remains to be written?"
"Yes; don't you want to write it?"
"I must learn it by heart first; I can not write what I have not
learned."
"Ralph, you shall not tease her," interrupted his mother, "she shall not
do any thing that she does not please."
"Not even go into the country for three months in winter," he said.
"What will Sue do without you, Tessa?" asked Mrs. Towne.
"I have been with her five days; she cried and clung to me. I do not
want to leave her, there are so many reasons for me to stay and so few
for me to go. Miss Gesner came this afternoon and promised to stay all
night with her. She is a little afraid of Miss Gesner; with Miss Jewett
and me, she cried and talked about him continually; the poor girl is
overwhelmed."
"She will be overwhelmed again by and by," said Dr. Towne.
"Ralph! I never heard you say any thing so harsh of any one before."
"Is truth harsh?" he asked.
"If it be mild to-morrow, I will go to Sue; I will take her down to Old
Place for a month; she always throve there."
"She will be dancing and singing in a month," returned Dr. Towne.
"Well, let her!"
"But you must not be troubled, mother. I shall make her promise not to
talk to you and go into hysterics."
"My son, she is a widow."
"'And desolate,'" he quoted.
"Tessa, will you write to me every week, child?"
"Every week," promised Tessa, as she was drawn into the motherly arms
and kissed again and again.
Her own mother would not kiss her like that. Was it her mother's fault
or her own?
As soon as they were seated in the carriage and the robe tucked in
around her, her companion asked, "Shall we drive around the square? The
sun is hardly set and the air is as warm as autumn."
"Yes," she answered almost under her breath. In a moment she spoke
hurriedly, "Does your mother think--does she know--"
"She is a woman," he answered abruptly.
"I wish--oh, I wish--" she hesitated, then added--"that she would not love
me so much."
"It _is_ queer," he said gravely.
They drove in silence through the town and turned into the "mountain
road"; after half a mile, they were in the country with their faces
towards the glimmer of light that the sunset had left.
"Miss Tessa, my mother believes in me."
"I know that."
"You do not weigh my words sufficiently. They do not mean enough to
you."
"Is that so very strange?"
"Yes, it is strange when I tell you that I know I was a fool! When I
tell you that I have repented in dust and ashes. I did not understand
you, nor myself, a year ago--I am dull about understanding people. I
think that I am not quick about any thing; I can not make a quick reply;
I have labored at my studies; I was not brilliant in school or college;
I am very slow, but I am very _sure_. If you had been as slow as I, our
friendship would never have had its break; you were too quick for me;
but you understood me long before I understood myself; I did not
understand myself until I was withdrawn from you. Do you believe that?"
"Yes, I believe it. But you should have waited until you _did_
understand."
"It is rather tough work for a man to confess himself a fool."
Tessa said nothing.
"I do not ask to be excused, I ask to be forgiven; to be borne with.
Will you be patient with me?"
"I do not know how to be patient. I am too quick. I have been very
bitter and unjust towards you; I judged you as if you were as quick as I
am; I have even wished you dead; it does not do for us to be in a class
together."
"Not in the short run; we haven't tried the long run yet, and you are
afraid to do that?"
"I suppose I am. I am afraid of something; I think that I am afraid of
myself."
"If you are not afraid of me, I do not care what you are afraid of."
"I am not afraid of you--now."
"Then if you do--reject me, it is because you are not satisfied with your
heart toward me?"
"Yes, that will be the reason," she said slowly.
"And none other?"
"There is no reason in yourself; now that you have seen how you were
wrong; the reason will all be in myself."
"Are you coming any nearer to an understanding with yourself?" he asked
quietly.
He had spoken in this same tone to a patient, a little child, not two
hours since.
The tone touched her more deeply than the words.
"I do not know. I am trying not to reason. I have worn myself out with
reasoning. You are very still, but I know that this time is terrible to
you; as terrible as last year was to me! Believe me, I am not lightly
keeping you in suspense. Truly I can not decide. There is some
hindrance; I do not know what it is."
"I do not wish to hurry you; you shall have a year to decide if you
prefer. It is very sudden to you; you need time and quiet to recover
from the shock; you are very much shaken. You are not as strong as you
were two years ago. The strain has been too great for you; when you have
decided once for all time and all eternity, your eyes will look as they
looked two years ago. All I ask you is be _sure_ of _yourself_! I
promise not to trouble you for a year; I am sorry to be troubling you
now. Are you very unhappy?"
She was trembling and almost crying.
"You shall not answer me, or think of answering me until you are ready;
I deserve to suffer; I do not fear the issue of your self-analysis; when
you have recovered from the shock and can _feel_ that you have forgiven
me, then you will know whether you love me, whether you trust me. Will
you write to me?"
"No, sir."
He laughed in spite of his vexation; she resented the laugh; he was
altogether too sure of his power.
"You must not be so sure," she began.
"I shall be just as sure as--_you_ please."
"You think that I am very perplexing."
"You are full of freaks and whims; you are a Mystic. Dr. Lake truly
named you. I used to think you a bundle of impulses, and now I find you
sternly adhering to a principle. If your whim be founded on principle,
and I verily believe it is, I honor you even when I am laughing at you."
"Don't laugh at me; I am too miserable to bear that. Be patient with me
as if I were ill."
"You are not strong enough to go from home. If you do not feel well,
will you write for me to come and bring you home?"
"I am well enough."
"Promise me, please."
"I can not promise," she answered decidedly.
They were neither of them in a mood for further talk; she felt more at
rest than she had felt for two years; there was nothing to think of,
nothing to be hurried about; she had a whole year to be happy in, and
then--she would be happy then, too. As for him--she could not see his
face, for they had turned into the cross-road, thickly wooded, that
opened into the clearing before the gates of Old Place.
He spoke to his horse in his usual tone, "Gently, Charlie." He stooped
to wrap the robe more closely about her feet; as he raised himself, she
slipped her ungloved hand into his. "Don't be troubled about me, I will
not be troubled; I will not reason; but don't be sure; perhaps when the
year is over I shall not be satisfied."
"Then you must take another year."
"You will not be so patient with me another year; I shall not take
another year."
"Tessa, you are a goose; but you are a darling, nevertheless."
"You do not understand me," she said, withdrawing her hand.
"I am too humble to expect ever to do that. You have never seen our
home. Is it too late to go over the place to-night?"
"I will go with your mother some time; she has described every room to
me."
"Who is that fellow that you were engaged to?"
"He is not a fellow."
"Who is he?"
"Felix Harrison."
"Ah!" Then after a pause, "Tell me the whole story."
The whole story was not long; she began with his school-boy love,
speaking in short sentences, words and tone becoming more intense as she
went on
"I did not mean to be so wrong; but I was so unhappy and he cared--"
"What shall I do without you all winter?"
"What have you done without me every winter?" she asked merrily.
With an effort she drew herself away from the arm that would have
encircled her. Morbidly fearful of making another mistake, she would not
answer his words or his tone.
"The witches get into me at night," she said, soberly, "and I say things
that I may regret in the sunlight."
"It is not like you to regret speaking truth. Remember, I do not exact
any promise from you; but if the time ever come that you know you love
me, I want you to tell me so."
"I will."
He drove up under the maple trees, before the low iron fence, as he had
done on the last night of the old year; another old year was almost
ended; they stood holding each other's hand, neither caring to speak.
Ralph Towne would not have been himself, if he had not bent and kissed
her lips; and she would not have been herself, had she not received it
gravely and gladly. After that it was not easy to go in among the
talkers and the lights; she stood longer than a moment on the piazza,
schooling herself to bear scrutiny, to answer with unconcern; still she
felt dizzy and answered the first questions rather at random.
"Going around in the dark has set your wits to wool-gathering," said her
mother.
"We waited tea," said Dinah.
"You did not come alone, daughter?" asked her father.
"No, sir. Dr. Towne brought me."
"We are very hungry," said Mr. Hammerton.
"We will talk over the book before chess, Gus, if you please. I have
some packing to do, and I am very tired."
"How is Sue?" inquired her mother.
"Very well."
"Is she taking it hard?"
"Perhaps. I do not know what hard is."
"Is her mourning all ready?"
"Yes'm."
"A young widow is a beautiful sight," observed Mrs. Wadsworth
pathetically.
"Probably some one will think so," said Mr. Hammerton, speaking quickly
to save Tessa from replying.
"Take off your things, Tessa," said Dinah. "I want my supper."
"It's _his_ night, isn't it?" asked Mr. Hammerton, teasingly; Dinah
colored, looked confused, and ran down-stairs to ring the tea-bell.
The door-bell clanged sharply through the house as they were rising from
the table. "I was young myself once," remarked Mr. Hammerton.
"I don't believe it," retorted Dinah, putting her hands instinctively up
to her hair.
"You'll do, run along," laughed her father. "Oh, how old I feel to see
my little girls becoming women."
"I should think Tessa would feel old," replied Mrs. Wadsworth,
significantly.
"I do," said Tessa, rising. "Where is your criticism, Mr. Critic; I have
some packing to do to-night, so you may cut me to pieces before chess."
"No matter about chess," said Mr. Wadsworth.
"Yes, it is; I will not be selfish."
"Then run up and talk over your bookish talk, mother and I will come up
presently."
The sitting-room was cozy and home-like, even after the luxury of Mrs.
Towne's handsome apartment. "I don't want to go away," sighed Tessa,
dropping into a chair near the round black-and-green covered table. "Why
can't people stay at home always?"
"Why indeed?" Mr. Hammerton moved a chair to her side and seating
himself carelessly threw an arm over the back of her chair.
How many evenings they had read and studied in this fashion, with Dine
on a low stool, her curly head in her sister's lap.
"They will never come again."
"What?" asked Tessa opening the long, yellow envelope he had taken from
his pocket.
"The old days when you and Dine and I will not want any one else."
"True; Dine has left us already."
"But you and I are content without her!"
"Are we? I am not sure! Gus your penmanship is perfect; when I am rich,
you shall copy my books."
"How rich?"
"Oh, rich enough to give you all you would ask," she answered
thoughtlessly. "I expect that I shall have to undergo a process as
trying as vivisection; but I will not flinch; it is good for me."
"Don't read it now; save it for the solitude of the country."
"No, I am anxious to see it; you can be setting up the chess-men; I
don't want to take you away from father."
With the color rising in his cheeks, he arose and moved the chess-board
nearer; standing before her, he began slowly to arrange the pieces. The
three large sheets were closely written; she read slowly, once breaking
into a laugh and then knitting her brows and drawing her lips together.
"Are you not pleased? Am I not just?"
"A critic is not a fault-finder, necessarily; you are very plain. I will
consider each sentence by itself in my solitude; you are a great help to
me, Gus. I thank you very much. You have been a help to me all my life."
"I have tried to be," he answered, taking up a castle and turning it in
his fingers.
"I will rewrite my book, remembering all your suggestions."
"You remember that Tennyson rewrote 'Dora' four hundred and forty-five
times, that Victor Hugo declared that his six hundredth copy of
'Thanatopsis' was his best, and that George Sand was heard to say with
tears in her eyes that she wished she had rewritten 'Adam Bede' just
once more and you have read that Tom Brown Hughes--"
"Go away with your nonsense! I told Dr. Towne that you were my critic
and that you knew every thing."
"Do you tell him every thing?" he asked, letting the castle fall upon
the carpet.
"That isn't every thing."
"Will you play a game with me?"
"No, thank you. I am too tired for any thing so tiresome."
"You are ungrateful. Did I not teach you to play?"
"You did not teach me to play when I am tired."
"You have promised to write to me, haven't you?" he asked.
"No, I haven't! If you only knew how many I _have_ promised; and Aunt
Theresa has a basket quilt cut out for me to make, sixty-four blocks!
How can you have the heart to suggest any thing beside?"
"How many persons have you refused to write to?"
"I just refused one."
"Am I the only one you have refused?"
"Oh, no," slipping the folded sheets into the envelope, "there is Mr.
Gesner and Dr. Greyson and Professor Towne and--"
"Dr. Towne?" His uneasy fingers scattered several pawns over the
black-and-green covering.
"Yes, and Dr. Towne! And he was very good about it, he only laughed."
"Lady Blue, speak the truth."
"About whom?"
"The latter. I am not concerned about the others."
"I told you the truth and you do not believe me. Don't you know that the
truth is always funnier than a fabrication?"
"If you ask me, perhaps I will come down and stay over a Sunday with
you."
"Will you? Oh, I wish you would! I expect to be homesick. Uncle Knox
will be delighted to have you to talk to."
"I do not think that I shall travel fifty miles on a cold night to talk
to _him_."
"Then I am sure that you will not to talk to me."
"You do not know what I would do for you."
"Yes, I do. Any thing short of martyrdom. Don't you want to go in and
see John Woodstock? He is a pretty boy. There come father and mother.
You will excuse me if I do not make my appearance again to-night; you
know I have been with Sue and I am so tired."
"And you will not write to me?"
"What for? You may read Dine's letters."
"Tell me true, Tessa," he answered catching both her hands, "_did_ you
refuse to write to Dr. Towne?"
"Yes, I did."
"Why, may I ask?"
"For the same reason that I refuse to write to you--no, that is not quite
true--" she added, "but it is because I don't want to write to either of
you."
"Have all these years given me the right to ask you a question?"
He still held both hands.