"If you will not mind the confusion."
He closed the door and seated himself on a chair near the end of the
trunk.
"There is a confusion somewhere that I _do_ mind," he began nervously.
She looked up in surprise. "Why, father, is there something that you
don't like? Don't you like it about Dine?"
"Daughter, if you are so blind that you will not see, I must tell you. I
like it well enough about Dine, but I do not like it about _you_?"
Was it about Dr. Towne? How could he object to him? For he could not be
aware of _her_ objection.
"I am afraid that you are teasing Gus rather too much."
"Teasing Gus! I never really teased him in my life. We have never
quarrelled even once."
"I thought that women were quick about such things, but you are as blind
as a bat."
"Such things?" She was making room for a glove box, a pretty one of
Russia leather that Gus had given her. "He never cares for what I say!"
"How do you know that?"
"How do I know?" she repeated in perplexity, making space in a corner
while she considered her reply. "Don't _you_ know why he can not be
teased by what I say and do?"
"I know this--he has asked me if he may marry you some day."
"_Me!_ You mean Dine. You can't mean me. I know it is Dine."
"Oh, child," laughing heartily, "why should I mean Dine? Why should it
not be you?"
"It must be Dine," she said positively. "Didn't he say Dine?"
"Am I in my dotage?"
"Couldn't you misunderstand?"
"No, I could not. What is the matter with you, to-night? You act as if
you were bewildered."
"So I am."
"One evening, on the piazza, was it in May or June? I was not well and I
said so to him; and he answered by telling me that he had always thought
of you, that he had grown up hoping to marry you. Dine! Am I blind? Have
I been blind these ten years?"
"Didn't he say any thing about Dine?"
"We spoke of her, of course. I would not tell you, but I see how you are
playing with him; he will not intrude himself. O, Tessa, for a bright
girl, you are very stupid."
"I am not bright; I am stupid."
"This sisterly love is all very well, but a man can not bear to have it
carried too far. He is pure gold, daughter; he is worthy of a princess.
Now don't worry; you haven't done any harm. Go to bed and go to sleep;
you have had too much worry this last week."
"I know it must be Dine."
"If you did not look half sick, I would be angry with you. I thought
women were quick witted."
"I suppose some are," she said slowly. "He will never ask me, never."
"Why not?" he asked sharply.
"Because--because--"
"Because you haven't thought of it. If you do not like any one--and I
don't see how you can--you don't, do you?"
"I don't--know."
"There! There, dear, don't cry! Go to sleep and forget it."
"I thought it was Dine. I have always thought that it was Dine."
"Well, good night. Don't throw away the best man in the world. I have
known him ever since he wore dresses, and he is worthy--even of you. Put
out your light and go to sleep. Don't give him a heartache."
"Oh, I won't, I won't--if I can help it!"
"Don't have any whims. There, child, don't cry! Kiss me and go to
sleep."
She did not cry; she was stunned and bewildered; it was too dreadful to
be true; even if she did love Ralph Towne she would not love him if it
would make unhappy this friend and helper of all her life! This new
friend should not come between them to make him miserable. Even if the
old dream about Ralph Towne _could_ come true, she would not accept his
love at the cost of Gus Hammerton's happiness. Was he not her right arm?
Was he not her right eye? She had never missed him because he had always
lived in her life; he was as much a part of her home as her father and
Dine; she would give up any thing rather than hurt him. Had she not
suffered with him when she thought that he was unhappy about Dine? She
had loved him so much that she had never thought of loving him; she had
been so proud that he had loved Dine. Was it his influence that had kept
her from loving Felix Harrison? Was he the hindrance that was coming
between her and Dr. Towne? Was she troubled because she could not honor
and trust Dr. Towne as she had unconsciously honored and trusted this
old, old friend? If the illusion about Ralph Towne had never been
dispelled, she would not have discovered that Gus Hammerton was "pure
gold" as her father had said. They were both miserable to-night because
of her--and she had permitted one of them to kiss her. Ralph Towne had
left her once to fight out her battle alone--he had not been the shadow
of a rock in her weary land--she could think of this now away from the
fascination of his presence; but, present or absent, there was no doubt,
no reasoning about the old friend; he had been tried, he was steadfast
and true. True, she had forgiven Ralph Towne; but her forgiveness had
not wrought any change in him. He was the Ralph Towne of a year ago,
with this difference that now he loved her. Had his love for her wrought
any change in him? Was he not himself? Would he not always be himself?
Was she satisfied with him if she could feel the need of change?
A year ago would she have reasoned thus? Where love is, is there need of
reasoning to prove its existence, its depth or its power of continuance?
She knew that she loved God; she knew that she loved her father. If she
loved Ralph Towne, why did she not know that, also?
Why must she reason? Why might she not _know_? She did not know that she
loved him. Did she know that she did _not_ love him? Wearied even to
exhaustion, her head drooped until it touched the soft pile in the open
trunk; there were no tears, not a sound moved her lips; she was very
glad that she was going away.
If she might tell Gus, would he not talk it over to her and make it
plain? It would not be the first matter in which he had taught her to
discern between the wrong and the right. Was there a wrong and a right
in this choosing?
The large tears gathered and fell.
Ralph Towne could not help her; he would say caressingly, "Love me, and
end the matter." In her extremity he was not a helper. Would he ever be
in any extremity of hers?
The tears fell for very weariness and bewilderment. What beside was
there to shed tears about? She was so weary that she had forgotten.
A laugh in the hall below; the sound of a scuffle, another laugh, and
the closing of the street door.
Those two children!
Dinah burst into the room, still laughing. "Why, Tessa! All through! You
look as if you wanted to pack yourself up, too," she cried in a breezy
voice. "The candle is almost burnt down."
"No matter. Don't get another."
"Your voice sounds as if you were sick. Mother has been expecting you to
be too sick to go."
"I shall not be sick," rising, and dropping the lid of her trunk. "Tell
me about the night you overheard Gus talking to father on the piazza."
"I did tell you, didn't I? He did not mind because John came tonight;
didn't you hear him tease me? About that night? Oh, I was asleep, and
they were on the piazza; of course I don't know how long they had been
talking, nor what suggested it, but I heard him say,--really I've
forgotten just what, it was so long ago,--but father said that he was so
glad and happy about it, or it meant that. I suppose I may have missed
some of it. Poor old Gus said that he knew I did not care for any one
else. Isn't it touching? Poor fellow! And I didn't then. I never should
if I hadn't gone away and found John. Lucky for me, wasn't it? Gus never
looked at me as he did at you tonight, anyway; I guess he's
transferring."
Long after midnight Tessa fell asleep; her last thought shaping itself
thus:
"I can not reason myself into loving or not loving, any more than I can
reason the sun into shining or not shining."