Part 16

"I will not tell her, but I shall feel like a hypocrite. You will not utterly despise me."

"You can not expect me to feel very kindly towards you. Why may I not lose all but the memory of _you_?"

"You may. I am willing," she answered wearily. "Oh, I _wanted_ to be satisfied with you."

He had left the room with his last words, not waiting for reply.

And she could only cry out, with a dry, hard sob, "Oh, Ralph, Ralph, I _wanted_ to be satisfied with you!"

XIX.--THE OLD STORY.

One afternoon in the reading-room she found two notices of her book; one was in _Hearth and Home_, the other in _The Lutheran Observer_; the former ran in this style:

"'Under the Wings' by Theresa Louise Wadsworth is the most lifelike representation of a genuine live boy that we have seen for many a day. We are almost tempted to think that the author was once a boy herself she is so heartily in sympathy with a boy's thoughts and feelings. It is a book that every boy ought to read, and we are confident that no boy can read it without being bettered by it."

The other she was more pleased with:

"Rob is a genuine boy, with all manner of faults and pranks; but a tender, truthful heart, and a determination for the right that brings him through safely. But specially is he delightful in juxtaposition with Nell, a little girl who says the quaintest things in the most laughable, most lovable manner. Altogether it is a thoroughly enjoyable book, sweet and saintly, too; though not saintly after the cut and dried style of youthful piety."

She turned the papers with a startled face as if the lady in the black cloak near her had guessed what she had looked for and had found; as if the blonde mustache hidden behind Emerson surmised that she had written a book and wondered why she had not attempted something deeper; as if Mr. Lewis Gesner reading a newspaper with his forehead puckered into a frown knew that she was slightly a blue-stocking, and decided that she might better be learning how to be a good wife for somebody.

"I _am_ commonplace," she soliloquized, running down the long flight of stairs; "ten years ago when my heroines were Rosalie and Viola, and their lovers bandits or princes in disguise, who would have believed that I could have settled down into writing good books for good little children?"

That evening Mr. Hammerton took from his memorandum book three square inches of printed matter, neatly and exactly folded, and dropped it into her hand.

"There's a feather in your cap, Lady Blue; it is plucked from the _Evening Mail_."

She read it, by the light of the shaded lamp, standing at the sitting-room table. Mrs. Wadsworth looked up from her work, regarding her curiously; Tessa did not observe the expression of pride and love that flitted across her face. Mrs. Wadsworth loved Tessa more than she loved any other human being; indeed, with all her capacity for loving; but Tessa would never discover it. Mrs. Wadsworth was not aware of it, herself; Mr. Wadsworth saw it and was glad. Tessa read eagerly:

"'Under the Wings' is the title of an excellent book by Theresa Louise Wadsworth issued in neat form by----. The characters of the boyish hero--wilful, merry, irreverent, honest, and bold, and the heroine--happy, serious, inquiring, and lovable, are drawn with no mean skill, while the other personages, the kind and pious grandmother, the snappish, but well-meaning mother, the deacon, and others, are sketched with scarcely less truth and vividness. The development of the Christian faith in the soul of wild Rob is traced easily and naturally, the incidents are numerous and interesting; the whole movement of the story is in helpful sympathy with human hearts."

"What is it, daughter?" inquired her father arranging the chess-men.

"She is modest as well as famous. I will read it," said Mr. Hammerton, "and here's your letter from Dine; I knew that that would insure my welcome. Do you know, I forgot to inquire for myself? I never did such a thing before. Father will go to the mail, however."

Moving apart from the group, she ran through the long letter; coloring and biting her lips as she read. Mrs. Wadsworth's little rocker was drawn to the table; the light from the tall lamp fell over her face and hair, touching her hands and her work; the low, white forehead, the wavy hair, the pretty lips and chin were pleasant to look upon; when she was in a happy state of mind, this little lady was altogether kissable.

"What does Dine say?" she asked.

"Not much. No news," stammered Tessa.

"Hurry then and let me read it."

"Excuse me, it is purely confidential, every vestige to be consigned to the flames. You are to have a letter in a day or two."

Mr. Hammerton gave her a quick glance and moved his queen into check. She took the letter into the parlor for a second perusal.

"Oh, Tessa, my dear, big, wise sister, I've got something to tell you. What should I do if I hadn't somebody to tell? At first I thought I wouldn't tell you or any body, and then I knew I must. Norah knows, but she will never tell. She does not know about Gus. I have never told that, but she knows about my wonderful John! I don't know how to begin either; I guess I will begin in the middle; all the blanks your own imagination must fill. You know all about John; I've told you enough if your head isn't too full of literary stuff to hold common affairs; _I'm in love_ and he is, too, of course. I should not be if he were not. I mean I should not tell of it if he were not. I'm glad that you are not the kind of elder sister that can't be told such things, for I could not tell mother, and I would not dare tell dear, old father. Not that it is so dreadful to be in love, even if I have known him but seven weeks to-night; I fell in love with him the instant he raised his eyes and took hold of my hand. Living under the same roof and eating together three times a day (he eats so nicely), and ciphering and studying and reading together, and going to church and prayer-meeting and singing-school together, make the time seem ten times as long and give twenty times as many opportunities of falling in love decorously as I could have found in Dunellen in a year! But I am not apologizing for _that_. It's too delightfully delicious to have a _real_ lover! Not that he has asked me _yet_! I wouldn't have him do it for any thing; it would spoil it all. But we both knew it as Adam and Eve knew it! Now the dreadfulness of it is that I have no right to do such a thing. I came here believing that I was lawfully and forever engaged to dear old Gus, spectacles, chess-board, dictionary and all. Not that _he_ ever said a word to _me_! Don't you know one night I told you that I had a secret? How glad I was of it then! I couldn't sleep that night and for days I felt dizzy; for Gus had been my hero ever since he told me stories when I was a wee child. And so of course I thought I _loved_ him. What is love, anyway? Who knows? That secret was this: I heard dear, old, wise Gus tell father that he loved _me_ (just think, _me!_) and that he was waiting for me to love him, dear, old boy! He would not try to make me love him, he wanted it to come naturally; he would not speak to me or urge me, he wanted to find me loving him and then he would ask me to give him what belonged to him. Wasn't it touching? I didn't know that he could be so lover-like. I didn't know that he ever would love anybody because he always talks books and politics and only made fun when I told him news about the girls. How could I help loving him when I knew that he loved me. Isn't that enough to make anybody love anybody?

"Just as soon as I saw my wonderful John, then I knew that I did not love Gus, that I never had loved him, that I never _could_ love him. No, not to the end of time. If I had married him, I suppose that I should have been satisfied and thought I was as happy as I could be--I don't know, though. He was wise to let me wait and have a choice: it is cruel to ask girls before they have seen some one else; we do not know what we do want until we see it--or him. I am writing at the sitting-room table; John has not come home from the mail; Aunt Tessa knits a long, blue stocking and Uncle Knox is asleep with the big white and black cat on his knees.

"I never could stay here but for John and Miss Towne. I have told _her_ about John; she likes John. Every one does.

"I want you to see my knight; he is not tall, he is broad-shouldered, with the loveliest complexion and blonde mustache, blue eyes, shining blue eyes, and auburn curly hair! that is, _rather_ auburn; I think it is more like reddish gold. I wish that you could hear him talk about making life a glorious success. He makes me feel brave and strong. Oh, isn't it a beautiful thing to live and have some one love you! I wish that you loved somebody; I do not like to be so happy and have you standing out in the cold. John thinks that _you_ are wonderful; I tell him that he will forget me when he has heard you talk.

"Wise old Gus is a thousand miles over my head when he talks to me, but John walks by my side and speaks the thoughts that I have been thinking, only in so much more beautiful language; and he likes all the books I like, and my favorite poems and hymns. How will you break it to Gus? He must be told. He wrote to me two weeks ago, a long, interesting letter all about Dunellen news, which I haven't dared answer yet. I suppose I must. I showed it to John; he asked how old he was, and now he calls him 'The Venerable.' He must not keep on thinking about me, for I never, never can like him, even if I never marry John. Do break it to him in some easy, _pleasant_ way; he will never imagine that _you_ know that he likes _me_. He never showed it any, I am sure. I always thought that it was you, and mother thinks so; I heard her telling father.

"Be sure to write immediately, for I am as unhappy as I can be. And be sure to tell me what he says and how he takes it. Mary Sherwood wrote me that Sue told her that she and Dr. Lake had awful quarrels, and that once they didn't speak to each other for three days only in her father's presence. I never could quarrel with John. There he comes. I'll be writing when he comes in and not look up, and then he will come behind my chair and touch my curls when auntie isn't looking.

"Write soon. Your ever loving Dine.

"P.S.--John calls me Di: he doesn't like _Dine_."

Crumbling the letter in both hands, she laid it upon the coals; then she stood with one foot on the fender, leaning forward with her forehead upon the mantel, thinking, thinking. Before she was aware the door was opened and some one came behind her and put both arms around her.

"Is any thing the matter with Dine?"

"Oh, no," shaking herself loose from his arms and creeping out of them.

He pushed the ottoman nearer and seated himself upon the parrot and the roses; she stood on the edge of the rug, with her arms folded across her breast to keep herself quiet; how could she tell him the truth? He was not a boy to laugh and cry and fling it off; he had loved Dine as long as Felix Harrison had loved _her_! He would take it quietly enough; she had no dread of an outburst; it might be that Dine's silence in regard to his letter had been a preparation; surely every hard thing that came had its preparation; the heavy blow was never sent before the word of warning.

"She is not sick?" he asked.

"Sick!" She lingered over the word as if help would come before it were ended. "Oh, no, she is well and happy."

"Does she write you secrets?"

"She always tells me her secrets."

"Has any phenomenon occurred?"

"It isn't a phenomenon; it is something as old as Eve and as new as Dinah. She thinks she has found her Adam."

"Ah!" in a constrained voice.

She saw nothing but the fire; the long poker was laid across the fender, a handful of ashes had fallen through the grate. "Such things have to come, like the measles and mumps; I did hope, however, to keep her out of the contagion. But Mother Nature is wiser than any sister."

"Why is it to be regretted?"

"Because--oh, because, I have learned that one's eyes are always wide open afterward--they weep much and see clear; one can never be carelessly happy again; I wanted her to stay a little girl. Selfishly, perhaps. I thought there was time enough."

"It is settled then--so soon?"

"Nothing is settled, but that two people are in love, or believe themselves to be. Am I not a cynical elder sister?"

"Is this her first experience?"

"Who can say when a first experience is! Tennyson and moonlight walks are aggravating at their age." At their age! She felt as old as Miss Jewett to-night.

"I hope he is worthy of her. She is a jewel."

"She would not love him if he were not," said the elder sister proudly.

"This is a secret?"

"Yes; I know that I can trust you. It will be time enough to tell father and mother when he brings her home and kneels at their feet for their blessing."

"Who is he?"

"John Woodstock, the school-master. He has neither father nor mother, he is beautiful and good, enthusiastic and fascinating."

She had not once lifted her eyes to his face; his fingers had clasped and unclasped themselves; his voice was not as steady as usual.

"That notice was a very pretty puff, Lady Blue."

"Yes, I like it I will paste it into my notebook."

"Is that all you have seen?"

"No, I saw two in the reading-room, but I like this better."

"Are you writing now?"

"Yes."

"You are not on the lookout for Adam."

"No. I will write and he shall search for me. Haven't you heard of that bird in Africa, which if you hunt for him, you can not find, but if you stay at home, he will come to you?"

He had risen and stood in his usual uneasy fashion. "My congratulations to Dine."

"I will tell her."

He lingered on the hearth-rug, then at the door with his hand upon the knob.

"Good night. I shall be busy for a week or two; do not expect to see me."

"You will come when you can?"

"Certainly." He went out and closed the door.

She stood in the same position with her arms folded for the next half hour. How could Dine know what love was? How could she give up a man like Gus Hammerton for a light-haired boy who talked of making life a glorious success? He had his heartache now; it had come at last after all his years of watching Dine growing up: and no one could help him, he must fight it out alone; she remembered what he had said about quoting from a book for Dr. Lake. What "book man" could help him to-night? Would he open a book or fall upon his knees?

Was _he_ sorrowful to-night too, Ralph Towne? How gentle he had been with her and how patient! They had met several times since; once, in his mother's presence, when he had spoken to her as easily as usual; at other times in the street; he had lifted his hat and passed on; the one glimpse of his eyes had been to reveal them very dark and very stern. She could hear Mr. Hammerton's voice calling back to her father from the gate; they both laughed and then his quick tramp sounded on the planks.

The tramp kept on and on for hours; the moon arose late; he walked out into the country, now tramping along the wayside and now in the road; it was midnight when he turned his face homeward and something past one when he silently unlocked the door with his night-key and found his way to his room. There was a letter there from Dinah; his sister had laid it on his bureau. It was brief, formal, and ambiguous; she had subscribed herself "Your young, old friend, D." She did not say that she was glad of his letter, she did not ask him to write again. "She thinks that she must not write to me," he thought, "darling little Dine! I would like to see that John Woodstock!"

XX.--SEVERAL THINGS.

The November sky was full of clouds; Tessa liked a cloudy sky; the dried leaves whirled around her and rustled beneath her feet, fastening themselves to her skirt as she walked through them; she had stepped down into the gutter to walk through the leaves because they reminded her of her childish days when she used to walk through them and soil her stockings and endure a reprimand when her mother discovered the cause of it; then she had liked the sound of the leaves, now she only cared for them, as she did for several other things,--for the sake of the long ago past! She imagined herself a ten-year-old maiden with big blue eyes and long, bright braids hanging down her back and tied together at the ends with brown ribbon; she was coming from school with a Greenleaf's Arithmetic (she ciphered in long division and had a "table" to learn), "Parker's Philosophy" and "Magnall's Questions" in her satchel. The lesson to-morrow in that was about Tilgath-pilneser; she had stumbled over the queer name, so she would be sure to remember it. There were crumbs in the napkin in the satchel, too, she had had seed cake for lunch; and a lead pencil that Felix Harrison had sharpened for her at noon, when he had come down-stairs to ask Laura for his share of the lunch, and there was a half sheet of note paper with her spelling for to-morrow from "Scholar's Companion" written on it; perhaps there was a poorly written and ill-spelled note from Gus Hammerton's cousin, Mary Sherwood, and there might be a crochet needle and a spool of twenty cotton!

She smiled over the inventory, lingering over each article; oh, if she only were going home from school with that satchel, to help her mother a little, play with Dine, and in the evening to look over her lessons sitting close to her father and then to coax him for a story. And then she would go to bed at eight o'clock to awake in the morning to another day. Mr. Hammerton said that it was a premature "_Vanitas vanitatem_" for her to declare that "growing up" was as bad as any thing a girl could dream!

But then he did not know about poor Felix, and he could never guess what she had dreamed that she had found in Ralph Towne--and how empty life was because of this thing that had mocked her. Empty with all its fulness because of something that never had been; something that never could be in him.

In those satchel-days her greatest trouble had been an interminable scolding from her mother, or the having to give to Dine her own share of cup-custard, when one chanced to be left from tea.

It was a raw day; the wind played roughly with her veil; the fields were bleak, and the long lines of fence, stretching in every direction and running into places that she did not know and would not care for, gave her a feeling of homesickness. Homesickness with the home she had lived in all her life not a mile distant, with every one that she loved or ever had loved within three miles; every one but Dine, and Dine was as blithe and satisfied as any girl could be.

Still she was homesick; she had been homesick since that evening by the fire in Mrs. Towne's sitting-room. Homesick because she had dreamed a dream that could never come true; now that he had asked her in plain, straightforward, manly words to love him and become his wife, her heart had opened, the light shone in, and she read all that the three years had written; she _had_ loved him, but the love had been crushed in shame--in shame for her mistake.

"There she is _now_," cried a voice in the distance behind her.

She turned to find Dr. Lake stopping his horse; he sprang out, not lightly, not like himself, and assisted his wife to the ground.

"She prefers your company, it seems," he said, holding the reins with one hand and giving Tessa the other. "Talk fast now, for I shall not be gone long; I want to get home."

"You can go home, I'll come when I like," replied Sue.

"We stopped at your house," said Sue, as he drove on; "I asked him to leave me while he goes to Harrison's; that Felix is always having a fit or something. Do you think Gerald looks so sick?" squeezing her hand under the folds of Tessa's crimson and gray shawl that she might take her arm.

"He is much changed; I did not like to look at him; has he been ill?"

"Oh, you didn't hear then! It was day before yesterday! He was thrown out; the horse ran away; he isn't hurt much; he thinks he is, I do believe. I am not a nurse, I don't know how to coddle people and fuss over them. The horse is a strange one that father had taken to try, and he threw Gerald out and ran away and smashed the buggy, and a farmer brought him home. He did look as white as a sheet and he hasn't eaten any thing since; he went out yesterday and insisted upon coming out to-day. Father says that he's foolhardy; but I guess he knows that he isn't hurt; I sha'n't borrow trouble anyway. He mopes and feels blue, but he says nothing ails him; he's a doctor and he ought to know. Where are you going?"

"Not anywhere in particular; I came out for the air; we will walk on slowly."

"We might go as far as your seat on the roots. Wasn't that time an age ago? I didn't feel married-y one bit. I want to go over to Sherwoods to-night to the Sociable, but Gerald says that I am heartless to want to go. I don't think I am. I didn't get married to shut myself up. Gerald never has any time to go anywhere with me, and it's just as stupid and vexatious at home as it ever was. Don't _you_ ever get married."

"Are you keeping your word?"

"What word?"

"The promise you made me that day by the brook."

"About Gerald? Oh, sometimes I keep it and sometimes I don't. He always makes up first, I will say that for him. He will never let me go to sleep without kissing him good night."

"Then you did not tell Mary Sherwood that once you did not speak for three days?"

"Bless you, no; Gerald would not let that be true; it was no goodness in me that it wasn't true, though; perhaps I told her that."

"Do you talk to her about him?"

"Now, Granny, suppose I do!"

Tessa stood still. "Promise me--you shall not take another step with me till you do--that you will not talk to any one against him."

"I won't. Don't gripe my hand so tight. He is my husband, he isn't yours! When he's contrary, I'll be contrary, too, and I'll tell people if I like."

"Then you forfeit my friendship; remember I am not your friend."

"Tessa Wadsworth! you hateful old thing! you know I shall have to give in, for you are my best friend! There," laughing, "let me go, and I'll promise! I'll say all the ugly things I have to say to his own face."

They walked on slowly; Sue rambling on and Tessa listening with great interest.

"I had a letter from Stacey last week; Gerald has it in his pocket; he dictated the answer, and I wrote it in my most flourishing style. I've got somebody to take good care of me now--if he doesn't get sick! I don't like sick people; I made him some gruel yesterday and it was as thick as mush. Oh, the things he promises me when he gets rich! Gets rich! All he wants is for me to love him, poor dear! What _is_ love? Do you know?"

"To discover is one of the things I live for; I know that it suffers long."

"That's poetry! I don't want to suffer long and have Gerald sick. I had to get up last night and make him a mustard plaster, and do you believe I was so sleepy that I made it of ginger? He never told me till this morning."

In half an hour he drove up swiftly behind them.

"Susan, you can get in; I don't feel like getting out to help you. I feel very bad, I want to get home."

He laid the reins in her hand. "You may drive; good-by, Mystic; you and I will have our talk another day."

"Come and see us," Sue shouted back.

The horse trotted on at good speed; Sue's blue veil floated backward; Tessa walked on thinking of Dr. Lake's pain-stricken face and figure.

Her first words to Mary Sherwood that evening were:

"How is Dr. Lake?"

"Sick. Worse. Very sick, I suspect. Their girl told our girl that Mrs. Lake was frightened almost to death."

"I hope she is," said Nan Gerard, "she deserves to be."

Tessa kept herself in a sofa corner all the evening.