Part 18

Dr. Greyson's house stood opposite. Tessa went to the window to see if the light were still burning in Sue's chamber; Sue had forgotten to drop the curtains; the room was well-lighted; Sue was standing in the centre of the room holding something in her hand; Tessa saw Dr. Greyson enter and Sue moved away.

She lay in bed wide awake watching the light.

"Good-by, Mystic; you and I will have our talk another day."

The tears dropped slowly on the pillow.

XXI.--THROUGH.

The snow-flakes were very large, they fell leisurely, melting almost as soon as they touched Tessa's flower bed; she was sitting at one of the sitting-room windows writing. She wrote, as it is said that all ladies do, upon her lap, her desk being a large blank book; her inkstand stood upon the window-sill; the cane-seated chair in front of her served several purposes, one of them being a foot-rest; upon the chair were piled "Roget's Thesaurus of English Words and Phrases," "Recreations of a Country Parson," a Bible, the current numbers of the _Living Age_ and _Harper's Magazine_, and George Macdonald's latest book.

Her wrapper was in two shades of brown, the ruffle at her throat was fastened by a knot of blue velvet; in one brown pocket were a lead pencil, a letter from an editor, who had recently published a work upon which he had been busy twenty years and had thereby become so famous that the letter in her pocket was an event in her life, especially as it began: "My dear Miss Tessa, I like your letter and I like you."

Her father was very proud of that letter.

In the other brown pocket were a tangle of pink cord, a half yard of tatting, and a shuttle, and--what Tessa had read and reread--three full sheets of mercantile note from Miss Sarepta Towne.

Dinah was seated at another window embroidering moss roses upon black velvet; the black velvet looked as if it might mean a slipper for a good-sized foot. There was a secret in the eyes that were intent upon the roses; the secret that was hidden in many pairs of eyes--brown, blue, hazel--in Dunellen in these days before Christmas.

There was not even the hint of a secret in the eyes that were opening "Thesaurus" and looking for a synonym for _Information_.

"Poor Tessa!" almost sighed happy Dinah, "she has to plod through manuscript and books, and doesn't know half how nice it is to make slippers."

Poor Tessa closed her book just then and looked out into the falling snow.

"Perhaps we shall hear that he's dead to-day," said Dinah, brushing a white thread off the velvet. "I have expected to hear that every day for a week."

"But you said that he talked real bright last week."

"So Sue said. I have not seen him. He knows that I have called, that is enough; I do not want to see him, I know that my face would distress him."

"Poor fellow," said Dine, compassionately, "how he used to talk! The stories that he has told in this room. Oh, Tessa, I can't be thankful enough for every thing! To think that John should get such a good position in the Dunellen school! How things work around; he would not have had it but for Mr. Lewis Gesner! John and I are going there to spend the evening next week; Miss Gesner asked him to bring me. And oh, Tessa, _do_ you think that Gus takes it much to heart?"

"If I did not know I should not think that he had any thing to take to heart!"

"I suppose his heart bleeds in secret," said Dinah pensively. "Well, it isn't _my_ fault. You don't blame me."

"I never blame any one."

"Father and mother are very polite to John."

"They are never rude to any one."

"Say, Tessa, are you glad about me, or sorry?"

"Am I not always glad about you?"

"Well, about John?"

"I like John; he is a good boy; but you can not expect me not to be disappointed about Gus!"

"You think that Gus is every thing."

"I think that he is _enough_."

"Perhaps--perhaps--" but Dinah became confused and dared not finish.

Tessa felt her thought. Perhaps--but what a queer perhaps; who could imagine it?

The sharp Faber scribbled upon waste paper for some minutes; it scribbled dates and initials and names, and then "Such as I wish it to be."

"There goes Dr. Towne," said Dinah.

Tessa lifted her head in time for a bow. Then she scribbled, "A nightingale made a mistake."

The letter in her pocket had closed thus: "You have the faculty of impressing truth in a very pleasant manner; your characters are spirited, your incidents savor of freshness, your style is rather abrupt however, it will be well to consider that."

A busy life, busy in the things that she loved best, was her ideal of happiness.

She scribbled--"Dec. 15. Dinah making roses. Miss Towne wishing for me. Is any one else? What do I wish? My naughty heart, be reasonable, be just, be sure, do not take a thing that you _want_, just because you want it."

Dinah was wondering how Tessa's face _could_ look so peaceful when she was not engaged nor likely to be. Tessa was at peace, she was at rest concerning Dr. Lake. Before the storm was over, he would be glad that he had been born into a life upon the earth. In this hour--while Dine was working her roses and Tessa scribbling, while the snow-flakes were melting on Dr. Towne's overcoat and Nan Gerard was studying "The Songs of Seven" to read to the Professor that evening--Sue and her husband were alone in Sue's chamber.

"Sue, I haven't heard you sing to-day."

"How can I sing, Gerald, when you are so sick?"

"Am I so sick? Do you know that I am?"

"I think I ought to know; don't I see how father looks? and didn't Dr. Towne say that he would come and stay with you to-night? Are not people very sick when they have a consultation?"

"Sometimes. What are you doing over there?"

"It is time for your powder; you must sleep, they all say so. Will you try to go to sleep after you take this?"

"Yes, if you will sing to me."

He raised himself on his elbow and took the spoon from her hand. "You have been a good wife to me, Susan."

"Of course I have. Isn't that what I promised. There, you spilled some; how weak your fingers are! you are like a baby. I don't like babies."

"Don't say that," falling back upon the pillow. "I want you to be womanly, dear, and true women love babies."

"They are such a bother."

"So are husbands."

"When you get well, you will not be a bother! Can't you talk any louder?"

"Sit down close to me. How long have I been sick?"

"Oh, I don't know! The nights and days are just alike."

"I expect that you are worn out. We will go to sleep together. I wish we could."

"You mustn't talk, you must go to sleep."

"Say, Susan," catching her hand in both his, "are you glad you married me?"

"Of course I am glad; that is, I shall be when you get well."

"You wouldn't like a feeble husband dragging on you all your days, would you?"

"No, I _wouldn't_. Who would? Would you like a feeble wife dragging on _you_ all your days?"

"I would like _you_, sick or well."

"I knew you would say that. You and Tessa and Dr. Towne are sentimental. What do you think he said to me last night. 'Be very gentle and careful with him, do not even speak loud.'"

"He is very kind."

"As if I _wouldn't_ be gentle!"

"Bring your chair close and sing."

"I don't feel like singing; this room is dark and hot, and I am sleepy."

"Well, never mind."

She pushed a chair close to the low bed and sat down; he took her hand and held it between his flushed hot hands. "God bless you forever, and ever, my darling wife!"

"That's too solemn," said Sue in an awed voice; "don't say such things; I shall believe that you are going to die, if you do. Do go to sleep, that's a good boy."

He laid his finger on his wrist keeping it there a full minute.

"Are you stronger?" she asked eagerly. "Father will not say when I ask him and Dr. Towne only looked at me."

He lifted her hand to his lips and smiled.

"Now sing."

"What shall I sing?"

"Any thing. Every thing. 'Jesus, lover of my soul.' I always liked that."

The clear, strong voice trembled nervously over the first words; she was afraid, but she did not know what she was afraid of; his eyelids drooped, he kept tight hold of her hand.

She sang the hymn through and then asked what he would like next.

"I was almost dreaming. Sue is a pretty name, so is Gerald; but I would not like my boy to be named Gerald. Theodore means the _gift of God_; I like that; Theodore or Theodora. If you ever name a child, will you remember that?"

"I shall never name a child; I don't like children well enough to fuss over them. Now, what else?"

"'Jerusalem the golden.'"

"Oh, you don't want that! It's too solemn. I won't sing it, I'll sing something livelier. Don't you like 'Who are these in bright array?'"

The eyelids drooped, he did not loosen his clasp, and she sang on; once, when she paused, he whispered, "Go on."

The snow fell softly, melting on the window-sill, the wood fire burnt low, she drew her hand away and went to the stove to put in a stick of wood; he did not stir, his hands were still half-clasped; through the half-shut lids, his eyes shone dim and dark. She was very weary; she laid her head on the white counterpane near his hands and fell asleep. Dr. Greyson entered, stood a moment near the door and went out; Dr. Towne came to the threshold, his eyes filled as he stood, he closed the door and went down-stairs; he opened the front parlor door, thinking of the two as they stood there together such a little time since, and thinking of Tessa's face as he saw it that morning. "She will love him always if he leaves her now," he said to himself; "when she is old, she will look back and grieve for him. Tessa would, but Sue--there's no reckoning upon her. Why are not all women like Tessa and my mother?"

He drove homeward, thinking many thoughts; of late, in the light of Tessa's words, he could behold himself as she beheld him; she would have been satisfied, could she have known the depth of his self-accusation; "No man but a fool could _be_ such a fool," he had said to himself more than once. "There is no chance that she will take me."

Meanwhile Sue awoke from her heavy sleep; it was growing colder, the snow was falling and not melting, the room was quite dark.

"I have been asleep," said Dr. Lake.

"And now you are better," cried Sue, joyfully. "I knew that you were moping and had the blues."

Through that night and the next day, Miss Jewett watched with Sue; before another morning broke, Sue--poor widowed Sue!--was taken in hysterics from the room.

XXII.--SEVERAL OTHER THINGS.

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.