Part 19

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.

She answered seriously, "Yes. You are all the big brother I have."

"Then I will not ask it," dropping her hands and turning away.

"Say good-by, then."

"Good-by."

"I have not said any thing to displease you, have I?"

"You will not write to me?"

"No, I can't. I would if I could. I will tell you--then you will understand and not care--somebody--"

"What right has somebody--"

Mrs. Wadsworth entered laughing, Mr. Wadsworth was close behind.

"Excuse me, sir; I can't stay to play to-night. Good night, Lady Blue. A pleasant visit and safe return."

An hour later Tessa was kneeling on the carpet before her open trunk squeezing a roll of pencilled manuscript into a corner.

A tap at the door was followed by a voice, "Daughter, may I come in?"

"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."

On her way to the train the next morning, she mailed a letter addressed--

_"Ralph Towne, M. D., City."_

Her tender, passionate, truth-loving, bewildered heart had poured itself out in these words:

* * * * *

"I am so afraid of leading you to think something that is not true; something that I may have to contradict in the future. When I am with you, I forget every thing but you; when I am alone, my heart rises up and warns me that I may be making another mistake, that I only _think_ I love you because I want to so much, and that I should only worry you with my caprices and doubts if I should marry you. You have been very patient with me, but you might lose your patience if I should try it too far. I _will_ not marry you until I am _sure_; I must know of a certainty that I love you with the love that hopes, endures, that can suffer long and still is kind. You do not know me, I am hard and proud; when I went down into the Valley of Humiliation because of believing that you loved me when you did not, I was not gentle and sweet and forgiving--I was hard and bitter; I hated you almost as much as I had loved you. Now I must think it all through and live through all those days, the days when I loved you and the days when I hated you, before I can understand myself. I could marry you and we could live a life of surface peace and satisfaction, and you might be satisfied in me and with me; but if _I_ felt the need of loving you more than I did love you, my life would be bondage. If the pride and hardness and unforgivingness may be taken away and I _may_ love you and believe in you as I did that day that you brought me the English violets, I shall be as happy--no, a thousand times happier than I was then. But you must not hope for that; it is not _natural_; it may be that of grace such changes are wrought, but grace is long in working in proud hearts. You are not bound to me by any word that you have spoken; find some one gentle and loving who will love you for what you are and for what you will be."

XXIII.--WHAT SHE MEANT.

In the weeks that followed, Tessa learned to the full the meaning of _homesickness_. No kindness could have exceeded the kindness that she hourly received from uncle and aunt and from the inmates of the cottage over the way; still every night, or rather early every morning, she fell asleep with tears upon her cheeks; she longed for her father, her mother, for Dine and Gus, for Miss Jewett, for Nan Gerard, and even poor, grief-stricken Sue; for Mrs. Towne's dear face and dear hands she longed inexpressibly, and she longed with a longing to which she would give no sympathy for another presence, an unobtrusive presence that would not push its way, a presence with the aroma of humility, gentleness, and a shy love that persisted with a persistence that neither the darkness of night nor the light of day could dispel.

Lying alone in the darkness in the strange, low room, with a fading glow upon the hearth that lent an air of unreality to the old-fashioned furniture, she congratulated herself upon having been brave and true, of having withheld from her lips a draught for which she had so long and so despairingly thirsted; she had been so brave and true that she must needs be strong, wherefore then was she so weak? Sometimes for hours she would lie in perfect quiet thinking of Mr. Hammerton; but thinking of him as calmly as she thought about her father. There was no intensity in her love for him, no thrill, save that of gratitude for his years of brotherly watchfulness; she would have been proud of him had he married Dine; his friendship was a distinction that she had worn for years as her rarest ornament; he was her intellect, as her father was her conscience, but to give up all the others for him, to love him above father, mother, sister--to give up forever the hope of loving Ralph Towne some day--she shuddered and covered her face with her hands there alone in the dark. Cheery enough she was through the days, sewing for Aunt Theresa and falling into her happiest talk of books and people, thoughts and things, reading aloud to Uncle Knox, and every evening reading aloud the pages of manuscript that she had written that day, and every afternoon, laying aside work or writing, to run across to the cottage for a couple of hours with Miss Sarepta.

Miss Sarepta at her window in her wheelchair watched all day the black, brown, or blue figure at her writing or sewing, and when the hour came, saw the pencils dropped into the box, the leaves of manuscript gathered, the figure rise and toss out its arms with a weary motion; then, in a few moments the figure with a bright shawl over its head would run down the path, stand a moment at the gate to look up and down and all around, and then, with the air of a child out of school, run across the street and sometimes around the garden before she brought her bright face into the watcher's cosy, little world.

Miss Sarepta's mother described Tessa as "bright, wide awake, and ready for the next thing."

Miss Sarepta told Tessa that while knowing that good things were laid up for her, she had no thought that such a good thing as Tessa Wadsworth was laid up for this winter's enjoyment and employment.

It may be that the strain of the day's living added to the feverishness of the night's yearnings; for when darkness fell and the wind sounded in the sitting-room chimney, her heart sank, her hands grew cold, her throat ached with repressed tears, and when she could no longer bear it, the daily paper having been read aloud and a letter or two written, she would take her candle and bid the old people as cheery a good night as her lips could utter and hasten up-stairs to her fire on the hearth to reperuse her letters and to dream waking dreams of what might be, and when the fire burned low to lie awake in the darkness, till, spent in flesh and in spirit, she would fall asleep.

At the beginning of the third week, she took herself to hand; with a figurative and merciless gripe upon each shoulder she thus addressed herself: "Now, Tessa Wadsworth, you and I have had enough of this; we have had enough of freaks and whims for one lifetime; you are to behave and go to sleep."

Behaving and going to sleep took until midnight with the first attempt, and she dreamed of Dr. Lake and awoke crying. Was Sue crying, too? Sue had loved her husband, his influence would color all her life, she might yet become her ideal of a woman; _womanly_. Sue's hand had been in his life; had not his hand with a firmer grasp tightened around her life?

Tessa did not forget to be metaphysical even at midnight with the tears of a dream on her eyelashes.

Was every one she loved asleep, or had some one dreamed of her and awoke to think of her?

"God bless every one I love," she murmured, "and every one who loves me."

The next night by sheer force of will she was asleep before the clock struck eleven, and did not dream of home or once awake until Hilda, the Swedish servant, passed her door at dawn.

Her letters through this time were radiant, of course. Mrs. Towne only, with her perfect understanding of Tessa, detected the homesickness, or heartsickness. Tessa was wading in deep waters; she did not need her, else she would have come to her. She had learned that it was her characteristic to fight out her battles alone.

Had Ralph any thing to do with this? He had suddenly grown graver, not more silent; in the morning his eyes would have a sleepless look, the sunshine seemed utterly gone from them; once he said, apropos of nothing, after a long fit of abstraction: "It is right for a man to pay for being a fool and a knave, but it comes terribly hard."

"I suppose it must," she had replied, "until he learns how God forgives."

In her next letter to Tessa, Mrs. Towne had written, "Do you know how God forgives?" and Tessa had replied, "You and I seem to be thinking the same thought nowadays, and nowanights, for last night it came to me that loving _enough_ to forgive is the love that makes Him so happy."

This letter was the only one of all written that winter that Mrs. Towne showed to her son. It was not returned to her. Months afterward he showed it to Tessa, saying that that thought was more to him than all the sermons to which he had ever listened. "Because you didn't know how to listen," she answered saucily, adding in a reverent tone, "I did not understand it until I _lived_ it."

The letter had been written with burning cheeks; if he might read it, she would be glad; it would reveal something that she did not dare tell him herself; but she had no hope that he would see it.

"Tessa is not so bright as she was," observed Miss Sarepta's mother, "she's more settled down; I guess that she has found out what she means; it takes a deal of time for young women to do that."

XXIV.--SHUT IN.

It was a trial to Sarepta Towne that the sun did not rise and set in the west, for in that case her bay window would have been perfect.

Dinah had named this window "summer time:" on each side ivy was climbing in profusion; on the right side stood a fuchsia six feet in height; opposite this an oleander was bursting into bloom; a rose geranium and a pot of sweet clover were placed on brackets and were Tessa's special favorites; one hanging basket from which trailed Wandering Jew was filled with oxalis in bloom, another was but a mass of graceful and shining greens.

In the centre of the window on a low table stood a Ward's case; into this Dinah had never grown tired of looking; Professor Towne had constructed it on his last visit at home, and one of the pleasures of it to Miss Sarepta had consisted in the talks they had while planning it together. Among its ferns, mosses, berries, and trailing arbutus they had formed a grotto of shells and bits of rocks; the floor was bits of looking-glass; tufts of eye-bright were mingled with the mosses and were now in bloom, and Miss Sarepta was sure that the trailing arbutus would flower before Tessa could bring it home to her from the woods.