Part 9

"Then they began to talk among themselves: what had they done to be thus bidden to beware of the leaven of the Pharisees? _Leaven_ reminded them of bread! Oh, now they knew! They had but one loaf in the ship; they had forgotten to bring bread with them; perhaps the Lord was hungry and knew that they had not enough for Him and for themselves. It may be that He overheard them reasoning among themselves, or perhaps, forward Peter asked Him if He were rebuking them for forgetting the bread; for as soon as He knew what was troubling their simple hearts, how He talked to them! Seven questions, one after another, He asked them, ending with: _How is it_ that ye do not understand?

"And you are like them, child. The Lord has suffered you to be led into trouble that He may teach you something about Himself and you fall down at His feet bemoaning yourself; you forget Him and the great lessons He has to teach you and think only of yourself and some little thing that you missed doing; you missed it, blinded with tears in your eagerness to do right, you _meant_ to be so good and true, and because you made a mistake in your blindness and eagerness, you think Him such a harsh, unloving Father that all He cares to do is to punish you! Trust Him, Tessa! Don't moan over a loaf of bread forgotten before Him who has love enough, and power enough to give you and somebody beside a thousand thousand loaves. Do not grieve Him by crying out any longer, 'Do not punish me; I _meant_ to be so good?'"

Tessa's head kept its position. When she raised it, after a long silence, she said: "I will not think so any more; you don't know what I suffered in thinking that He is punishing me."

"'How is it that ye do not understand?'"

"Because I think about my own troubles and not of what He is teaching me," said Tessa humbly.

XI.--ON THE HIGHWAY.

In June, Tessa gathered roses for Miss Jewett, and every evening filled the tall glass vase with white roses for the tea-table; in June, Dunellen Institute closed for the season and Dinah was graduated; henceforth she would be a young lady of leisure, or a young lady seeking a vocation. In June, Mrs. Wadsworth scolded Tessa for "taking it so coolly about the dreadful thing that had come upon young Harrison."

"How many times have you called to see Laura since her poor brother has been so poorly?"

"I have called every two days," answered Tessa in her quietest tones.

"Oh, you have! Why didn't you say so? You are so still that people think you do nothing but pick roses. Anxious as I am, you might have told me how he was getting on. How was he yesterday?"

"Comfortable."

"Did you see him?"

"Yes."

"Was he sitting up?"

"Yes, he had been sitting up half an hour."

"How does he look?"

"His eyes are deep in his head, his voice is as weak as a child's, he burst into tears because Laura did not come when he touched his bell for her."

"Was he cheerful?"

"He smiled and talked."

"Are you going to-day?"

"Yes; Dr. Lake will call for me about five."

"You and Dr. Lake are getting to be great friends."

"Are we?"

"Do you know what he says about Felix?"

"He can say nothing but that he may never be himself again."

"Yes, he did; but you mustn't repeat it; promise me."

"There is no need for me to promise."

"He said that his mind will grow weaker and weaker. Do you know that he has been having _fits_ for two years?"

"Yes, I am aware of it."

"Isn't it a dreadful, horrible thing? But he always was a little wild and queer, not quite like other folks. I was sure that he would die; he may yet, he may have a relapse. I should think that they would rather have him dead than grow silly. I suppose that Laura will never be married now; he will never be fit to be left alone. His father can marry though, and that would leave her free. I never object to second marriages, do you?"

"That depends upon several things."

"My father was married three times. I had two stepmothers, and might have had four if he had lived longer. Some people think, but I never did, that an engagement is as good as a marriage, do you?"

"Yes."

"Of course, I knew that you would think so. But I never had any high-flown ideas about engagements. I was engaged to John Gesner--your father doesn't know it to this day--he has high and mighty ideas about things like you. _You_ ought to have some feeling about Felix Harrison, then, for he always wanted you. Professional men are always poor; Dr. Lake is not much of a 'catch.'"

"I think he is--or will be--to the woman who can appreciate him."

"I beseech you don't you go to appreciate him."

"I do now--sufficiently," she answered, smiling.

Two weeks later, having seen Felix several times during the interval, Dine brought her a letter late in the afternoon.

Felix always had written her name in full, saying that it was prettier than the one that she had given herself in baby-days; the penmanship appeared like a child's imitation of his bold strokes.

Not daring and not caring to open it immediately, she put on her hat and went out to walk far past the end of the planks down into the green country. She thought that she knew every tree and every field all the long way to the Harrison Homestead.

Opening the letter at last, she read:

"My Friend,--I suppose you know all the truth. I wrung it out of Dr. Greyson to-day after you left me. You may have known it all the time. Father has known it, but not Laura. I shall never be what I once was; I know it better than any physician can tell me. If I live to forget every thing else (and I may), I think that I shall never forget that night. But I shall not let my mind go without a struggle; I shall read, I shall write, I shall travel, when I am able. I have been reading Macaulay to-day. I shall be a burden to father and Laura, and to any who may nurse me for wages. But I shall not be a burden to you. I know that you meant that _you_ would never break our covenant, when you said: 'Promises are made to be kept,' but _I_ will break it. I am breaking it now. You did belong to me when you last said good-by and laid your young, strong hand over my poor fingers; but you do not belong to me as you read this. As I can not know the exact moment when you read it, I can never know when you cease to belong to me. Laura and father intend to take me away; do not come to me until I return. No one knows. In all my ravings, I never spoke your name; it was on my mind that I had promised not to speak of it, and I never once forgot. But your presence was in every wild and horrible dream; you were being scalped and drowned and burned alive, and often and often you sat beside me holding my hand; many many times you came to me and said, 'I will keep my word,' but something took you away; you never went of your own accord. I have asked them all what I raved about and every name that I spoke, but no one has answered 'Tessa.' Write to me this once, and never again, and tell me that you agree, that you are willing to break the bond that held us together such a little while. I am a man, and a selfish one at that, therefore I rejoice that you _were_ mine. You can have but one answer to give. I will not accept any devotion from you that may hinder your becoming the happy wife of a good man. Do not be too sorry for me. Laura will expect you to write to her, but I pray you, do not write; I should look for your letters and they would take away the little fortitude I have. Be a good girl; love somebody by and by. You have burned a great many letters that I have written. This is the last."

"F. W. H."

Again and again she read it, pausing over each simple, full utterance. He could never say to her again, "You have spoiled my life." She had done her best to atone for the sorrow that she had so unwittingly caused him, and it had not been accepted by Him who had planned all her life. There was nothing more for her to do. The letter was like him. She remembered his kindly, gracious ways; his eagerness to be kind to her, how he would sit or stand near her to watch her as she talked or worked; how timidly he would touch her dress or her hand; how his face would change if she chanced to look up at him; how his pale green eyes would glitter when she preferred the society of Gus Hammerton or any other of the Dunellen boys, ever so long ago, as they were boys and girls together; almost as long ago as when she was a little girl and he a big boy and he would bring her fruit and flowers! On their Saturday excursions after nuts or berries or wild flowers, how he would fall behind the others when she did and catch her hand if they heard a noise in the woods or lost themselves for half a minute among a new clump of trees.

In the long, happy weeks that she had passed at the Homestead, in the days when his mother was alive, how thoughtful he had been of her comfort, how he had tried to please her in work or play! One evening after they had all been sitting together on the porch and telling stories, she had heard his mother say to his father: "Tessa has great influence over Felix, I hope that she will marry him."

"I won't," her rebellious little heart had replied. And at bedtime she had told Laura that she meant to marry a beautiful young man with dark eyes who must know every thing and wear a cloak. "And Felix has light eyes," she had added.

She laughed and then sighed over the foolish, innocent days when girlhood and womanhood had meant only wonderful good times like the good times in fairy tales and Bible stories.

Then for the last time she read his letter and tore it into morsels, scattering them hither and thither as she walked.

She had done all she could do; he could not keep hold of her hand any longer.

The last bit of paper fluttered on the air; she gave a long look towards the dear old Homestead; she could see the spires of the two churches at Mayfield, the brass rooster on the school-house where Felix had taught, and then she turned homeward to write the letter that would release him from the covenant whose keeping had been made impossible to them. As she turned, the noise of wheels was before her, the dust of travel in her face; she lifted her eyes in time to return a bow from Ralph Towne and to feel the smile that lighted the face of the white-haired lady at his side.

In the dusk she came down-stairs, dressed for a walk, with several letters in her hand.

"Whither does fancy lead you, daughter?" her father asked as she was passing through the sitting-room. He was lying upon the lounge with a heavy shawl thrown over him; his voice came quick and sharp as though he were in pain.

She moved towards him instantly. "Why, father, are you sick?"

"No, dear, not--now," catching his breath. "I have been in pain and it has worn upon me. Greyson gave me something to carry with me some time ago, I have taken it three times to-day and now I shall go to sleep?"

"Are you _sure_ you feel better?" she asked caressing the hand that he held out to her. "Let me stay and do something for you."

"No. I must go to sleep. Run along. I have sent your mother away, and now I send you away."

She lingered a moment, stooping to kiss the bald forehead and then the plump hand.

Her father was very happy to-night, for her mother, of her own accord, for the first time in fifteen years, had kissed him.

He held Tessa's hand thinking that he would tell her, then he decided that the thought of those fifteen years would hurt her too sorely.

"I thought that you meant to tell me something," she said.

"No; run along."

Along the planks, along the pavement, across the Park, she walked slowly, in the summer starlight, with the letters in her hand.

"Star light! Star bright! I wish I may, I wish I might, See somebody I want to see to-night."

A child's voice was chanting the words in a dreamy recitative.

"Dear child," sighed Tessa, with her five and twenty years tugging at her heart.

She longed for a sight of Miss Jewett's untroubled face to-night; if she might only tell her about the right thing that she had tried to do and how the power to do it had been taken from her!

But no one could comfort her concerning it; not her father, not Miss Jewett, not Ralph Towne, not Gus Hammerton, not Felix!

One glance up into the sky over the trees in the Park helped her more than any human comforting. It was a new experience to have outgrown human comforting; she thought that she had outgrown it that day--the last day of the year; still she must see Miss Jewett; it would be a rest to hear some one talk who did not know about Felix or that other time that the sunshiny eyes had brought to life again. Would they meet as heretofore? Must they meet socially upon the street or at church?

If it might have been that he might remain away for years and years--until she had wholly forgotten or did not care!

Miss Jewett was almost alone; there was no one with her but Sue Greyson tossing over neckties to find a white one with fringe.

Through the silks there shone on the first finger of Sue's left hand the sparkle of a diamond; she colored and smiled, then laughed and held her finger up for Tessa's inspection.

"Guess who gave it to me," she said defiantly.

It could not be Dr. Lake--Tessa would not speak his name; it must be her father--but no, Sue would not blush as she was blushing now; it could not be Mr. Gesner! Tessa's heart quickened, she was angry with herself for thinking of Mr. Gesner. Mr. Towne! But that was not possible.

"Can't you guess?" Sue was enjoying her confusion.

"No. I can't guess."

"Say the Man in the Moon. I as much expected it. It's from Stacey! I knew you would be confounded. Wasn't I sly about it? We are to be married the first day of October. We settled on that because it is Stacey's birthday! It is Dr. Lake's too. Isn't it comical. Stacey is twenty-three and the doctor is twenty-nine! Stacey is a year younger than I. I wish that he wasn't. I think that I shall change my age in the Bible. When I told Dr. Lake, he said that I seemed inclined to change some other things in the Bible. Don't you tell, either of you. It's a profound secret. Wasn't father hopping, though? But I told him that I would elope if he didn't consent like a good papa; and now since Stacey's salary is raised he hasn't a bit of an excuse for being ugly about it. I am going to have all the new furniture, too; I bargained for that. Won't it be queer for me to live so far away? Stacey is in a lace house in Philadelphia, don't you remember? You ought to see the white lace sacque that he brought me for an engagement present; it's too lovely for any thing. Why, Tessa, you look stunned, are you speechless? Don't you relish the idea of my being married before you? You ought to have seen Dr. Lake when I showed my ring to him! He turned as white as a sheet and trembled so that he had to sit down; all he said was, 'May God forgive you.' Don't you think that it was wicked in him to say that? I told him that it sounded like swearing. Yes, I'll take this one, please. And, oh, Tessa, I want you to help me to buy things. I am to have a dozen of every thing. I shall be married in white silk; I told father that he would never have another daughter married so that he might as well open his long purse. We shall go to the White Mountains on our wedding tour. It's late in the season, of course, but I always wanted to go to the White Mountains and I will if we are both frozen to death. I know that you are angry with me, but I can't help it. You are just the one to believe in love. I have always liked Stacey; he has just beautiful hands, and his manners are really touching. You ought to see him lift his hat; Mr. Towne is nowhere."

"What will your father do?" asked Miss Jewett.

"Oh, Aunt Jane must come back, she hasn't captivated the widower yet; or he might get married himself. I think that I'll suggest it. _Wouldn't_ it be fun to have a double wedding? I'll let father be married first; Stacey and I will stand up with them."

Sue went off into a long, loud peal of laughter; Miss Jewett smiled; Tessa spoke gravely: "Sue, your mother would not like to hear that."

"Oh, bother! She doesn't think of me. I want some silks, too, please. I shall have to make Stacey a pair of slippers and a lot of other pretty things. And oh, Tessa, I haven't told you the news! The queerest thing! Dr. Towne--we must call him that now--has bought that handsome brick house opposite the Park and is going into practice. Dr. Lake says that of course people will run after _him_ while they would let him starve!"

"Then he'll smell of medicine, too," Tessa could not forbear suggesting.

"Yes, and have bottles in all his pockets. I'm going to see your mother; she cares more about dress than you and Dine put together. If your father should die, she would be married before either of you. I won't come if you look so cross at me."

At that moment Mr. Hammerton pushed open the door; he had come for gloves and handkerchiefs. Tessa selected them for him and would then have waited for her word with Miss Jewett, had not one of the clerks returned from supper.

"Come, Lady Blue, I am going your way."

"Father is not well to-night; he will not play chess."

"I am going all the same, however; you shall play with me, and Dine shall read the 'Nut Brown Maid.'"

As they were crossing the Park, they met Dr. Lake; he was walking hurriedly; she could not see his face.

"What do you think Lake said to me last night? We were talking--rather, he was--about trouble. He has seen a good deal of it one time and another I imagine; his nerves are so raw that every thing hurts. For want of something to suit him in my own experience, I quoted a thought of Charles Kingsley's. He turned upon me as if I had struck him--'A man in a book said that.' A man in a book _did_ say it, so I had nothing to say. Something is troubling you, what is it?"

"More than one something is troubling me. I just heard a bit of news."

"Not good news?"

"I can not see any good."

He repeated in a hurried tone:

"'Good tidings every day; God's messengers ride fast. We do not hear one half they say, There is such noise on the highway Where we must wait while they ride past.'"

"Perhaps I do not hear one half they say this time; the half I do hear is troublesome enough. Some day, when I may begin 'five and fifty years ago,' I will tell you a story."

"Will it take so long for me to become worthy to hear it?"

"I wish I _might_ tell you; you always help me," she said impulsively.

"Is there a hindrance?"

"It is too near to be spoken of."

She was not in the mood for chess, but her father brightened at Mr. Hammerton's entrance, arose, threw off the shawl, and came to the table, saying that he would watch her moves. He seated himself close to her, with an arm across the back of her chair, once or twice bringing his head down to the chestnut braids.

"How alike you are!" exclaimed Mr. Hammerton.

"Yes, I am very pretty," replied Mr. Wadsworth, seriously.

Mrs. Wadsworth had taken her work over to Mrs. Bird for a consultation thereupon; Dine fell asleep, resting her curly head on the book that Mr. Hammerton had brought her.

When Mr. Hammerton arose, Mr. Wadsworth went to the door with him to look out into the night; Tessa said good night and went up-stairs; the sleepy head upon the book did not stir.

"I never can find a constellation," remarked Mr. Wadsworth. "Tessa is always laughing at me."

"Step out and see if I can help you."

They moved to the end of the piazza leaving the door wide open; the sleepy brown eyes opened with a start--was she listening to words that she should not hear?

Mr. Hammerton had surely said "Dinah." And now her father was saying--was she dreaming still?--"Take her, and God bless you both. I have nothing better to hope for my darling. She will make you a good wife."

"Let it remain a secret I want her to love me without any urging. She must love me because I am necessary to her and not merely because I love her."

Could Tessa have heard his voice, she would never again have accused him of coldness.

"I shall have to wait--I expect an increase of salary. I am not sure that she thinks of me otherwise than as a grown-up brother--but I will bide my time. I know this--at least I think I do--that she does not care for any one else."

"I am sure of that," said her father's voice. "You do not know how you have taken a burden from me, my son! I have _hoped_ for this." Startled little Dinah arose and fled.

She would never tell, no, not even Tessa; but how could she behave towards him as if she did not know?

"Tessa, did you ever have a secret to keep?"

"Yes. Laura told me once that she had a gold dollar and I've never told until this minute."

"But this is a wonderful, beautiful, happy secret; the wonderfulest and beautifulest thing in the world. And I shall never, never tell. You will never know until you discover it yourself."

"I want to know something to be glad of."

"You will be glad of this. As glad as glad can be. It is rather funny that neither of us ever guessed; and you are quick to see things, too."

"Perhaps I _do_ know, pretty sister."

"No, you don't. I should have seen in your manner. Perhaps I dreamed it; or perhaps an angel came and told me. It is good enough for an angel to tell."

"'Good tidings every day, God's messengers ride fast.'"

repeated Tessa.

"Tessa," with her face turned away, "do you like Gus very much?"

"Do I like _you_ very much? I should just as soon think of your asking me that."

"Better than Felix or Mr. Towne or Dr. Lake, or any of the ten thousand young men in Dunellen?"

"Why, Dine, what ails you? Are you asking my advice? He hasn't been making love to my little sister, has he?"

"No," said Dinah, "I wonder if he knows how. Daisy Grey's father is dead. There will have to be a new Greek professor at the Seminary. She liked her father."

XII.--GOOD ENOUGH TO BE TRUE.

The afternoon sun was shining down hot on the head of the soldier on his tall pedestal in the Park; he stood leaning on his gun, his eyes intently peering from under the broad visor of his cap; at his feet a group of children were playing soldiers marching to the war; at the pump, several yards distant, a small boy was pumping for the others to drink, a tall boy was lifting the rusty dipper to his lips while a ragged little girl was wistfully awaiting her turn; nurses in white caps were rolling infants' chaises along the smooth, wide paths; ladies in shopping attire were sauntering with brown parcels in their hands; half-grown boys were lolling on the green benches with cigars and lazy words in their mouths; girls in twos and threes were strolling along with linked arms mingling gay talk with gay laughter; in the arbor seven little girls and three little boys were playing school: a little boy who stammered was trying to spell Con-stan-ti-no-ple, a rosy child in white was noisily repeating "Thirty days hath September," a black-eyed boy was shouting "The boy stood on the burning deck," and a naughty child was being vigorously scolded by the teacher, who held a threatening willow switch above her head. "You are the dreadfulest child that ever breathed," she was declaring. "You are the essence of stupidity, you are the dumbest of the dumb."

A serious voice arrested the willow switch: "I didn't like to be scolded when I was a little girl, it used to make me cry."

The willow switch dropped; the various recitations came to a sudden pause. "But she is such a dreadful bad girl," urged the teacher.

Tessa Wadsworth lingered with her reticule, three parcels, a parasol, and _Sartor Resartus_ in her hands.

"_You_ come and be teacher and tell us a story," coaxed the naughty child.

But Tessa laughed and moved on, to be stopped, however, by a quick call. "Tessa Wadsworth! I declare that you are a pedestrian."

The voice belonged to a pair of blue eyes, and a slight figure in drab.

"Well, now that you have caught me what will you have?"