Chapter 19

A Departure And A Return

The next day poor Aunt Mary had to undergo the ordeal of being obliged to turn her face away from all those joys which had so suddenly and brilliantly altered the hues of life for her. It pretty nearly used her up. She took her reviving decoction with tears standing in her eyes,—and sat down the glass with a bursting sigh. “My, but I wish I knew when I’d be taking any more of this?” she said to Janice.

“Oh, you’ll come back to the city some day,” said the maid hopefully.

“Come back!” said Aunt Mary. “Well, I should say that I would come back! Why—I—?” she stopped suddenly, “never mind,” she said after a minute, “only you’ll see that I’ll come back. Pretty surely—pretty positively.”

Janice was folding her dresses into the small trunk. Aunt Mary contemplated the green plaid waist with an air of mournful reflection.

“I believe I’ll always keep that waist rolled away,” she murmured. “I shall like to shake it out once in a while to remind me of things.”

“Hand me my purse,” she said to the maid five minutes afterwards. “Here’s twenty-five dollars an’ I want you to take it and get anythin’ you like with it.”

“But that’s too much,” Janice cried, putting her hands behind her and shaking her head.

“Take it,” said Aunt Mary imperiously; “you’re well worth it.”

“I don’t like to—truly,” said the girl.

“Take it,” said Aunt Mary sternly.

So Janice took it and thanked her.

The train went about 4 p.m., and it seemed wise to give the traveller a quiet luncheon in her own room and rally her escort afterwards.

When she had eaten and drank she sighed again and thoughtfully folded her napkin.

“I’ve had a nice time,” she said, gazing fixedly out of the window. “I’ve had a nice time, and I guess those young men have enjoyed it, too. I rather think my bein’ here has given them a chance to go to a good many places where they’d never have thought of goin’ alone. I’m pretty sure of it.”

Janice made no reply.

“But it’s all over now,” said Aunt Mary with something that sounded suspiciously like a sob in her voice, “an’ I haven’t got only just one consolation left an’ that’s—” again she paused.

Janice carried the tray away and the next minute they all burst in bearing their parting gifts in their arms.

The gifts were an indiscriminate collection of flowers, candy, magazines, books, etc.

Aunt Mary opened her closet door and showed the four dressing-cases. Everyone but Jack was mightily surprised and everyone was mightily pleased. The room looked like Christmas, and the faces, too.

“I shall die with my head on the hair brush,” Clover declared, and Mitchell went down on his knees and kissed Aunt Mary’s hand.

“You must all come an’ see me if you ever go anywhere near,” said the old lady. “Now promise.”

“We promise,” they yelled in unison, and then they asked in beautiful rhythm “What’s the matter with Aunt Mary?” and yelled the answer “She’s all right!” with a fervor that nearly blew out the window.

“I declare,” Aunt Mary exclaimed, as the echoes settled back among the furniture, “when I think of Lucinda seems as if—” she paused; further speech was for the nonce impossible.

“The carriages are ready,” Janice announced at the door, and from then until they reached the train all was confusion and bustle.

Only the train whistle could drown the farewells which they poured into her ear-trumpet, and when they could hover in her drawing-room no longer they stood outside the window as long as the window was there to stand outside of. And then they watched it until it was out of sight, and after that turned solemnly away.

“By grab!” said Burnett, “I think she ought to leave us _all_ fortunes. I never was so completely done up in my life.”

“My throat’s blistered,” said Clover feebly; “I’m going to stand on my head and gargle with salve until my throat’s healed.”

“I shall never shine on the team again,” said Mitchell. “I shall hire out for bleacher work. He who has successfully conversed with Aunt Mary need not fear to attack a Wagner Opera single-handed.”

Jack did not say anything. His heart was athirst for Mrs. Rosscott.

She was back in her own library the next night, and he rushed thither as soon as his first day’s labor was over. She was prettier and her eyes were sweeter and brighter than ever as she rose to meet him and held out—first one hand, and then both. He took the one hand and then the two and the longing that possessed him was so overwhelming that only his acute consideration for all she was to him kept him from taking more yet.

“And the week’s over,” she said, when she had dragged her fingers out of his and gone and nestled down upon the divan, among the pillows that rivaled each other in their attempts to get closer to her, “the week’s all over and our aunt is gone.”

“Yes,” he said, rolling his favorite chair up near to her seat, “all is over and well over.”

She smiled and he smiled too.

“She must have enjoyed it,” she said thoughtfully.

“Enjoyed it!” said Jack. “She won’t like Paradise in comparison.”

“And you’ve been a good boy,” said Mrs. Rosscott, regarding him merrily. “You’ve played your part well.”

He rose to his feet and put his hand to his temple.

“I salute my general,” he said. “I was well trained in the maneuver.”

“It’s odd,” said Mrs. Rosscott thoughtfully. “It was really so simple. We are only women after all, whether it is I—or Aunt Mary—or all the rest of the world. We do so crave the knowledge that someone cares for us—for our hours—for our pleasures. It isn’t the bonbons—it’s that someone troubled to buy the bonbons because he thought that they would please us.”

“Doesn’t a man have the same feeling?” Jack asked. “It isn’t the tea we come for—it’s the knowledge that someone bothers to make it and sugar it and cream it.”

“I wasn’t laughing,” said she.

“I wasn’t laughing either,” said he.

“But it’s true,” she went on, “and I think the solution of many unhappy puzzles lies there. Don’t forget if you ever have a wife to pay lots of attention to her.”

“I always have paid lots of attention to her, haven’t I?” he demanded.

Mrs. Rosscott shook her head.

“We won’t discuss that,” she said. “We’ll stick to Aunt Mary. Aunt Mary is a rock whose foundation is firm; when it comes to your relations toward other women—” she stopped, shrugging her shoulders, and he understood.

“But it’s going to come out all right now, I’m sure,” she went on after a minute, “and I’m so glad—so very glad—that the chance was given to me to right the wrong that I was the cause of.”

He looked at her and his eyes almost burned, they were so strong in their leaping desire to fling himself at her feet and adore her goodness and sweetness and worldliness and wisdom from that vantage-ground of worship.

She choked a little at the glance and put her hands together in her lap with a quick catching at self-control.

“And now the fun’s all over and the work begins,” she said, looking down.

“I know that,” he asseverated.

She lifted up her eyes and looked at him so very kindly. And then—after a little pause to gain command of word and thought she spoke again, slowly.

“Listen,” she said, this time very softly, but very seriously. “I want to tell you one thing and I want to tell it to you now. I had a good and sufficient reason for helping you out with Aunt Mary; but—” She hesitated.

“But?” he asked.

“But I’ve no reason at all for helping your Aunt Mary out with you, unless you prove worthy of her, and—”

“And?”

She looked at him, and shook her head slightly.

“I won’t say ‘and of me,’” she said finally.

“Why not?” he asked, a storm of tempestuous impatience raging behind his lips. “Do say it,” he pleaded.

“No, I can’t say it. It wouldn’t be right. I don’t mean it, and so I won’t say it. I’ll only tell you that I can promise nothing as things are, and that unless you go at life from now on with a tremendous energy I never shall even dream of a possible promising.”

He rose to his feet and towered above her, tall and straight and handsome, and very grave.

“All right,” he said simply. “I’ll remember.”

Ever so much later that evening he rose to bid her good-night.

“Whatever comes, you’ve been an angel to me,” he said in that hasty five seconds that her hand was his.

“Shall I ever regret it?” she asked, looking up to his eyes.

“Never,” he declared earnestly, “never, never. I can swear that, and I shall be able to swear the same thing when I’m as old as my Aunt Mary.”

Mrs. Rosscott lowered her eyes.

“Who could ask more?” she said softly.

“I could,” said Jack—“but I’ll wait first.”