Chapter X: Part 10

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.

"This room is full of Philip and Cousin Ralph," Sarepta had said; "his picture is but one of the things in it and in this house to remind me of Cousin Ralph."

"Sarepta breathes Philip," her mother replied.

"We are twin spirits like Blaise and Jacqueline Pascal. Do you know about them, Tessa?"

"I know that he was a monk and she a nun."

"That is like me, and not like Philip," said Miss Sarepta; "he shall not be a monk because I am a nun!"

"His wife will be jealous enough of you, though," said Mrs. Towne; "not a mail comes that he does not send you something. How would she like that?"

"Philip could not love any one that would come between us. Tessa, do you admire my brother as much as I wish you to do?"

"I admire him exceedingly," said Tessa, looking up from her twenty-fifth block of the basket quilt; "he is my ideal. I knew that I had found my ideal as soon as I saw him; I did not wait to hear him speak."

And that he was her ideal she became more and more assured, for in February he spent a week at home and she had opportunity to study him at all hours and in any hour of the day. He had lost his fancied resemblance to Dr. Towne, or _she_ had lost it in thinking of him as only himself. The long talks, during which she sat, at Miss Sarepta's side, on a foot cushion, work in hand, the basket blocks, or some more fanciful work for Miss Sarepta, she remembered afterward as one of the times in her life in which she _grew_. She told Miss Sarepta that she and her brother were like the men and women that St. Paul in his Epistles sent his love to. "He ought to marry a saint like Madame Guyon; I think that it would be easier to revere him as a saint than to marry him. I can't imagine any woman forgiving him, or loving him because he _needs_ her love; he stands so far above me, I could never think of him as at my side and sometimes saying, 'Help me, Tessa,' or, 'What do _you_ think?'"

"Now we know your ideal of marriage," laughed Mrs. Towne. "Philip is a good boy, but he sometimes needs looking after."

"Stockings and shirt buttons!"

"And other things, too. He is forgetful, and he's rather careless. How much he is taken up with that reading class!"

"In a monkish way," smiled Miss Sarepta. "He was full of enthusiasm about Ralph, too, mother."

"How is it, Miss Tessa, do you admire Dr. Towne as much as you do St. Philip?" inquired the old lady with good-humored sarcasm.

"He is not a saint," said Tessa, "he needs looking after in several matters besides stockings and shirt buttons."

"Philip talks about him! What is it that he says he is, Sarepta?"

"In his profession just what he expected that he would be,--quick, quiet, gentle, sympathetic, patient, persevering; he has thrown himself into it heart and soul. Philip used to wonder if he would ever find his vocation; his life always had a promise of good things--"

"But he was slow about it; not quick like Philip; he should have begun practice ten years ago. What has he been doing all this time?"

"We can see the fruit of his doing, mother; it does not much matter as to the doing itself. Don't you know that six years are given to the perfecting even of a beetle?"

"I don't know about beetles and things; I know that I used to think that my boy would outstrip Lydia's boy."

"Mother! mother!" laughed Sarepta, "you mind earthly things. I shall never run a race with anybody. Can't you be a little proud of me?"

Sarepta Towne had her brother's eyes, but her hair was brighter, with not one silver thread among its short curls; her fair, fresh face was certainly ten years younger than his. In summer her wrappers were of white; in winter she kept herself a bird in gay plumage; always the singing-bird, in white or crimson. When Philip Towne said "My sister," his voice and eyes said "My saint."

Once, after a silence, Tessa asked about her "Shut-ins." "How did it come into your heart at first?"

"It is a long story; first tell me what your heart has been about. It has been painting your eyes darker and darker."

"It is a very foolish heart then; it was only repeating something that I learned once and did not then understand. I do not know that I can say it correctly, but it is like this:

"'God's generous in giving, say I,
And the thing which he gives, I deny
That He ever can take back again.
He gives what He gives: be content.
He resumes nothing given; be sure.
God lend? where the usurers lent
In His temple, indignant He went
And scourged away all those impure.
He lends not, but gives to the end,
As He loves to the end. If it seem
That He draws back a gift, comprehend
'Tis to add to it rather, amend
And finish it up to your dream.'"

"Well?" said Miss Sarepta.

"Once,--a long time ago, it seems now,--He gave me something; it was love for somebody; and then He took it--or I let it go, because it was too much trouble to keep it; I did not like His gift, it hurt too much; I was glad to let it go, and yet I missed it so; I was not worthy such a perfect gift as a love that could be hurt in loving; I could love as I loved all beauty and goodness and truth, but when I found that love must hold on and endure, must hope and believe, must suffer shame and loss, I gave it up. God was generous in giving; He gave me all I could receive, and when He would have given me more, I shrank away from His giving and said, 'It hurts too much. I am too proud to take love or give love if I must be made humble first. I wanted to give like a queen, not stooping from my full height, and I wanted to give to a king: instead, I was asked to give--just like any common mortal to another common mortal, and that after we had misinterpreted and misunderstood each other, and I had written hard things of him all over my heart, and what he had thought me, nobody knows but himself! And now I think, if I will, that I may have the love again finished up to my dream; finished above any thing that I knew how to ask or think, and it is altogether too good and perfect a gift for me; so good that I can not keep it, I must needs give it away."

Tessa had told her story with quickened breath, not once lifting the eyes that were growing darker and darker.

Miss Sarepta's "thank you" held all the appreciation that Tessa wished.

"And now," after another silence, for these two loved silences together, "you want to know about my dear Shut-ins. Philip named them from the words, 'And the Lord shut him in.' It began one day when I was sitting alone thinking! I am often sitting alone thinking; but this day I was thinking sad thoughts about my useless, idle life, and I had planned my life to be such a busy life. There was nothing that I could do to help along; I had to sit still and be helped; and I shouldn't wonder if I cried a little. That was five years ago, we were living in the city then; in the middle of my bemoanings and my tears, I spied the postman crossing the street. How Philip laughed when I told him that I loved that postman better than any man in all the world! That day he brought me several lovely things: one of them a book from Cousin Ralph, and a letter from Aunt Lydia; that letter is the beginning of my story. She told me about a little invalid that she had found and suggested that I should write one of my charming letters to her. Of course you know that I write charming letters! So I wiped away my naughty tears and wrote the charming letter! In a few days, my hero, the postman, brought the reply. That was my first Shut-in letter. Bring me the album, I will show you Susie."

Tessa brought it and Miss Sarepta opened it on her lap to an intelligent, serious, sweet face.

"She has not taken a step for many years; she is among the youngest of many children; her great love is love for children, she teaches daily thirteen little ones. The one thing in her life that strikes me is her _faithfulness_. There is nothing too little for her to be faithful in. One of her great longings used to be for letters; oh, if the postman would only bring her a letter! For a year or two I wrote every week, the longest, brightest, most every-day letters I could think of. And one day it came to me that if _we_ had such a good time together, why should we not find some other to whom a letter or a book would be as a breath of fresh air. I pondered the matter for a month or two, but I couldn't advertise for an invalid, and none of my friends knew of any. One morning I glanced through a religious paper, and tossed it aside, then something moved me to pick it up again, and there she was! The one I sought! That was Elsie. Look at her pale, patient face. For fourteen years she has lived in one room. And hasn't she the brightest, most grateful, happiest heart that ever beat in a frail body or a strong one? Her poems are graceful little things; I will show you some of them. She had been praying six months for a helpful friend, when she received my first letter. Her letters are gems. You shall read a pile of them. And she had a Shut-in friend, to whom I must write, of course. She is Mabel. I have no picture of her. When she was well, they called her the laughing girl; she has lain eleven years in bed!"

"Oh, dear me!" sighed Tessa.

"Don't sigh, child. She writes in pencil as she can not lift her head. I call her my sunbeam. She often dates her letters 'In my Corner.' So another year went on with my three Shut-ins. I forgot to cry about my folded hands and useless life. One day it came into my mind to write a sketch and call it, 'Our Shut-in Society'; to write all about Mabel and Elsie and Sue, and send it to the paper in which I had found Elsie's first article.

"And that sketch! How it was read! I received letters from north, south, east, and west concerning it. Was there really such a society, and were there such happy people as Mabel, Elsie, and Susie? One who had not spoken aloud for fourteen years would love to write to them; another who had locked her school-room door one summer day, and come home to rest, had been forced to rest through eight long years, and was so lonely, with her sisters married and away; another, quite an old man, who had lain for six years in the loft of an old log-cabin, was eager for a word or a paper. How his letter touched us all! 'The others have letters, but when the mail comes naught comes to me,' he wrote. But you will be tired of hearing my long story; you shall see their letters; you must see Delle's letters; she sits all day in a wheelchair, and has no hope of ever taking a step; she has a mother and a little boy; the brightest little boy! Her poems have appeared in some of our best periodicals; we are something beside a band of sufferers, Miss Tessa; some of us are literary! My most precious letters are from Elizabeth; her fiftieth birthday came not long since; for ten years her home has been in one room; she has written a book that the Shut-ins cry over.

"And oh, we have a prisoner! A Shut-in shut up in state's prison. A young man with an innocent, boyish face; he ran away from home when he was a child and ran into state's prison because no one cared what became of him. His letters are unaffected and grateful; he does want to be a good boy! Thirty-six are on my list now; I would find more if I had strength to write more; some of them have more and some less than I; many of them have Shut-ins that I know nothing about. We remember each other on holidays and birthdays! The things that postmen and country mail-carriers have in their mail-bags are funny to see: flower seeds, bits of fancy work, photographs, pictures, any thing and every thing!

"They all look forward to mail-time through the night and through the day.

"And, speaking humanly, my share in it, all I receive and the little I give, came out of my self-bemoanings and tears; my longing to be a helper in some small way!

"Now if you want to help me, you may cut some blocks of patch-work for me. One of the Shut-ins is making a quilt to leave as a memorial to her daughter, and I want to send my contribution to the mail to-night; and you may direct several papers for me, and cover that book, 'Thoughts for Weary Hours.' I press you into my service, you see."

"Miss Sarepta, I am ashamed."

"Shame is an evidence of something; go on."

"I am ashamed that I am such a dreamer."

"Philip says that you are a dreamer."

"I care for my writing."

"Mowers work while they whet their scythes," quoted Miss Sarepta.

XXV.--BLUE MYRTLE.

In March, Tessa found myrtle in bloom, and took a handful of the blue blossoms mingled with sprays of the green leaves to Miss Sarepta.

"Spring has come," she said dropping them on the open book in Miss Sarepta's lap.

"If spring has come, then I must lose you."

"Every hand that I know in Dunellen is beckoning me homewards; my winter's work is done."

That evening--it was the sixth of March, that date ever afterward was associated with blue myrtle and Nan Gerard--she was sitting at the table writing letters; in the same chair and at the same place at the table where Dinah had written her letter about Gus and her wonderful John; Aunt Theresa was knitting this evening also, and Uncle Knox was asleep in a chintz-covered wooden rocker with the big cat asleep on his knees.

She had written a letter to Mabel and one to Elsie, lively descriptive letters, making a picture of Miss Sarepta's book-lined, picture-decorated, flower-scented room and a picture of Miss Sarepta, also touching lightly upon her own breezy out-of-door life with its hard work and its beautiful hopes. The third letter was a sheet to Mrs. Towne; the sentence in ending was one that Mrs. Towne had been eagerly and anxiously expecting all through the winter: "My ring reminds me of my promise; a promise that I shall keep some day, perhaps."

"Tessa, are you unhappy, child?" asked Aunt Theresa with a knitting needle between her lips.

"Unhappy! Why, auntie, what am I doing?"

The tall lamp with its white china shade stood between them. Aunt Theresa took the knitting needle from its place of safety and counted fourteen stitches before she replied.

"Sighing! When young people sigh, something must ail them. What do _you_ have to be miserable about?"

"I am not miserable."

"Tell me, what are you miserable about?"

"Sometimes--I am not satisfied--that is all."

"I should think that that was enough. What are you dissatisfied about? Haven't you enough to eat and to drink and clothes enough to wear? Haven't you a good father and mother who wouldn't see you want for any thing? What is it that you haven't enough of, pray?"

"I do not know that I am wishing for any thing--to night. I am learning to wait."

"Yes, you are! You are wishing for something that isn't in this world, I know."

"Then I'll find it in heaven."

"People don't sigh after heaven as a usual thing. You read too many books, that's what's the matter with you. Reading too many books affects different people in different ways; I've seen a good deal of girls' reading."

Tessa's pen was scribbling initials on a half sheet of paper.

"I know the symptoms. Some girls when they read love-stories become dissatisfied with their looks; they look into the glass and worry over their freckles or their dark skins, or their big mouths or turn-up noses; they fuss over their waists and try to squeeze them slim and slender, and they cripple themselves squeezing their number four feet into number two shoes. But you are not that kind. And some girls despise their fathers and mothers because they can't speak grammar and pronounce long words, and because they say 'care' for carry and 'empt' for empty! And they despise their homes and their plain, substantial furniture. But you are not that kind either. Your face is well enough, and your father and mother are well enough, and your home is well enough."

Tessa was scribbling Dunellen, then she wrote R. T. and Nan Gerard.

"And you are not sighing for a lordly lover," continued Aunt Theresa, with increasing energy "You don't want him to wear a cloak or carry a sword. Your trouble is different! You read a higher grade of love-stories, about men that are honorable and true, who would die before they would tell a lie or say any thing that isn't so. They are as gentle as zephyrs; they would walk over eggs and not crack them; they are always thinking of something new and startling and deep that it can't enter a woman's mind to conceive, and their faces have different expressions enough in one minute to wear one ordinary set of muscles out; and they never think of themselves, they would burn up and not know it, because they were keeping a fly off of somebody else; they are so high and mighty and simple and noble that an angel might take pattern by them. And that is what troubles you. You read about such fine fellows and shut the book and step out into life and break your heart because the real, mannish man, who is usually as good as human nature and all the grace he has got will help him be, isn't so perfect and noble as this perfect man that somebody has made out of his head. You can't be satisfied with a real human man who thinks about himself and does wrong when it is too hard to do right, even if he comes on his bended knees and says he's sorry and that he'll never do such a thing again. You want to love somebody that you are proud of; you are too proud to love somebody that is as weak as you are. And so you can't be satisfied at all! Why _must_ you be satisfied?"

"Why should I not be?"

"For the best reason in the world; to be satisfied in any man, in his love for you and in your love for him, would be--do you know what it would be? It would be idolatry."

Aunt Theresa's attention was given to her knitting; she did not see the shining of Tessa's eyes.

"Be satisfied with God, child, and take all the happiness you can get."

Tessa's pen was making tremulous capitals.

"Be satisfied _with_, if you can, but not _in_, some good man who stumbles to-day and stands straight to-morrow; I fought it out on that line once, and so I know all about it."

This then was the experience that Dr. Towne had said that she must ask for; had he guessed that it would be altogether on his side?

This was it, and this was all. Uncle Knox's old eyes had a look for his old wife that they never held for any other living thing, and as for Aunt Theresa, how often had Tessa thought, "I want to grow old and love somebody the way you do."

_Might_ she be satisfied with God and love Ralph Towne all she wanted to?

"Why, Theresa," exclaimed Uncle Knox, opening his eyes and staring at his wife, "I haven't heard you talk so much sentiment for thirty years."

"And you will not in another thirty years. But Tessa was in a tangle--I know eggs when I see the shells--and I had to help her out."

A tap at the window brought Tessa to her feet. A neighbor had brought the mail; she took the papers and letters with a most cordial "thank you" and came to the table with both hands full. The papers she opened and glanced through; the letters she took up-stairs to read. The business-looking envelope she opened first; she read it once, twice, then gave an exclamation of delight. Oh, how pleased her father would be! Her manuscript had given such perfect satisfaction that, although written for pictures, the pictures would be discarded and new ones made to illustrate her story. Gus would congratulate her, and Miss Jewett; this appreciation by the publisher was the crown that the winter's work would always wear for her. With a long breath, she sighed, "Oh, what a blessed winter this has been to me!"

The long, white envelope was from Mrs. Towne, the chocolate from Sue, the cream-colored from Dinah, the pale blue from Miss Jewett, the pink from Nan Gerard, and the square white from Laura Harrison. Mr. Hammerton had not once written; a kind message through her father or Dinah was all evidence he had given of remembrance. Mrs. Towne's letter was opened before the others. What would Dine or Miss Jewett or Laura think of this? The faint perfume was the lady herself, so real was her presence that Tessa felt her arms about her as she read.

"Sue does not come to me as often as in the winter," she wrote; "the Gesners, one and all, are proving themselves more alluring. Miss Gesner will be a good friend to her. If you could hear her laugh and talk, you would think of her as Sue Greyson and never as the widowed Mrs. Lake. She is Dr. Lake's widow, certainly she is not his wife. Ralph growls about it in his kind way, but I think that he did not expect any thing deeper from her. Nan Gerard was with me all day yesterday; she was as sweet and shy as a wild flower. Nan's heart is awake. Am I a silly old woman? I dream of you every night. I would be a washer-woman and live in Gesner's Row, if I might have you for my daughter, never to leave me. Now I _am_ a silly old woman and I will go to bed."

The perfumed sheet was passed to the reader's lips before the next envelope was torn open.

Dinah's letter was a sheet of foolscap; it was written as a diary.

The first entry was merely an account of attending a concert with John; the second stated in a few strong words the failure of a bank. Old Mr. Hammerton had lost a large amount of money and had had a stroke of paralysis.

The third contained the history of a call from Sue; how tall and elegant she looked in her rich mourning, and how she had talked about her courtship and marriage all the time.

The fourth day their father had had an attack of pain, but it had not lasted as long as usual.

The last page was filled in Dine's eager, story-telling style:

"Just to think, Tessa, now I know the end of my romance. It was dark last night just before tea, and I went into the front hall for something that I wanted to get out of the hat-stand drawer. The sitting-room door stood slightly ajar; I did not know that Gus was with father until I heard his voice. I did not listen, truly I did not; after I heard the first sentence I didn't dare stir for fear of making my presence known. I moved off as easily and swiftly as I could, but I heard every word as plainly as if I had been in the room. It is queer that I should overhear the beginning and the ending of poor Gus's only romance, isn't it? I heard him say, 'Every thing is changed in my plans; father is left with nothing but his good name, my mother is aged and feeble, my sister is a widow with a child; _her_ money is gone, too. I am the sole support of four people. I could not marry, even if I desired to do so. And since I have definitely learned that she does not think of me, and never has thought of me, and that she thinks of some one else, the bachelor's life will be no great hardship.'

"I had got to the parlor door by that time, so, of course, I never can know father's answer. But isn't it dreadful? I suppose that he is over the disappointment, for his voice sounded as cool as usual; too cold, I thought. I should have liked him better if he had been in a flutter. I shall never tell any body but John. Poor old, wise old, dear old Gus! He will pursue the even tenor of his unmarried way, and no one will ever guess that he has had a romance. Perhaps Felix Harrison has had one, too. Perhaps every body has."

So it _was_ Dinah, after all. And she had fought her long, hard fights all for nothing.

It _was_ Dine, and now her father would understand; he would not think her blind and stupid; he would not be disappointed that she had not chosen his choice!

And that it was herself that Gus Hammerton had loved, the wife of John Woodstock always believed. And that it was herself, Tessa never knew; for not knowing that he had stood at the window that night that Dr. Towne had brought her home, and witnessed their parting at the gate, how could she divine that "definitely learned that she does not think of me," had referred to her?

Mr. Wadsworth had listened in utter bewilderment, recalling Tessa's repeated declaration that it was Dinah. "I _am_ in my dotage," he thought; "for I certainly understood that he said Tessa."

"My wish was with your wish," he said.

"She will be better satisfied," Mr. Hammerton answered in his most abrupt tone. "He is a fine man; I can understand his attraction for her."

Mrs. Wadsworth entered at that instant and the conversation was too fraught with pain to both ever to be resumed; therefore it fell out that Mr. Hammerton was the only one in the world who ever knew, beyond a perhaps, which of the sisters he had asked of the father.