Chapter IX: Part 9

"All about her invalids, I suppose. _Shut-ins_ she calls them! Invalids are her mania; she had thirty-five on her list at her last writing; she finds them north, south, east, and west."

"Dine loves to hear about them; Miss Towne gives her some of their letters to read to Aunt Theresa. Dine runs over every morning to hear about last night's mail. I am looking forward to my good times with her if she will be as good to me as she is to my little sister."

"She is looking forward to you; your sister's enthusiasm never flags when she may talk of you."

The talk drifted into books; Mr. Hammerton drew nearer, his questions and apt replies added zest to the conversation; Tessa mentally decided that he was more original than the Professor; the Professor's questions were good, but no one in all _her_ world could reply like Gus Hammerton; she was proud of him to-night with a feeling of ownership; in loving Dine, had he not become as near as a brother to her?

This feeling of ownership was decidedly pleasant; with it came a safe, warm feeling that she was taken care of; that she had a right to be taken care of and to be proud of him. No one in the world, the most keen-eyed student of human nature, could ever have guessed that he was suffering from a heartache; he had greeted her with the self-possession of ten years ago, had inquired about the "folks at home," and asked if Dine were up in the clouds still. Could Dine have made a mistake? Had she dreamed it?

Professor Towne moved away to go to Nan Gerard; Tessa listened to Mr. Hammerton, he was telling her about a discovery in science, and half comprehending and not at all replying she watched Professor Towne's countenance and motions. She could hear about this discovery some other time, but she might not have another opportunity to study the Professor. He was her lesson to-night. As he talked, she decided that he did not so much resemble his cousin as her first glance had revealed; his voice was resonant, his manner more courteous; he was not at all the "big boy," he was dignified, frank, and yet reserved; simple, at times, as his sister might be, and cultured, far beyond any thing she had ever thought of in regard to Dr. Towne; he was as intellectual as Gus Hammerton, as gracious as Felix Harrison, with as much heart as Dr. Lake, a physical presence as fascinating as Dr. Towne, and as pure-hearted and spiritualized as only himself could be. She had found her ideal at last. She had found him and was scrutinizing him as coolly and as critically as if he were one of the engravings in the book in her lap. She would never find a flaw in him; when she wrote her novel he should be her hero.

"Why, doctor! Have the skies fallen? Did you hear that we were all taken with convulsions?"

Nan Gerard's laugh followed this; the doctor's reply was cool and commonplace.

"What is the title of your book?" Mr. Hammerton was asking. "'Hepsey's Heartache?' 'Jennie's Jumble?' 'Dora's Distress?' 'Fannie's Fancy?' or it may be 'Up Top or Down Below,' 'Smashed Hopes or Broken Idols.'"

"I will not answer you if you are not serious."

"I thought that young ladies gloried in sentiment."

She turned the leaves of her book.

"Lady Blue, I can not be a just critic; I can not take a sentimental standpoint; you take it naturally and truly; you are right to do so; it is your mission, your calling, your election. Do not think that I despise sentiment and the ideal world of feeling--"

"You know that I do not think that," she interrupted earnestly.

"These questions of feeling can not be tackled like a problem in mathematics, and an answer given in cold, clear cut, adequate words; such a problem I like to tackle; such an answer I like to give; but these sentimental questions in 'Blighted Hopes' are many sided, involved, and curvilinear; they are for the theologian, metaphysician, and mystic. What can you and I say about life's hard questions after Ecclesiastes and Job?"

"Then you think I am presuming?"

"Did I not just say that sentiment is your mission? The story of each human life has a pathos of its own, and each is an enigma of which God only knows the solution."

She colored and dropped her eyes; he did not dream that she knew any thing of the "pathos" in his life. How kind she would be to him!

"You are living your solution; perhaps you will help me to find mine."

"I can't imagine any one in the world knowing you well enough to be of any help to you."

"Very likely; but I am not on a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, crowned with a diadem of snow!"

"It's a little bit warm at the foot of Mount Blanc," she replied laughing.

"Then you shall live at the foot."

"Dine and I," she answered audaciously.

"Not Dine! She has gone away from us; she would rather listen to a love-ditty from the lips of her new acquaintance than a volume of sober sense from us."

"I had not thought to be jealous. She is not taking any thing from me."

"Be careful; never tell her any thing again; if you write to her that Mary wears a black silk to-night, and that Nan has geranium leaves in her hair, she will run and tell him. She will never keep another secret for you."

Tessa looked grave. She never would be supreme in her little sister's heart again. Perhaps this evening she had arrayed herself in garnet and gone with him to the mite society, and was laughing and playing games, fox and geese, or ninepins, in somebody's little whitewashed parlor, forgetting that such a place as Dunellen was down upon the map.

"Gus, we want you," said Mary Sherwood, approaching them. "The girls are having a quarrel about who wrote something; now, go and tease them to your heart's content."

"Wrote what?" asked Tessa.

"Oh, I don't know. Why are you so still? You are sitting here as stately and grand and pale and intellectual--one must be pale to look intellectual, I suppose--as if you had written _Middlemarch_. I thought that you never went home without a separate talk with every person in the room, and there you sit like a turtle in a shell. What change has passed over the spirit of your dream?"

"I feel quiet; I feel as if I were afraid that some one would push against me if I should attempt to cross the room."

Mary was called away and she drew herself into her sofa corner; the two long rooms were crowded; bright colors were flashing before her eyes, the buzz and hum of merry talk filled her ears; a black silk in contrast with a gray or blue cashmere; a white necktie, a head with drooping curls, a low, fair forehead, a pair of square shoulders in broadcloth, an open mouth with fine teeth, sloping shoulders of gray silk, a slender waist of brown, a coat-sleeve with cuff and onyx cuff-button, a small hand with a diamond on the first finger, and dark marks of needle-pricks on the tip of the same finger, a pearl ear-ring in a red, homely ear;--Tessa's eyes saw them all, as well as the rounded chin, the fretful lip, the humorous lines at the corner of the eye, the manner that was frank and the manner that was intended to be, the lips that were speaking truth and the lips that were dissembling, the eyes that were contented and the eyes that were missing something--a word, perhaps, or a little attention, the eyes that brightened when some one approached, the eyes that dropped because some one was talking nonsense to some one else;--it was a rest to dwell upon these things and forget that Dr. Lake was suffering and Sue frightened.

The gentlemen's faces she did not scan; it was fair, matured women like Mrs. Towne and Miss Jewett, and sprightly, sweet girls like Nan Gerard that she loved.

Dr. Towne was hedged in a corner, behind a chair, conversing or seeming to converse with a gentleman; he was not a lady's man, he could not be himself in the presence of a third or fourth person, that is himself, socially; he could be himself professionally under the gaze of the multitude. Tessa smiled, thinking how uncomfortable he must be and how he must wish himself at home. Was he longing for his leisure at Old Place, where, as a society man, nothing was expected of him? Did he regret that he had come out "into the world"? Was the old life in his "den" with his book a dream that he would fain dream again? Perhaps that book that had loomed up before her as containing the wisdom of the ages was not such a grand affair after all? Who had ever thought so beside herself? Who had ever worshipped him as hero and saint beside herself? He was not looking like either, just now, for his face was flushed with the heat of the room and he was standing in a cramped position.

"The bear is in his corner growling," said Nan Gerard bending over her. "How ungracious he can be when he wills. Sometimes he is positively rude to me."

"Is there but one bear?"

"You know well enough whom I mean. I expect that Mrs. Lake is mad enough because she couldn't come! How prettily she makes up; I have seen her when she really looked elegant. Homely girls have a way of looking prettier than the pretty ones. How grave you are! You don't like my nonsense, do you?"

"I was thinking of poor Sue."

"Oh yes; sad, isn't it? She'll be married in less than two years, if he dies, see if she isn't. I can't understand what her attraction is! She has a thousand little airs, perhaps that is it. I am to sleep with you to-night. May I?"

"Thank you," said Tessa warmly, "I am very glad."

"There, the bear is looking at us. He'll be over here; now I'll go over to the piano and see if I can make him follow me; I've had great fun doing that before now--_you_ don't do such things;" Nan shook her curls back with a pretty movement, threw a grave, alluring glance across the heads, and through the lights at the bear, then moved demurely away.

The color touched his eyes; he looked amused and provoked; Tessa saw it while her eyes were busy with the lady in the chair near him; would he follow her? Mr. Hammerton returned.

"'Why, William, on that old gray stone,
Thus for the length of a half a day,
Why, William, sit you thus alone,
And dream the time away?'
Only six ladies have found their way to you in the last half hour; with
what sorcery do you draw them towards you? Tessa," speaking in a grave
tone, "it's a beautiful thing for a woman to be attractive to women!"

"It is a very happy thing."

"Will you go to supper with me or do you prefer to sit on the old gray stone? You once liked to go with me to get rid of poor Harrison; is there any one that you wish to rid yourself of now? In these extremities I am at your service."

"Are you taking me to rid yourself of a pertinacious maiden?"

"No, the girls do not trouble me; I wish they would; if Naughty Nan would only run after me, now--there! there goes Towne; _he's_ after her, I know."

Tessa enjoyed the roguish, demure eyes with which she made room for him at her side, and flashed back a congratulation in return for the little nod of triumph which Nan telegraphed to her.

"You are in league, you two; I can see that with my short-sighted eyes; say, you and he were prime friends once, weren't you?"

"We are now."

"Humph! as they say in books! Why don't _you_ bring him with your eyes, then?"

"What for?" she asked innocently.

"Oh, because he has money; he is a moral and respectable young man, also."

"You are something of a phrenologist; tell me what he is."

"I will not. You will be thinking about him instead of about me."

"I will be thinking of your deep knowledge of human nature, of your unrivalled penetration. Don't you know that a woman likes to hear one man talk about another?"

"But you would not take my opinion, nevertheless."

"True; I prefer my own unless yours confirm mine. Tell me, please, what is he!"

"I have never given him five minutes' thought."

"You know his face; look away from him and think."

"He isn't a genius; but he has brains," replied Mr. Hammerton slowly; "he is very quiet, as quiet as any man you know; he is very gentle, his manner is perfection in a sick room--and nowhere else, I fancy--"

"That's too bad."

"Remember that I do not know him; I am speaking as a phrenologist; I have never been introduced to him. He does not understand human nature, he could live a year under the roof with you or me, particularly you, and not feel acquainted with you; he is shy of women, he never knows whether they are talking sense or nonsense; he is not a lady's man in the least, you may drop your handkerchief and stoop for it, he would never know it."

"Neither would you."

"He can keep a secret, that he can do to perfection. Tell him that you are in love with him and he will never, never tell! He is no musician. Naughty Nan may break her wrists and the keys of the piano, they will not unlock his ears or his heart; he is not fluent in conversation, he states a fact briefly, he answers a question exactly, he has no more to say; but he is a good listener, he does not forget; he is sympathetic, but he does not show it particularly, very few would think that he has any heart at all; I will wager that not two people in the world know him, understand, or can easily approach him; his temper is even, but when he _is_ angry 'beware the fury of a patient man!' He likes to see things orderly; he seldom raises his voice; he is exceedingly deliberate, and while he _is_ deliberating he would do or leave undone many things that he would afterward regret. He will rush into matrimony, or he will be in love for years before he knows it; his temperament is bilious. Now, Lady Blue, have I described a hero fit for a modern romance?"

"No, only a commonplace man. All you have said is literally true."

"He is a _good_ man," said Mr. Hammerton, emphatically. "I mean, good as men go, in these days. Naughty Nan is to be congratulated. Do you not think so?"

"Perhaps," said Tessa doubtfully.

"I believe that he is planning an attack on the citadel under my charge; I will move off, and give him an opportunity; I want to talk to the Professor."

How many years ago was it since Felix had attended one of Mary Sherwood's little parties? Not more than three or four; she remembered how he used to hear her voice in its lightest speaking, how soon he became aware whenever she changed her position; how many times she had raised her eyes to meet his with their fixed, intense gaze; how his eyes would glitter and what a set look would stiffen his lips. And oh, how she had teased him in those days by refusing his eagerly proffered attentions and accepting Gus Hammerton in the matter-of-fact fashion in which he had suggested himself as ever at her service! In all the years she could remember these two, Gus, helpful and friendly, not in the least lover-like (she could as easily imagine the bell on the old Academy a lover), and Felix, poor Felix,--he would always be "poor Felix" now,--with his burning jealousy and intrusive affection.

Was he asleep now, or awake and in pain? Was he lying alone thinking of what he might have been but for his own undisciplined eagerness, not daring to look into the future nights and days, that would be like these, only more helpless, more terrible?

The talk and laughter ran on, her cheeks were hot, her head weary; she longed for a cool pillow and a dark chamber; some one was speaking, she lifted her eyes to reply.

"Miss Tessa, my mother misses you every hour."

"I am very sorry. There is room on my sofa, will you sit down?"

"No. I was too hasty in our last conversation," bending so low that his breath touched her hair, "I come to ask you to reconsider; will you?"

"Do you want such an answer as that would be?"

"That is what I do want; then you will be sure, so sure that you will never change--"

"I am not changeable."

"I think you are; in six months I will come to you again, when shall it be?"

"So long! If you care, the suspense will be very hard for you. I do not like to hurt you so."

"I prefer the six months."

"Well," speaking in her ordinary tone, "do not come to me, wherever I may be--we may both be in the next world by that time--"

"We shall not be so much changed as to forget, shall we?"

"Or not to care? I will write you a letter on the first day of June; I will mail it before ten o'clock."

She laid her hand in his; he held it a moment, neither speaking.

"Oh, you _are_ here," cried a voice.

And she was talking the wildest nonsense in two minutes, with her eyes and cheeks aflame.

At half past one the last guests had departed; Mary paused in a description of somebody's dress and asked Tessa if she would like to go to bed.

"I have always wished to get near to you," said Nan, leading the way up-stairs. "I knew that there was a place in your heart for me to creep into."

Tessa had a way of falling in love with girls; that night she fell in love with Nan Gerard; sitting on the carpet close to the register in a white skirt and crimson breakfast sacque, bending forward with her arms clasping her knees, she told Tessa the story of her life.

Tessa was seated on the bed, still in the black silk she had worn, with a white shawl of Shetland wool thrown around her; she had taken the hair-pins out of the hair and the long braid was brought forward and laid across her bosom reaching far below her waist.

She braided and unbraided the ends of it as Nan talked about last winter and Dr. Towne.

"I like to talk to you; I can trust you, I wouldn't be afraid to tell you any thing; I can not trust Mary, she exaggerates fearfully. I don't mind telling _you_ that I came near falling in love with that handsome black bear; it was only skin deep however; I think that I have lost my attraction for him, whatever it was; I never do take falling in love hard; why, some girls take it as a matter of life and death; I think the reason must be that I can never love any one as I loved Robert. He was a saint. Yes, he was; you needn't look incredulous! I am not sentimental, I am practical and I intend to marry some day. People call me a flirt, perhaps I am, but my fun is very innocent and most delightful.

"I know this: Ralph Towne would not like me if I were the only girl in existence; he wants some one who can think as well as talk; you wouldn't guess it to hear _him_ talk, would you?

"Did you ever see a man who could not talk some kind of nonsense? There's Gus Hammerton, can't he talk splendid nonsense? Some of his nonsense is too deep for me.

"Now, I've been trying an experiment with Dr. Towne, he is such an old bear that I thought it would do no harm; I made up my mind to see if it were possible for a marriageable woman to treat a marriageable man as if he were another woman! I don't know about it though," she added ruefully.

"Has it failed?"

"I think it has--rather. He does not understand--"

"No man would understand."

"I would understand if he would treat me as if I were Nathan instead of Nan; what grand, good friends we could be!"

"I am glad that you can see that it has failed. How do you detect the failure?"

"I have eyes. I know. His mother does not understand either. I think that I shall begin to be more--"

"Maidenly?"

Nan colored. "Was I unmaidenly? I have resolved never to ask him to take me anywhere again; I have made him no end of pretty things, I will do it no more. I would not like to have him lose his respect for me."

"It usually costs something to try an experiment; I am glad that yours has cost you no more."

"So am I, heartily glad. My next shall be of a different nature. Did you never try an experiment?"

"Not of that kind; I tried an experiment once of believing every thing that somebody said, and acting upon it, as if it meant what it would have meant to me."

"And you came to grief?"

"I thought so, at first. Life _is_ a long story, isn't it?"

"It's an interesting one to me. I kept a journal about _my_ experiment; I'll read it to you, shall I?"

"I would like it ever so much if you like _me_ well enough to do it."

"Of course I do," springing up. "And after I read it to you, you shall write the 'final' for me."

In the top drawer of the bureau, she fumbled among neckties, pocket-handkerchiefs, and a collection of odds and ends, and at last, brought out a small, soft-covered, thin book with edges of gilt.

"I named it 'Nan's Experiment,'" she said seriously, reseating herself near the register. "If you wish to listen in comfort, draw that rocker close to me, and take off your boots and heat your feet. If you are in a comfortable position, you will be in a more merciful frame of mind to judge my misdoings."

Tessa obeyed, and leaned back in the cushioned chair, braiding and unbraiding her hair as she listened.

The journal opened with an account of the journey by train to St. Louis. The description of her escort was enthusiastic and girlish in the extreme.

"Is it nonsense?" the reader asked.

"Even if it were, I haven't travelled so far away from those days that I can not understand."

She read with more confidence.

Ralph Towne would have been pleased with the intentness of Tessa's eyes and the softening of her lips.

"You _dear_ Naughty Nan," cried Tessa, as the book fell from the reader's hands.

"Then you do not blame me so much?"

"It is only a mistake. Who does not make a mistake? It sounds rather more than skin-deep, though."

"Oh, I had to throw in a little agony to make it interesting. I don't want him to think--"

"What he thinks is the price you pay for your experiment."

"Now write a last sentence, and I'll keep it forever; the names are all fictitious; no one can understand it; I'll find a pencil."

Tessa held the pencil a moment. Nan on her knees watched her.

"Something that I shall remember all my life--whenever I do a foolish thing--if I ever _do_ again."

"Do you know Jean Ingelow?"

"She is the one Professor Towne reads from?"

"Yes. I will write some words of hers."

The pencil wrote, and Nan, on her knees, read it word by word.

"I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover,
While dear hands are laid on my head;
'The child is a woman, the book may close over,
For all the lessons are said.'

"I wait for my story--the birds can not sing it,
Not one as he sits on the tree;
The bells can not ring it, but long years, O bring it!
Such as I wish it to be."

"Thank you, very much. You write a fine hand. 'Such as I wish it to be?' No one's story is ever that--do you think it ever is?"

"We will do our best to make ours such as we wish it to be."

"Professor Towne is to have a private class in elocution after the holidays, and I'm going to join. He says that I will make a reader. I wish that you would join too."

"I wish I might, but I shall not be at home; I am to spend a part of the winter away."

"Oh, are you? Just as I have found you. But you promise to write to me?"

"Yes, I will write to you; I beg of you not to try any experiments with me," she added laughing.

"Don't be afraid," said Nan, seriously.

"I wish you would make a friend of Miss Jewett; you will be glad of it as long as you live."

"I am doing it; but I don't want _you_ to go away."

"I shall come back some day, childie."

Nan moved nearer, still on her knees, drew Tessa's cheek down to her lips,--her warm, saucy, loving lips,--saying, "My counsellor."

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

She lay in bed wide awake watching the light.

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

The tears dropped slowly on the pillow.

XXI.--THROUGH.

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

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

Her father was very proud of that letter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I never blame any one."

"Father and mother are very polite to John."

"They are never rude to any one."

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

"Am I not always glad about you?"

"Well, about John?"

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

"You think that Gus is every thing."

"I think that he is _enough_."

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

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

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

"There goes Dr. Towne," said Dinah.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sometimes. What are you doing over there?"

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

"Yes, if you will sing to me."

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

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

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

"They are such a bother."

"So are husbands."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I would like _you_, sick or well."

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

"He is very kind."

"As if I _wouldn't_ be gentle!"

"Bring your chair close and sing."

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

"Well, never mind."

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

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

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

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

He lifted her hand to his lips and smiled.

"Now sing."

"What shall I sing?"

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

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

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

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

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

"'Jerusalem the golden.'"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XXII.--SEVERAL OTHER THINGS.

Tessa dropped the curtains, arranged the heavy crimson folds, and lighted the gas.

"I shall do this many times in my imagination before spring," she said. "The curtains in my room, Dine says, are Turkey red, and my gas will be one tall sperm candle. Just about twilight you will feel my ghost stealing in, the curtains will fall, and invisible hands play among them, the jets will start into light, and then the perfume of a kiss will touch your forehead and hair. The perfume shall be that of a pansy or a day-lily, as you prefer."

"I would rather have your material lips; I am not fond of ghostly visitants; I shall feel you always beside me; I shall not forget you even in my sleep."

"You are too kind to me," said Tessa, after a moment, during which she had donned her brown felt hat and buttoned her long brown cloth cloak. The feeble old lady in the arm-chair flushed like a girl under the gratitude of Tessa's eyes; her eyes filled slowly as Tessa came to her and kissed her.

"I am very old womanish about you; it must be because I am not strong; I would never let you go away out of my presence if I could hinder it."

"I want to stay with you; I am never happier than I am in this room; but I must go; it is a promise; and I must go to-morrow. Uncle Knox will meet me at the train with a creaky old buggy and a half-blind white horse; then we shall drive six miles through a flat country with farm-houses scattered here and there to a cunning little village containing one church and one store and about forty dwellings. Our destination is a small house near the end of the principal street where live the most devoted old couple in the world! Aunt Theresa and Uncle Knox are a pair of lovers; it is beautiful to see them together; it is worth travelling across the continent; they never forget each other for an instant, and yet they make no parade of their affection; I am sure that they will both die upon the same day of the same disease. Their life is as lovely as a poem. I have often wondered how they attained it, if it were perfect before they were married or if it _grew_."

She was standing under the chandelier buttoning her gloves, with her earnest face towards the lady in the arm-chair.

"It _grew_," said a voice behind her. Dr. Towne had entered unperceived by either. "Is that all?"

"Isn't that enough?" she asked slightly flushing.

"Yes, I think that it is enough; but I know that it was born and not made. It did not become perfect in a year and a day. See if your aunt hasn't had an experience that she will not tell you."

"And my uncle?" she asked saucily.

"Men do not parade their experiences."

"Providing they have any to parade," she replied lightly. "I'm afraid that I don't believe in men's experiences."

"Don't say that, my dear," said Mrs. Towne anxiously.

"I will not," Tessa answered, suddenly sobered, "not until I forget Dr. Lake."

"Am I to have the mournful pleasure of taking you home, Miss Tessa? My carriage is at the door."

"I have tried to persuade her to stay all the evening," said Mrs. Towne.

"I have an engagement. My encyclopedia is coming to-night to talk over to me something that I have been writing."

"Is he your critic?" inquired Dr. Towne.

"Yes, and an excellent one, too. Don't you know that he knows every thing?"

"Then perhaps he can tell me something that I want to know. Would it be safe to ask him?"

"If it is to be found in a book he can tell you," said Tessa seriously.

"It is not to be found in any poem that was ever written or in any song that was ever sung."

"Then it remains to be written?"

"Yes; don't you want to write it?"

"I must learn it by heart first; I can not write what I have not learned."

"Ralph, you shall not tease her," interrupted his mother, "she shall not do any thing that she does not please."

"Not even go into the country for three months in winter," he said.

"What will Sue do without you, Tessa?" asked Mrs. Towne.

"I have been with her five days; she cried and clung to me. I do not want to leave her, there are so many reasons for me to stay and so few for me to go. Miss Gesner came this afternoon and promised to stay all night with her. She is a little afraid of Miss Gesner; with Miss Jewett and me, she cried and talked about him continually; the poor girl is overwhelmed."

"She will be overwhelmed again by and by," said Dr. Towne.

"Ralph! I never heard you say any thing so harsh of any one before."

"Is truth harsh?" he asked.

"If it be mild to-morrow, I will go to Sue; I will take her down to Old Place for a month; she always throve there."

"She will be dancing and singing in a month," returned Dr. Towne.

"Well, let her!"

"But you must not be troubled, mother. I shall make her promise not to talk to you and go into hysterics."

"My son, she is a widow."

"'And desolate,'" he quoted.

"Tessa, will you write to me every week, child?"

"Every week," promised Tessa, as she was drawn into the motherly arms and kissed again and again.

Her own mother would not kiss her like that. Was it her mother's fault or her own?

As soon as they were seated in the carriage and the robe tucked in around her, her companion asked, "Shall we drive around the square? The sun is hardly set and the air is as warm as autumn."

"Yes," she answered almost under her breath. In a moment she spoke hurriedly, "Does your mother think--does she know--"

"She is a woman," he answered abruptly.

"I wish--oh, I wish--" she hesitated, then added--"that she would not love me so much."

"It _is_ queer," he said gravely.

They drove in silence through the town and turned into the "mountain road"; after half a mile, they were in the country with their faces towards the glimmer of light that the sunset had left.

"Miss Tessa, my mother believes in me."

"I know that."

"You do not weigh my words sufficiently. They do not mean enough to you."

"Is that so very strange?"

"Yes, it is strange when I tell you that I know I was a fool! When I tell you that I have repented in dust and ashes. I did not understand you, nor myself, a year ago--I am dull about understanding people. I think that I am not quick about any thing; I can not make a quick reply; I have labored at my studies; I was not brilliant in school or college; I am very slow, but I am very _sure_. If you had been as slow as I, our friendship would never have had its break; you were too quick for me; but you understood me long before I understood myself; I did not understand myself until I was withdrawn from you. Do you believe that?"

"Yes, I believe it. But you should have waited until you _did_ understand."

"It is rather tough work for a man to confess himself a fool."

Tessa said nothing.

"I do not ask to be excused, I ask to be forgiven; to be borne with. Will you be patient with me?"

"I do not know how to be patient. I am too quick. I have been very bitter and unjust towards you; I judged you as if you were as quick as I am; I have even wished you dead; it does not do for us to be in a class together."

"Not in the short run; we haven't tried the long run yet, and you are afraid to do that?"

"I suppose I am. I am afraid of something; I think that I am afraid of myself."

"If you are not afraid of me, I do not care what you are afraid of."

"I am not afraid of you--now."

"Then if you do--reject me, it is because you are not satisfied with your heart toward me?"

"Yes, that will be the reason," she said slowly.

"And none other?"

"There is no reason in yourself; now that you have seen how you were wrong; the reason will all be in myself."

"Are you coming any nearer to an understanding with yourself?" he asked quietly.

He had spoken in this same tone to a patient, a little child, not two hours since.

The tone touched her more deeply than the words.

"I do not know. I am trying not to reason. I have worn myself out with reasoning. You are very still, but I know that this time is terrible to you; as terrible as last year was to me! Believe me, I am not lightly keeping you in suspense. Truly I can not decide. There is some hindrance; I do not know what it is."

"I do not wish to hurry you; you shall have a year to decide if you prefer. It is very sudden to you; you need time and quiet to recover from the shock; you are very much shaken. You are not as strong as you were two years ago. The strain has been too great for you; when you have decided once for all time and all eternity, your eyes will look as they looked two years ago. All I ask you is be _sure_ of _yourself_! I promise not to trouble you for a year; I am sorry to be troubling you now. Are you very unhappy?"

She was trembling and almost crying.

"You shall not answer me, or think of answering me until you are ready; I deserve to suffer; I do not fear the issue of your self-analysis; when you have recovered from the shock and can _feel_ that you have forgiven me, then you will know whether you love me, whether you trust me. Will you write to me?"

"No, sir."

He laughed in spite of his vexation; she resented the laugh; he was altogether too sure of his power.

"You must not be so sure," she began.

"I shall be just as sure as--_you_ please."

"You think that I am very perplexing."

"You are full of freaks and whims; you are a Mystic. Dr. Lake truly named you. I used to think you a bundle of impulses, and now I find you sternly adhering to a principle. If your whim be founded on principle, and I verily believe it is, I honor you even when I am laughing at you."

"Don't laugh at me; I am too miserable to bear that. Be patient with me as if I were ill."

"You are not strong enough to go from home. If you do not feel well, will you write for me to come and bring you home?"

"I am well enough."

"Promise me, please."

"I can not promise," she answered decidedly.

They were neither of them in a mood for further talk; she felt more at rest than she had felt for two years; there was nothing to think of, nothing to be hurried about; she had a whole year to be happy in, and then--she would be happy then, too. As for him--she could not see his face, for they had turned into the cross-road, thickly wooded, that opened into the clearing before the gates of Old Place.

He spoke to his horse in his usual tone, "Gently, Charlie." He stooped to wrap the robe more closely about her feet; as he raised himself, she slipped her ungloved hand into his. "Don't be troubled about me, I will not be troubled; I will not reason; but don't be sure; perhaps when the year is over I shall not be satisfied."

"Then you must take another year."

"You will not be so patient with me another year; I shall not take another year."

"Tessa, you are a goose; but you are a darling, nevertheless."

"You do not understand me," she said, withdrawing her hand.

"I am too humble to expect ever to do that. You have never seen our home. Is it too late to go over the place to-night?"

"I will go with your mother some time; she has described every room to me."

"Who is that fellow that you were engaged to?"

"He is not a fellow."

"Who is he?"

"Felix Harrison."

"Ah!" Then after a pause, "Tell me the whole story."

The whole story was not long; she began with his school-boy love, speaking in short sentences, words and tone becoming more intense as she went on

"I did not mean to be so wrong; but I was so unhappy and he cared--"

"What shall I do without you all winter?"

"What have you done without me every winter?" she asked merrily.

With an effort she drew herself away from the arm that would have encircled her. Morbidly fearful of making another mistake, she would not answer his words or his tone.

"The witches get into me at night," she said, soberly, "and I say things that I may regret in the sunlight."

"It is not like you to regret speaking truth. Remember, I do not exact any promise from you; but if the time ever come that you know you love me, I want you to tell me so."

"I will."

He drove up under the maple trees, before the low iron fence, as he had done on the last night of the old year; another old year was almost ended; they stood holding each other's hand, neither caring to speak.

Ralph Towne would not have been himself, if he had not bent and kissed her lips; and she would not have been herself, had she not received it gravely and gladly. After that it was not easy to go in among the talkers and the lights; she stood longer than a moment on the piazza, schooling herself to bear scrutiny, to answer with unconcern; still she felt dizzy and answered the first questions rather at random.

"Going around in the dark has set your wits to wool-gathering," said her mother.

"We waited tea," said Dinah.

"You did not come alone, daughter?" asked her father.

"No, sir. Dr. Towne brought me."

"We are very hungry," said Mr. Hammerton.

"We will talk over the book before chess, Gus, if you please. I have some packing to do, and I am very tired."

"How is Sue?" inquired her mother.

"Very well."

"Is she taking it hard?"

"Perhaps. I do not know what hard is."

"Is her mourning all ready?"

"Yes'm."

"A young widow is a beautiful sight," observed Mrs. Wadsworth pathetically.

"Probably some one will think so," said Mr. Hammerton, speaking quickly to save Tessa from replying.

"Take off your things, Tessa," said Dinah. "I want my supper."

"It's _his_ night, isn't it?" asked Mr. Hammerton, teasingly; Dinah colored, looked confused, and ran down-stairs to ring the tea-bell.

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."