Her eyes were wide open an hour before the dawn; as the faint light streamed through the east and glowed brighter and brighter along the rim of the south that she could see from her position on the pillow, she arose, wrapped a shawl about her, and went to the window to watch the new morning. On the last night of the old year she had watched the sunset standing at her western window, then the light had gone out of her life and all the world was dark; now, in the new year, her private and personal new year, the light was rising, creeping up slowly into the sky, the gold, the faint rose and the bright rose running into each other, softening, blending, glowing deeper and deeper as she watched. This new morning that was an old morning to so many other eyes that were looking out upon it; this new morning that would be again for Dinah, perhaps, and for all the other girls that were growing up into God’s kingdom on the earth! The robins in Mr. Bird’s apple orchard were awake, too, and chanticleer down the roadhad proclaimed the opening of another new day with all his lusty might. She wondered, as she listened and looked, if Felix were standing in the light of the morning on the porch, or he might be walking up and down the long garden path. And thanking God? She wished that she were thanking God. She was thanking Him for the light, the colors, the refreshing, misty air, the robins and the white and pink wealth of apple blossoms; but she was not thanking Him because Felix Harrison loved her.
“And that night they caught nothing.”
The words repeated themselves with startling clearness. What connection could they possibly have with the sunrise? Oh, now she knew; it was because the fishermen had seen the Lord upon the shore in the morning.
Shehad caught nothing; all her night of toil had been fruitless; she had striven and hoped and dreamed, oh, how she had dreamed of all that she would do and become! And now she could not be glad of any thing.
The years had ended in having Felix Harrison love her; that was all. She had lived her childhood and girlhood through for such a time as this.
This new year had brought more hard things to bear than any of the old years; if she could only tell some one who would care and sympathize with her and help her not only to bear but to do and to become; but her father would be justly angry and exclaim, “Madness, daughter,” her mother wouldlaugh and look perplexed, Miss Jewett would say, “O, Tessa, Tessa, I didn’t think such a thing of you,” and Mr. Towne—but she had no right to think of him! And Gus! He would look at her steadily and say nothing; he would be disappointed in her if he knew that she could promise with her lips, with no love in her heart save the love of regret, compassion, and contrition for all that she had so unconsciously caused him to suffer. And how could she reveal to Felix, poor Felix! the plain, cold truth! how she shrank from him as soon as she was alone and could think! how as the morning grew brighter and her world more real she shrank from him yet more and more! how the very thought of his presence, of his tight arms around her, and his smooth face close to hers gave her a feeling of repulsion that she had never felt towards any human being before! She felt that she must flee to the ends of the earth rather than to endure him. But it was done; she must keep her word; he should never guess; she would write a note and slip it into his hand to-day, he would be sure to press through the crowd towards her as she came out of church. She would write it now and be at rest. Her writing-desk stood open, pages of manuscript were laid upon it. She selected a sheet of lemon-colored note paper, and wrote a message, hurriedly, in pencil. Never afterward would she write a word upon lemon-colored paper.
“Do not come to me, dear Felix—” she hesitated over the adjective, erased the words, and droppedthe sheet into her waste paper basket and found another: “Do not come to me, Felix, until I send for you, please. I am not strong. I want to be alone. Do not think me unkind, you know that I always did like to be alone. Do not expect too much of me; I am not what you think; I am a weak, impulsive woman, too tender-hearted to be wise, or to be just towards myself or towards you. If you want me to love you, ask it of Him, who is love; do not ask it of me, I am not love. But do not be troubled, I have given my word, I am not a covenant-breaker,I will be true.”
She folded it, not addressing it, and placed it in the pocket of the dress that she would wear to church; as she passed the window she saw Dr. Lake driving towards home. Shivering, although the sun was high enough to shine on the apple blossoms, she crept back to bed, nestling close to sleepy Dine who loved her morning nap better than the sunrise. Her confused thoughts ran hither and thither; she found herself repeating something that she and Mr. Hammerton had learned together years ago,
“‘Yes,’ I answered you last night;‘No,’ this morning, sir, I say;Colors seen by candlelightDo not look the same by day.”
Mr. Hammerton said that he and the Wadsworth girls had learned “miles” of poetry together. The Harrisons were not at church. When had sucha thing happened before? Her fingers were on the note in her pocket as she passed down the aisle.
“Tessa, Tessa,” whispered a loud whisper behind her, and Sue’s irrepressible lips were close to her ear; “come home to dinner with me; you won’t want to go to Bible class, for Miss Jewett is down to Harrison’s. Father sent for her to go early this morning.”
“Why is she there?”
“Oh, somebody is sick. Felix. Dr. Lake was there in the night and father was going this morning. He was taken crazy, I believe. Come home with me, will you?”
“Very well.”
She found Dine waiting for Norah, and told her that she was going home with Sue, then rejoined Sue at one of the gates.
“I’m awful lonesome Sundays,” began Sue; “Aunt Jane has gone, I told you, didn’t I? A cousin of hers died and left some dozens of young ones and she had to go and take care of them and console the widower. ‘The unconsolable widder of Deacon Bedott will never get married again!’ but she went all the same. She said that she had broughtmeup far enough to take care of father.”
Sue’s lightness grated all along her nerves.
“Did you like Mary Sherwood’s hat? Too many flowers, don’t you think so? And shewillwear light blue with her sallow face! Wasn’t it a queer sermon, too? Don’t you think it is wicked for ministersto frighten people so? He said that we make our own lives, that we choose every day, and that every choice has an influence. You think that I don’t listen because I stare around, don’t you? I sha’n’t forget that ever, because I have just had a choice that will influence my life; and I chosenotto do it. It’s hateful to have Miss Jewett away; I won’t go to Bible class, and I won’t let you, either. I have a book to read, or I can go to sleep.”
“Yes, you can go to sleep.”
“I have something to tell you,” said Sue, shyly, hesitating as she glanced into Tessa’s quiet, almost stern, face.
“Not now—in the street.”
“Oh, no, when we are by ourselves. Our parlors are lovely now; you will see how I have fixed up things. Father is so delighted to have me home that he will let me do any thing I like.”
Voices behind them and voices before them, now and then a soft, Sunday laugh; through the pauses of Sue’s talk Tessa listened, catching at any thing to keep herself from thinking.
“A rare sermon.”
“It will do me good all the week.”
“The most becoming spring hat I’ve seen.”
“He is very handsome in the pulpit.”
“Come over to tea.”
“I expect to do great things this summer.”
“If I could talk like that I’d set people to thinking.”
“We sha’n’t get out of trouble inthisworld.”
“When I can’t forgive myself, I just let go of myself, and let God forgive me.”
She wished that she could see that face; the voice sounded familiar, the reply was in a man’s voice; she felt as if she were listening, but she would have liked to hear the reply, all the more when she discovered that the talkers were Mr. Lewis Gesner and his sister.
“Isn’tshe handsomely dressed?” exclaimed Sue in admiration. “She passed me without seeing me. He is so wrapped up in that sister that he will never be married.”
The crowd became thinner; couples and threes and fours, sometimes only one, entered at each gate as they moved on; they passed down the long street almost alone; Dr. Greyson’s new house stood nearly a mile from the Park; there was a grass plot in front and stables in the rear.
Dr. Lake was driving around to the stables.
“I hoped that he wouldn’t be home to lunch; he’s awful cross,” said Sue, with a pout and a flush. Fifteen minutes later the lunch bell rang; Dr. Greyson hurried in as they were seating themselves at the table.
Tessa’s quickened heart-beats would not allow her to ask about Felix; she knew that her voice would betray her agitation; Dr. Lake had shaken hands and had not stopped to speak to her; his miserable face was but a repetition of yesterday.
Dr. Greyson seldom talked of anything but hispatients and he was interested in Felix Harrison, she knew that she had but to wait patiently.
“Susie is a perfect housekeeper, isn’t she? Somebody will find it out, I’m afraid.”
“That’s all I am,” said Sue. “Father, why didn’t you educate me?”
“Educate a kitten!”
“How is Felix Harrison?” inquired Dr. Lake.
“Bad! Bad enough. That fellow has been walking around with a brain fever. He’ll pull through with care. Miss Jewett will stay until they can get a nurse; I would rather keepher, though. I warned him months ago. I told him that it would come to this. He has thrown away his life; he’ll never be good for any thing again. I am glad that he has a father to take care of him; lucky for him, and not so lucky for his father. I wouldn’t care to see my son such a wreck as he’ll be. Why a man born with brains will deliberately make a fool of himself, I can’t understand. Teaching and studying law and what not? He will have fits as long as he lives coming upon him any day any hour; he will be as much care as an infant. More, for an infant does grow up, and he will only become weaker and weaker mentally and physically. He has been under some great excitement, I suspect.Theydon’t know what it is. He came home late last night; his father heard a noise in his room and went in to find him as crazy as a loon. He said that he had heard him talking in his sleep all night long for two or three nights. I hope thathe isn’t engaged. I know a case like his, and that poor fellowwasengaged.”
“Of course that ended it,” said Sue. “A sick husband of all things. I would drown myself, if I had a sick husband.”
“Of course it ended it. It almost broke her heart, though; broke it for a year, and then a dashing cousin of his mended it.”
“Perhaps Felix hasn’t any cousin. Dr. Lake, will you have more coffee?” Sue spoke carelessly, not meeting his glance.
“Thank you, no.”
Dr. Greyson ran on talking and eating: “I told the old man the whole truth; he begged so hard to know the worst. He cried like a baby. He was proud of Felix. Felix was a fine fellow,—a noble fellow. But he’s dead now; dead,andburied.”
“Does Laura know?” inquired Sue, helping herself to sweet pickled peaches. Tessa was tasting the peaches, her throat so full of sobs that she swallowed the fruit with pain.
“No, of course not. I told Miss Jewett to tell her any thing, but be sure to keep her up. He won’t die. Why should he? It will come gradually to her. The very saddest case I know. And to think that it might have been avoided. I didn’t tell his fatherthat, though. Felix has no one but himself to thank. I warned him a year ago. Brainswithoutcommon sense is a very poor commodity. What did the minister tell you Miss Tessa? I haven’t been to church since Sue was a baby.”
“No wonder that I’m a heathen, then; any body would be with such a father,” retorted Sue.
Dr. Lake excused himself abruptly, and crossing the hall went into the office.
“That foolish boy has taught me a lesson. I would take a vacation this summer, only if I leave Sue at home she would run off and marry Lake before a week.”
“You needn’t be afraid,” answered Sue, scornfully. “I look higher than Gerald Lake.”
The office door stood ajar. Sue colored with vexation as the words in her high voice left her lips.
“Shall we go into the parlor?” she said rising. “You can find a book and I’ll go to sleep.”
The parlors had been refurnished in crimson and brown. Standing in the centre of the front parlor, Tessa exclaimed, “Oh, how pretty!”
“Isn’t it? All my taste. Dr. Lake did advise me, though; he went with me. Now, you shall sit in the front or back just as you please, in the most comfortable of chairs, and I will sit opposite you and snooze,—that is,” rather doubtfully, for she was afraid of Tessa, “unless you will let me tell you my secret.”
In passing through the rooms, Tessa had taken a volume of Josephus from a table; she settled herself at one of the back windows in a pretty crimson and brown chair, smoothed the folds of her black dress, folded her hands in her lap over the green volume, and looked up at Sue. Sue and a book inbrown paper were in another crimson and brown chair at another window; flushed and vexed she played with the edges of her book.
“Do you think that he heard what I said?” she asked anxiously.
“You know as well as I.”
She did not feel in a gentle mood towards Sue; her voice and words had rasped her nerves for the last hour.
“I didn’t intend it for him,” she was half crying, “but father provoked me. He does bother me so. I didn’t flirt with him, I was real good and sisterly. I told him to call me Sister Sue. But after it all, he asked me to marry him, and was as mad as a hornet, and said dreadful things to me when I refused him.”
She nibbled the edge of her book; Tessa had nothing to say.
“I couldn’t help it now, could I?” in a tearful voice.
“You know best.”
“IknowI couldn’t. I like him. I can’t help liking him; a cat or a dog would like him. In some things, I like him better than Stacey, and I’m sure I like him better than old John Gesner.”
Tessa opened her book and looked into the handsome face of Flavius Josephus.
“Haven’t you any thing to say to me?”
“No.”
“You might sympathize with me.”
“I don’t know how.”
Sue nibbled the edge of her book, with her eyes filled with tears. She had no friend except Tessa, and now she had deserted her!
Tessa turned the leaves and thought that she was reading; she did read the words: “The family from which I am derived is not an ignoble one, but hath descended all along from the priests; and as nobility among several people is of a different origin, so with us to be of the sacerdotal dignity is an indication of the splendor of a family.”
“Yes,” she tried to think, her eyes wandering out of the window towards the rear of Gesner’s Row, “and that is why the promise, to be made kings and priests—”
“Tessa, I think you are real mean,” said Sue, in a pathetic voice.
Tessa met her eyes and smiled. She did not like to be hard towards Sue.
“Do you think that I’ve been so wicked?”
“I think that you have been so wicked that you must either be forgiven or punished.”
“Oh, dear! Oh, dearme,” dropping her head on the arm of her chair.
Tessa turned another leaf. “Moreover when I was a child and about fourteen years of age, I was commended by all for the love I had to learning; on which account the high priests and principal men of the city came then frequently to me together, in order to know my opinion about the accurate understanding of points of the law.”
Her eyes wandered away from the book and outthe open window towards the rows of open windows in the houses behind the stables. At one window was seated an old man reading; in the same room, for he raised his head to speak to her, at another window, a woman was sitting reading also. She was glad that there were two. She wondered if they had been kind to each other as long as they had known each other. If the old man should die to-night would the old woman have need to say, “Forgive me.” Through the windows above came the heavy, steady whirr of a sewing-machine, with now and then aclick, as if the long seam had come to its end; the bushy, black head of a German Jew was bent over it; the face that he raised was not at all like that of the refined Flavius Josephus. No one ever went to him with knotty points in the law! There were plants in the other window of the room; she was glad of the plants. It was rather mournful to be seeking things to be glad about. A child was crying, sharply, rebelliously; a woman’s sharper voice was breaking in upon it.
There was a voice in the stable speaking to a horse, “Quiet, old boy.” A horse was brought out and harnessed to a buggy without a top. Dr. Greyson climbed into the buggy and drove off. Another horse was brought out and harnessed to a buggy with a top. She persuaded herself that she was very much interested in watching people and things; she had not had time to think of Felix yet. Dr. Lake came out, sprang into the buggy,and drove slowly out, not looking towards the windows where sat the two figures, each apparently absorbed in a book.
“Tessa,” in a broken voice, like the appeal of a naughty child with the naughtiness all gone, “what shall I do?”
“I don’t know,” said Tessa.
“You don’t think that I ought to marry him. He smells of medicine so.”
“I do not think any thing. If I did think any thing, it would be my thinking and not yours.”
“Do you believe that he cares soverymuch?”
The exultant undertone was too much for Tessa’s patience.
“I hope that he has too much good sense to care long; some day when he can see how heartless you are, he will despise himself for having fancied that he loved you.”
“You don’t care how you hurt my feelings.”
“I am not sure that you have any to be hurt.”
“You are a mean thing; I don’t like you; I wish that I hadn’t asked you to come.”
Tessa’s eyes were onJosephusagain.
After a long, silent hour, during which Sue looked out the window, and nibbled the edge of her book, and during which Tessa thought of every body and every thing except Felix Harrison, Sue spoke: “I’m going up-stairs for a while; excuse me, please.”
Tessa nodded, closed her book and leaned back in the pretty crimson and brown chair. Sue cameto her and stood a moment; her heartwassore. If Tessa would only say something kind! But Tessa would not; she only said coolly, “Well?”
“You don’t believe that I am sorry.”
“I don’t believe any thing about it, but that you are heartless and wicked.”
Sue stood waiting for another word, but Tessa looked tired, and as if she had forgotten her presence. Why should she look so, Sue asked herself resentfully;shehad nothing to trouble her? Sue went away, her arms dropped at her side, her long green dress trailing on the carpet; tenderness gathered in Tessa’s eyes as the green figure disappeared. “I don’t like to be hard to her,” she murmured.
The terrible thought of Felix pressed heavier and heavier. She took the note from her pocket and pondered each word; the cruel, truthful words! If he had read them she might have had to believe all her life that she had hastened this illness! The sunshine grew warmer, beating down upon the paving stones in the yard, the faces kept their places in the windows, the child’s shrill, rebellious cry burst out again and the woman’s sharper voice.
Sue’s steps were moving overhead; suddenly, so suddenly as to break in upon the current of her thoughts, Sue’s voice rang out in her clear soprano, “Rock of Ages, cleft for me.”
The voice grated, the words coming from the thoughtless lips grated on her ear and on her heart,grated more harshly than the woman’s sharp voice in taunting rebuke.
“Nothing in my hand I bring,Simply to Thy cross I cling.”
As soon as she had decided that she could not bear it another instant, the singing ceased. It ceased and left her in tears.
Again Tessa was spending the night with Miss Jewett; Sue Greyson had chatted away half the evening, and it was nearly eleven before Tessa could put both arms around her friend and squeeze her.
“I am hungry for a talk with you, you dear little woman, every thing is getting to be criss-cross with me nowadays; I’m so troubled and so wicked that I almost want to die. You wouldn’t love me any more if you could know how false I am. All my life I have been so proud of being true,” she added bitterly, “I despise myself.”
“Is that all?”
Miss Jewett was leaning back in her little rocker. Almost before she knew it herself, Tessa had dropped upon the carpet at her feet.
“I have come to learn of you, my saint.”
“What have you come to learn, my sinner?”
“I’m confused—I’m bewildered—I’m all in a tangle. People say, ‘pray about it’; you say that yourself; and I do pray about all the trials in my life andyet—I can not understand—I am groping my way, I am blind, walking in the dark. Do you know that I believe that praying for a thing is the hardest way in the world to get it? I would rather earn it a thousand times over; I know that you think me dreadfully wicked, but do not stop me, let me pour it all out; hard praying, never ceasing, night and day, is enough to wear one out soul and body, because youmustexpect to get what you ask for, and if you do not after praying so long the disappointment is heart-breaking. There now! I have said it and I feel better. I have no one except you to talk to and I wouldn’t dare tell you how wicked I am. About something I have prayed with all my strength—I will not be ashamed to tell you—I know you will understand; it is about loving somebody. I have been so ashamed and shocked at girls’ love-stories and I wanted one so true and pure and unselfish and beautiful, and I have prayed that mine might be that, and I have tried so hard to make it that, and yet I get into trouble and break my own heart, which is nothing at all, and more than break some one else’s heart and do as much harm as Sue Greyson does, who is as flighty as a witch! I would rather go without things than pray years and years and be disappointed every day, or go farther and farther into wrong-doing as I do; I don’t believe that the flightiest and flirtiest of your girls does as much harm as I do, or is as false to herself as I am! And I have been so proud of being true!”
“Mydearchild.”
“Is that all you can say to comfort me?”
“Why do you pray?”
“Why do I pray?” repeated Tessa in surprise. “To get what I want, I suppose.”
“I thought so.”
“Isn’t that what you pray for?”
“Hardly. I pray that I may get what God wants.”
“Oh,” said Tessa with a half startled, little cry.
“I fear that you are having a hard time over something, child.”
“If you only knew—but you wouldn’t believe in me any longer; neither would father, or Dine, or Gus, or any one who trusts me; I will not tell you; I have lost all faith in myself.”
“Thank God for that!” exclaimed the little woman brightly.
“I am too sore and bruised to be thankful; I feel, sometimes, as if I could creep into a dark corner and cry my heart out. I could bear it if I were the only one, but to think that I must make somebody’s heart ache as mine does! I thought all my prayers would prevail to keep me from making mistakes.”
“Perhaps you have been trying toearnyour heart’s desire by heaping up prayers, piling them up higher and higher, morning, noon, and night, and you have held them up to God thinking that He must be glad to take them; I shouldn’t wonder if you had even supposed that you were payingHim overmuch—you had prayed enough to get what you want some time ago.”
“That is true,” answered Tessa, emphatically. “I have felt as if He were wronging me by taking my prayers and giving me so little in return. I believe that I have thought my prayers precious enough to pay for any thing. I paid my prayers, and I am disappointed that I have not my purchases.”
“Then your faith has been all in yourprayers.”
“Yes; I was sure that I could not go wrong because I prayed so much.”
“And your faith has been in yourfaith.”
“And neither my faith nor my prayers have kept me from being false. Oh, it has been such hard work!”
Tessa’s face was drawn as if by physical pain.
“I was thinking in the night last night that I did not believe that Hannah, or Elizabeth, or Huldah, or Persis, or Dorcas ever prayed more fervently or unceasingly than I have; I have builded on myfaith, no wonder that the first rough wind has shaken my foundation! Ever since Felix Harrison years ago called me a flirt, I have prayed that I might be true; and to-night I am as false as Sue Greyson.”
“Through an experience once, long ago, I learned to pray that the will of God might be done in me, even although I must be sifted as wheat.”
“I am not brave enough for that. Oh, Miss Jewett, I am afraid that God is angry with me; and I have meant to be so true.”
“Do you remember the time that the disciples forgot to take bread?”
“Yes, but that is not like me.”
“I think it is—just like you.”
“Then tell me.”
“It was one time when Jesus and the disciples were alone on board the ship; He had been deeply grieved with the Pharisees, sighing in His spirit over them, for they had tempted Him with asking of Him a sign from heaven. A sign from heaven! And He had just filled four thousand hungry people with seven loaves and a few small fishes!
“By and by He began to talk to the disciples; speaking with authority, perhaps, it even sounded severe to them as He charged them to beware of the leaven of the Pharisees.
“Then they began to talk among themselves: what had they done to be thus bidden to beware of the leaven of the Pharisees?Leavenreminded them of bread! Oh, now they knew! They had but one loaf in the ship; they had forgotten to bring bread with them; perhaps the Lord was hungry and knew that they had not enough for Him and for themselves. It may be that He overheard them reasoning among themselves, or perhaps, forward Peter asked Him if He were rebuking them for forgetting the bread; for as soon as He knew what was troubling their simple hearts, how He talked to them! Seven questions, one after another, He asked them, ending with:How is itthat ye do not understand?
“And you are like them, child. The Lord has suffered you to be led into trouble that He may teach you something about Himself and you fall down at His feet bemoaning yourself; you forget Him and the great lessons He has to teach you and think only of yourself and some little thing that you missed doing; you missed it, blinded with tears in your eagerness to do right, youmeantto be so good and true, and because you made a mistake in your blindness and eagerness, you think Him such a harsh, unloving Father that all He cares to do is to punish you! Trust Him, Tessa! Don’t moan over a loaf of bread forgotten before Him who has love enough, and power enough to give you and somebody beside a thousand thousand loaves. Do not grieve Him by crying out any longer, ‘Do not punish me; Imeantto be so good?’”
Tessa’s head kept its position. When she raised it, after a long silence, she said: “I will not think so any more; you don’t know what I suffered in thinking that He is punishing me.”
“‘How is it that ye do not understand?’”
“Because I think about my own troubles and not of what He is teaching me,” said Tessa humbly.
In June, Tessa gathered roses for Miss Jewett, and every evening filled the tall glass vase with white roses for the tea-table; in June, Dunellen Institute closed for the season and Dinah was graduated; henceforth she would be a young lady of leisure, or a young lady seeking a vocation. In June, Mrs. Wadsworth scolded Tessa for “taking it so coolly about the dreadful thing that had come upon young Harrison.”
“How many times have you called to see Laura since her poor brother has been so poorly?”
“I have called every two days,” answered Tessa in her quietest tones.
“Oh, you have! Why didn’t you say so? You are so still that people think you do nothing but pick roses. Anxious as I am, you might have told me how he was getting on. How was he yesterday?”
“Comfortable.”
“Did you see him?”
“Yes.”
“Was he sitting up?”
“Yes, he had been sitting up half an hour.”
“How does he look?”
“His eyes are deep in his head, his voice is as weak as a child’s, he burst into tears because Laura did not come when he touched his bell for her.”
“Was he cheerful?”
“He smiled and talked.”
“Are you going to-day?”
“Yes; Dr. Lake will call for me about five.”
“You and Dr. Lake are getting to be great friends.”
“Are we?”
“Do you know what he says about Felix?”
“He can say nothing but that he may never be himself again.”
“Yes, he did; but you mustn’t repeat it; promise me.”
“There is no need for me to promise.”
“He said that his mind will grow weaker and weaker. Do you know that he has been havingfitsfor two years?”
“Yes, I am aware of it.”
“Isn’t it a dreadful, horrible thing? But he always was a little wild and queer, not quite like other folks. I was sure that he would die; he may yet, he may have a relapse. I should think that they would rather have him dead than grow silly. I suppose that Laura will never be married now; he will never be fit to be left alone. His father canmarry though, and that would leave her free. I never object to second marriages, do you?”
“That depends upon several things.”
“My father was married three times. I had two stepmothers, and might have had four if he had lived longer. Some people think, but I never did, that an engagement is as good as a marriage, do you?”
“Yes.”
“Of course, I knew that you would think so. But I never had any high-flown ideas about engagements. I was engaged to John Gesner—your father doesn’t know it to this day—he has high and mighty ideas about things like you.Youought to have some feeling about Felix Harrison, then, for he always wanted you. Professional men are always poor; Dr. Lake is not much of a ‘catch.’”
“I think he is—or will be—to the woman who can appreciate him.”
“I beseech you don’t you go to appreciate him.”
“I do now—sufficiently,” she answered, smiling.
Two weeks later, having seen Felix several times during the interval, Dine brought her a letter late in the afternoon.
Felix always had written her name in full, saying that it was prettier than the one that she had given herself in baby-days; the penmanship appeared like a child’s imitation of his bold strokes.
Not daring and not caring to open it immediately, she put on her hat and went out to walk far past the end of the planks down into the greencountry. She thought that she knew every tree and every field all the long way to the Harrison Homestead.
Opening the letter at last, she read:
“My Friend,—I suppose you know all the truth. I wrung it out of Dr. Greyson to-day after you left me. You may have known it all the time. Father has known it, but not Laura. I shall never be what I once was; I know it better than any physician can tell me. If I live to forget every thing else (and I may), I think that I shall never forget that night. But I shall not let my mind go without a struggle; I shall read, I shall write, I shall travel, when I am able. I have been reading Macaulay to-day. I shall be a burden to father and Laura, and to any who may nurse me for wages. But I shall not be a burden to you. I know that you meant thatyouwould never break our covenant, when you said: ‘Promises are made to be kept,’ butIwill break it. I am breaking it now. You did belong to me when you last said good-by and laid your young, strong hand over my poor fingers; but you do not belong to me as you read this. As I can not know the exact moment when you read it, I can never know when you cease to belong to me. Laura and father intend to take me away; do not come to me until I return. No one knows. In all my ravings, I never spoke your name; it was on my mind that I had promised not to speak of it, and I never once forgot. But yourpresence was in every wild and horrible dream; you were being scalped and drowned and burned alive, and often and often you sat beside me holding my hand; many many times you came to me and said, ‘I will keep my word,’ but something took you away; you never went of your own accord. I have asked them all what I raved about and every name that I spoke, but no one has answered ‘Tessa.’ Write to me this once, and never again, and tell me that you agree, that you are willing to break the bond that held us together such a little while. I am a man, and a selfish one at that, therefore I rejoice that youweremine. You can have but one answer to give. I will not accept any devotion from you that may hinder your becoming the happy wife of a good man. Do not be too sorry for me. Laura will expect you to write to her, but I pray you, do not write; I should look for your letters and they would take away the little fortitude I have. Be a good girl; love somebody by and by. You have burned a great many letters that I have written. This is the last.”
“F. W. H.”
Again and again she read it, pausing over each simple, full utterance. He could never say to her again, “You have spoiled my life.” She had done her best to atone for the sorrow that she had so unwittingly caused him, and it had not been accepted by Him who had planned all her life. There was nothing more for her to do. The letter was likehim. She remembered his kindly, gracious ways; his eagerness to be kind to her, how he would sit or stand near her to watch her as she talked or worked; how timidly he would touch her dress or her hand; how his face would change if she chanced to look up at him; how his pale green eyes would glitter when she preferred the society of Gus Hammerton or any other of the Dunellen boys, ever so long ago, as they were boys and girls together; almost as long ago as when she was a little girl and he a big boy and he would bring her fruit and flowers! On their Saturday excursions after nuts or berries or wild flowers, how he would fall behind the others when she did and catch her hand if they heard a noise in the woods or lost themselves for half a minute among a new clump of trees.
In the long, happy weeks that she had passed at the Homestead, in the days when his mother was alive, how thoughtful he had been of her comfort, how he had tried to please her in work or play! One evening after they had all been sitting together on the porch and telling stories, she had heard his mother say to his father: “Tessa has great influence over Felix, I hope that she will marry him.”
“I won’t,” her rebellious little heart had replied. And at bedtime she had told Laura that she meant to marry a beautiful young man with dark eyes who must know every thing and wear a cloak. “And Felix has light eyes,” she had added.
She laughed and then sighed over the foolish, innocent days when girlhood and womanhood had meant only wonderful good times like the good times in fairy tales and Bible stories.
Then for the last time she read his letter and tore it into morsels, scattering them hither and thither as she walked.
She had done all she could do; he could not keep hold of her hand any longer.
The last bit of paper fluttered on the air; she gave a long look towards the dear old Homestead; she could see the spires of the two churches at Mayfield, the brass rooster on the school-house where Felix had taught, and then she turned homeward to write the letter that would release him from the covenant whose keeping had been made impossible to them. As she turned, the noise of wheels was before her, the dust of travel in her face; she lifted her eyes in time to return a bow from Ralph Towne and to feel the smile that lighted the face of the white-haired lady at his side.
In the dusk she came down-stairs, dressed for a walk, with several letters in her hand.
“Whither does fancy lead you, daughter?” her father asked as she was passing through the sitting-room. He was lying upon the lounge with a heavy shawl thrown over him; his voice came quick and sharp as though he were in pain.
She moved towards him instantly. “Why, father, are you sick?”
“No, dear, not—now,” catching his breath. “Ihave been in pain and it has worn upon me. Greyson gave me something to carry with me some time ago, I have taken it three times to-day and now I shall go to sleep?”
“Are yousureyou feel better?” she asked caressing the hand that he held out to her. “Let me stay and do something for you.”
“No. I must go to sleep. Run along. I have sent your mother away, and now I send you away.”
She lingered a moment, stooping to kiss the bald forehead and then the plump hand.
Her father was very happy to-night, for her mother, of her own accord, for the first time in fifteen years, had kissed him.
He held Tessa’s hand thinking that he would tell her, then he decided that the thought of those fifteen years would hurt her too sorely.
“I thought that you meant to tell me something,” she said.
“No; run along.”
Along the planks, along the pavement, across the Park, she walked slowly, in the summer starlight, with the letters in her hand.
“Star light! Star bright!I wish I may, I wish I might,See somebody I want to see to-night.”
A child’s voice was chanting the words in a dreamy recitative.
“Dear child,” sighed Tessa, with her five and twenty years tugging at her heart.
She longed for a sight of Miss Jewett’s untroubled face to-night; if she might only tell her about the right thing that she had tried to do and how the power to do it had been taken from her!
But no one could comfort her concerning it; not her father, not Miss Jewett, not Ralph Towne, not Gus Hammerton, not Felix!
One glance up into the sky over the trees in the Park helped her more than any human comforting. It was a new experience to have outgrown human comforting; she thought that she had outgrown it that day—the last day of the year; still she must see Miss Jewett; it would be a rest to hear some one talk who did not know about Felix or that other time that the sunshiny eyes had brought to life again. Would they meet as heretofore? Must they meet socially upon the street or at church?
If it might have been that he might remain away for years and years—until she had wholly forgotten or did not care!
Miss Jewett was almost alone; there was no one with her but Sue Greyson tossing over neckties to find a white one with fringe.
Through the silks there shone on the first finger of Sue’s left hand the sparkle of a diamond; she colored and smiled, then laughed and held her finger up for Tessa’s inspection.
“Guess who gave it to me,” she said defiantly.
It could not be Dr. Lake—Tessa would not speak his name; it must be her father—but no, Sue would not blush as she was blushing now; it could notbe Mr. Gesner! Tessa’s heart quickened, she was angry with herself for thinking of Mr. Gesner. Mr. Towne! But that was not possible.
“Can’t you guess?” Sue was enjoying her confusion.
“No. I can’t guess.”
“Say the Man in the Moon. I as much expected it. It’s from Stacey! I knew you would be confounded. Wasn’t I sly about it? We are to be married the first day of October. We settled on that because it is Stacey’s birthday! It is Dr. Lake’s too. Isn’t it comical. Stacey is twenty-three and the doctor is twenty-nine! Stacey is a year younger than I. I wish that he wasn’t. I think that I shall change my age in the Bible. When I told Dr. Lake, he said that I seemed inclined to change some other things in the Bible. Don’t you tell, either of you. It’s a profound secret. Wasn’t father hopping, though? But I told him that I would elope if he didn’t consent like a good papa; and now since Stacey’s salary is raised he hasn’t a bit of an excuse for being ugly about it. I am going to have all the new furniture, too; I bargained for that. Won’t it be queer for me to live so far away? Stacey is in a lace house in Philadelphia, don’t you remember? You ought to see the white lace sacque that he brought me for an engagement present; it’s too lovely for any thing. Why, Tessa, you look stunned, are you speechless? Don’t you relish the idea of my being married before you? You ought to have seen Dr. Lake whenI showed my ring to him! He turned as white as a sheet and trembled so that he had to sit down; all he said was, ‘May God forgive you.’ Don’t you think that it was wicked in him to say that? I told him that it sounded like swearing. Yes, I’ll take this one, please. And, oh, Tessa, I want you to help me to buy things. I am to have a dozen of every thing. I shall be married in white silk; I told father that he would never have another daughter married so that he might as well open his long purse. We shall go to the White Mountains on our wedding tour. It’s late in the season, of course, but I always wanted to go to the White Mountains and I will if we are both frozen to death. I know that you are angry with me, but I can’t help it. You are just the one to believe in love. I have always liked Stacey; he has just beautiful hands, and his manners are really touching. You ought to see him lift his hat; Mr. Towne is nowhere.”
“What will your father do?” asked Miss Jewett.
“Oh, Aunt Jane must come back, she hasn’t captivated the widower yet; or he might get married himself. I think that I’ll suggest it.Wouldn’tit be fun to have a double wedding? I’ll let father be married first; Stacey and I will stand up with them.”
Sue went off into a long, loud peal of laughter; Miss Jewett smiled; Tessa spoke gravely: “Sue, your mother would not like to hear that.”
“Oh, bother! She doesn’t think of me. I want some silks, too, please. I shall have to make Staceya pair of slippers and a lot of other pretty things. And oh, Tessa, I haven’t told you the news! The queerest thing! Dr. Towne—we must call him that now—has bought that handsome brick house opposite the Park and is going into practice. Dr. Lake says that of course people will run afterhimwhile they would let him starve!”
“Then he’ll smell of medicine, too,” Tessa could not forbear suggesting.
“Yes, and have bottles in all his pockets. I’m going to see your mother; she cares more about dress than you and Dine put together. If your father should die, she would be married before either of you. I won’t come if you look so cross at me.”
At that moment Mr. Hammerton pushed open the door; he had come for gloves and handkerchiefs. Tessa selected them for him and would then have waited for her word with Miss Jewett, had not one of the clerks returned from supper.
“Come, Lady Blue, I am going your way.”
“Father is not well to-night; he will not play chess.”
“I am going all the same, however; you shall play with me, and Dine shall read the ‘Nut Brown Maid.’”
As they were crossing the Park, they met Dr. Lake; he was walking hurriedly; she could not see his face.
“What do you think Lake said to me last night? We were talking—rather, he was—about trouble.He has seen a good deal of it one time and another I imagine; his nerves are so raw that every thing hurts. For want of something to suit him in my own experience, I quoted a thought of Charles Kingsley’s. He turned upon me as if I had struck him—‘A man in a book said that.’ A man in a bookdidsay it, so I had nothing to say. Something is troubling you, what is it?”
“More than one something is troubling me. I just heard a bit of news.”
“Not good news?”
“I can not see any good.”
He repeated in a hurried tone:
“‘Good tidings every day;God’s messengers ride fast.We do not hear one half they say,There is such noise on the highwayWhere we must wait while they ride past.’”
“Perhaps I do not hear one half they say this time; the half I do hear is troublesome enough. Some day, when I may begin ‘five and fifty years ago,’ I will tell you a story.”
“Will it take so long for me to become worthy to hear it?”
“I wish Imighttell you; you always help me,” she said impulsively.
“Is there a hindrance?”
“It is too near to be spoken of.”
She was not in the mood for chess, but her father brightened at Mr. Hammerton’s entrance,arose, threw off the shawl, and came to the table, saying that he would watch her moves. He seated himself close to her, with an arm across the back of her chair, once or twice bringing his head down to the chestnut braids.
“How alike you are!” exclaimed Mr. Hammerton.
“Yes, I am very pretty,” replied Mr. Wadsworth, seriously.
Mrs. Wadsworth had taken her work over to Mrs. Bird for a consultation thereupon; Dine fell asleep, resting her curly head on the book that Mr. Hammerton had brought her.
When Mr. Hammerton arose, Mr. Wadsworth went to the door with him to look out into the night; Tessa said good night and went up-stairs; the sleepy head upon the book did not stir.
“I never can find a constellation,” remarked Mr. Wadsworth. “Tessa is always laughing at me.”
“Step out and see if I can help you.”
They moved to the end of the piazza leaving the door wide open; the sleepy brown eyes opened with a start—was she listening to words that she should not hear?
Mr. Hammerton had surely said “Dinah.” And now her father was saying—was she dreaming still?—“Take her, and God bless you both. I have nothing better to hope for my darling. She will make you a good wife.”
“Let it remain a secret I want her to love me without any urging. She must love me because Iam necessary to her and not merely because I love her.”
Could Tessa have heard his voice, she would never again have accused him of coldness.
“I shall have to wait—I expect an increase of salary. I am not sure that she thinks of me otherwise than as a grown-up brother—but I will bide my time. I know this—at least I think I do—that she does not care for any one else.”
“I am sure of that,” said her father’s voice. “You do not know how you have taken a burden from me, my son! I havehopedfor this.” Startled little Dinah arose and fled.
She would never tell, no, not even Tessa; but how could she behave towards him as if she did not know?
“Tessa, did you ever have a secret to keep?”
“Yes. Laura told me once that she had a gold dollar and I’ve never told until this minute.”
“But this is a wonderful, beautiful, happy secret; the wonderfulest and beautifulest thing in the world. And I shall never, never tell. You will never know until you discover it yourself.”
“I want to know something to be glad of.”
“You will be glad of this. As glad as glad can be. It is rather funny that neither of us ever guessed; and you are quick to see things, too.”
“Perhaps Idoknow, pretty sister.”
“No, you don’t. I should have seen in your manner. Perhaps I dreamed it; or perhaps an angel cameand told me. It is good enough for an angel to tell.”
“‘Good tidings every day,God’s messengers ride fast.’”
repeated Tessa.
“Tessa,” with her face turned away, “do you like Gus very much?”
“Do I likeyouvery much? I should just as soon think of your asking me that.”
“Better than Felix or Mr. Towne or Dr. Lake, or any of the ten thousand young men in Dunellen?”
“Why, Dine, what ails you? Are you asking my advice? He hasn’t been making love to my little sister, has he?”
“No,” said Dinah, “I wonder if he knows how. Daisy Grey’s father is dead. There will have to be a new Greek professor at the Seminary. She liked her father.”
The afternoon sun was shining down hot on the head of the soldier on his tall pedestal in the Park; he stood leaning on his gun, his eyes intently peering from under the broad visor of his cap; at his feet a group of children were playing soldiers marching to the war; at the pump, several yards distant, a small boy was pumping for the others to drink, a tall boy was lifting the rusty dipper to his lips while a ragged little girl was wistfully awaiting her turn; nurses in white caps were rolling infants’ chaises along the smooth, wide paths; ladies in shopping attire were sauntering with brown parcels in their hands; half-grown boys were lolling on the green benches with cigars and lazy words in their mouths; girls in twos and threes were strolling along with linked arms mingling gay talk with gay laughter; in the arbor seven little girls and three little boys were playing school: a little boy who stammered was trying to spell Con-stan-ti-no-ple, a rosy child in white was noisily repeating “Thirty days hath September,” a black-eyed boywas shouting “The boy stood on the burning deck,” and a naughty child was being vigorously scolded by the teacher, who held a threatening willow switch above her head. “You are the dreadfulest child that ever breathed,” she was declaring. “You are the essence of stupidity, you are the dumbest of the dumb.”
A serious voice arrested the willow switch: “I didn’t like to be scolded when I was a little girl, it used to make me cry.”
The willow switch dropped; the various recitations came to a sudden pause. “But she is such a dreadful bad girl,” urged the teacher.
Tessa Wadsworth lingered with her reticule, three parcels, a parasol, andSartor Resartusin her hands.
“Youcome and be teacher and tell us a story,” coaxed the naughty child.
But Tessa laughed and moved on, to be stopped, however, by a quick call. “Tessa Wadsworth! I declare that you are a pedestrian.”
The voice belonged to a pair of blue eyes, and a slight figure in drab.
“Well, now that you have caught me what will you have?”
“I’ll be satisfied with a walk across the Park. Didn’t you know that I was home? Gus said that he would tell you.”
“Have you had a pleasant time?”
“Oh, I always manage to enjoy myself. How is it that you always stay poking at home?”
“I seem to have found my niche at home. Every one needs me.”
“Dunellen is a poky little place, but Nan thinks it is splendid.”
“I expect to spend the winter away from home and I don’t want to go. I don’t see why I must. Mother has been promising for years that the first winter that Dine was out of school I should go for three months, more or less, to an old aunt of hers for whom I was named; she has lost all her seven boys and lives on a farm down in the country with the dearest old husband that ever breathed. If I had such a dear old husband I should always want to be alone with him.”
“That sounds just like you. I wanted Naughty Nan to come home with me, but she wouldn’t or couldn’t. You can’t think how thin she has grown, and she mopes like an old woman. I had to coax her to laugh just once for me before I came away. I suppose that I oughtn’t to tell, but I will tell you; you are as deep as the sea. You know Dr. Towne?”
“Yes.”
“Well it is allhisfault,” said Mary Sherwood in a mysterious low voice.
“Did he give her something to take outwardly and she took it inwardly?” asked Tessa gravely.
“That’s like you, too. You are always laughing at somebody. How he flirted with poor little Naughty Nan nobody knows!”
“How she flirted with him, you mean.”
“No, I don’t. She was in earnest this time. He made her presents and took her everywhere; he always treated her as if—”
“—She were his mother.”
“I won’t talk to you,” cried Mary indignantly, “you don’t know any thing about it. You haven’t seen how white and thin she is! It’s just another Sue Greyson affair; and every body talks about how he flirted with her. I comforted Nan by saying that he had done the same thing before and would again.”
“Didthatcomfort her?”
“It made her angry. I don’t see how she can mourn over a man with a false heart, do you?”
“She would have no occasion to mourn over a man with a true heart.”
“Do you think that he changes his mind?” asked Mary anxiously.
“No, I think that he does not have any mind to change; he has no mind to flirt or not to flirt; he simply enjoys himself, not caring for the consequences.”
“H’m! What do you callthat?”
“I do not call it any thing; it would be as well for you not to talk about your cousin.”
“So Gus said; I had to tell him. I’m afraid that Nan will die.”
“No, she will not. It will make her bitter, or it will make her true.”
“Nan is so cut because people talk.”
“When is she coming to Dunellen?”
“She wouldn’t come with me! How I did coax her! She will come in September. She says that she will stay with me until she is married.”
“Then she doesn’t intend to take the veil because of this?”
“She did say so—seriously—that she would enter a convent—”
“A monastery!” suggested Tessa.
“Where the monks are,” laughed Mary, “I think that would suit her better.”
“And believe me—Dr. Towne is not capable of doing a cruel or a mean thing—don’t talk to your cousin about him.”
“Oh, me! there he is now coming towards us! On our path, too. I’ll break the rules and run across the grass if you will.”
It was certainly Ralph Towne. He was walking slowly with his eyes bent upon the ground.
“He looks like a monk himself,” whispered Mary, “he wouldn’t look at us for any thing.”
“Halt!” commanded the small military voice near the monument. He turned to look at the children; Tessa was close enough to feel the sunshine in his eyes although his face was not towards her; he stood watching the soldiers as they tramped on at the word of command; her dress brushed against him, she could have laid her hand on his arm; lifting her eyes with all her grief and disappointment at his indifference she met his fully; they were grave and very dark, not one gleam of recognition; how greatly he had changed! His eyes appearedlarger, not so deep set as she remembered them, and there were many, many white threads running through his hair. Had Naughty Nan effected all this? With a slight inclination of his head he passed on.
“He does look as if he had a ‘mind to do or not do’ something,” said Mary! “I hope that he can’t sleep nights. He almost slew me with his eyes; I can’t see why such naughty hearts should look through such eyes!”
“They don’t,” said Tessa, “a good heart was looking through those eyes.”
“H’m! I believe it!”
Tessa had walked three blocks in a reverie, scolding herself for her sympathy with the changed face, trying to feel indignant that he had passed her by so coolly, and trying to despise him for so soon forgetting what she could never forget, when, lo! there he stood again, face to face with her, speaking eagerly, his hand already touching hers.
“Miss Tessa, what has happened to your eyes?”
“Excuse me,” she stammered, “I did not see you.”
“How do you do?” he asked more coolly as she withdrew her hand.
“Did you not just pass me in the Park?”
“I have not crossed the Park to-day.”
“Then I met your ghost.”
“Can you not be a little glad to meet me in the flesh?”
“Mary Sherwood was with me andsherecognized you; she saw you before I did.”
He laughed the low amused laugh that she had heard so often. “My cousin Philip will believe now that he might be my brother—my twin brother—but that he appears older than he is. He has come to Dunellen to take a professorship. He is to be Greek teacher at the Seminary instead of Professor Grey. Philip is a rare linguist; he is a rare scholar. It is the Comedy of Errors over again. I suppose that he did not talk to you and say that he was glad to see you again.”
“He bowed, he could not but do it. I expect that he thought I recognized him, as I certainly did. You will look like him some day, but he will never look like you.”
“Your distinction is not flattering. May I ask a kindness of you?”
“Do you need to ask that?” she answered hurriedly.
“My mother is homesick in Dunellen. Will you call upon her?”
She colored, hesitating. After a second, during which she felt his eyes upon her, she said, “Yes.”
“Philip’s father and mine were twins; it is not the first time that we have been taken for each other. He has a twin sister.”
“And he is like his sister.”
“Yes, heislike his sister. Imagine me teaching Greek or preaching in the Park—Phil is a preacher, of course, and an elocutionist. You will hear of him; he does not live in a cloister; he is always doing something for somebody.”
“He is adisciplinedman; I never saw a person to whom that word could be so fitly applied.”
“And you never thought of applying it to me.”
“I confess that I never did,” she said laughing.
“You can see a great deal at a glance.”
“That is why I glance.”
“Probably you know that I have come to Dunellen to work.”
“I congratulate Dunellen,” she answered prettily.
“I hope that you may have reason to do so. May I tell my mother that you will call?”
“Yes—if you wish,” she said, doubtfully, buttoning a loose button on her glove. “Good afternoon, Dr. Towne.”
She passed on at a quickened pace, her cheeks glowing, her eyes alight. A stranger, meeting her, turned for a second look. “She has heard good news,” he said to himself.
Hadshe heard good news? She had seen the man that she had so foolishly and fondly believed Ralph Towne to be; she had learned that she could not create out of the longings of her own heart a man too noble and true for God to make out of His heart. Her ideal had not been too good to be true; just then it was enough for her to know that her ideal existed. Her heart could not break because she was disappointed in Ralph Towne, but it would have broken had she found that God did not care to make men good and true. And Ralph Townewould become good and true some day. And then she would be glad and not ashamed that she had trusted in him; she could not be glad and not ashamed yet. She did not love the man that could trifle with Sue or flirt with Nan Gerard. She had loved the ideal in her heart, and not the soul in his flesh. He could not understand that; he would call it a fancy, and say that she could make rhyme to it, but that she could not live the poem. Perhaps not; if she had loved him she might have lived a different poem; her living and loving, her doing and giving, would be a poem, anyway; she did not love Ralph Towne to-day, she was only afraid that she did. He could not understand the woman who would prefer Philip Towne’s saintliness; he was assured that his money would outweigh it with any maiden in Dunellen—with any maiden but Tessa Wadsworth; he was beginning to understand her. “She did not ask me to call,” he soliloquized. The stranger passing him also, gave him also a second glance, but he did not say to himself, “He has heard good news.”Wasit good news that the woman that he had thoughtlessly deceived held herself aloof from him and above him?
“She loved me once,” he soliloquized, “and love with her must die a hard death.”
How hard a death even Tessa herself could not comprehend; she understood years afterward when she said: “I thought once that I never could be as glad as I had been sorrowful; but I learned thatthe power to be glad was infinitely greater than the power of being sorrowful.”