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.