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.”

The sitting-room was cozy and home-like, even after the luxury of Mrs. Towne’s handsome apartment. “I don’t want to go away,” sighed Tessa, dropping into a chair near the round black-and-green covered table. “Why can’t people stay at home always?”

“Why indeed?” Mr. Hammerton moved a chair to her side and seating himself carelessly threw an arm over the back of her chair.

How many evenings they had read and studied in this fashion, with Dine on a low stool, her curly head in her sister’s lap.

“They will never come again.”

“What?” asked Tessa opening the long, yellow envelope he had taken from his pocket.

“The old days when you and Dine and I will not want any one else.”

“True; Dine has left us already.”

“But you and I are content without her!”

“Are we? I am not sure! Gus your penmanship is perfect; when I am rich, you shall copy my books.”

“How rich?”

“Oh, rich enough to give you all you would ask,” she answered thoughtlessly. “I expect that I shall have to undergo a process as trying as vivisection; but I will not flinch; it is good for me.”

“Don’t read it now; save it for the solitude of the country.”

“No, I am anxious to see it; you can be setting up the chess-men; I don’t want to take you away from father.”

With the color rising in his cheeks, he arose and moved the chess-board nearer; standing before her, he began slowly to arrange the pieces. The three large sheets were closely written; she read slowly, once breaking into a laugh and then knitting her brows and drawing her lips together.

“Are you not pleased? Am I not just?”

“A critic is not a fault-finder, necessarily; you are very plain. I will consider each sentence by itself in my solitude; you are a great help to me, Gus. I thank you very much. You have been a help to me all my life.”

“I have tried to be,” he answered, taking up a castle and turning it in his fingers.

“I will rewrite my book, remembering all your suggestions.”

“You remember that Tennyson rewrote ‘Dora’ four hundred and forty-five times, that Victor Hugo declared that his six hundredth copy of ‘Thanatopsis’ was his best, and that George Sand was heard to say with tears in her eyes that she wished she had rewritten ‘Adam Bede’ just once more and you have read that Tom Brown Hughes—”

“Go away with your nonsense! I told Dr. Towne that you were my critic and that you knew every thing.”

“Do you tell him every thing?” he asked, letting the castle fall upon the carpet.

“That isn’t every thing.”

“Will you play a game with me?”

“No, thank you. I am too tired for any thing so tiresome.”

“You are ungrateful. Did I not teach you to play?”

“You did not teach me to play when I am tired.”

“You have promised to write to me, haven’t you?” he asked.

“No, I haven’t! If you only knew how many I have promised; and Aunt Theresa has a basket quilt cut out for me to make, sixty-four blocks! How can you have the heart to suggest any thing beside?”

“How many persons have you refused to write to?”

“I just refused one.”

“Am I the only one you have refused?”

“Oh, no,” slipping the folded sheets into the envelope, “there is Mr. Gesner and Dr. Greyson and Professor Towne and—”

“Dr. Towne?” His uneasy fingers scattered several pawns over the black-and-green covering.

“Yes, and Dr. Towne! And he was very good about it, he only laughed.”

“Lady Blue, speak the truth.”

“About whom?”

“The latter. I am not concerned about the others.”

“I told you the truth and you do not believe me. Don’t you know that the truth is always funnier than a fabrication?”

“If you ask me, perhaps I will come down and stay over a Sunday with you.”

“Will you? Oh, I wish you would! I expect to be homesick. Uncle Knox will be delighted to have you to talk to.”

“I do not think that I shall travel fifty miles on a cold night to talk to him.”

“Then I am sure that you will not to talk to me.”

“You do not know what I would do for you.”

“Yes, I do. Any thing short of martyrdom. Don’t you want to go in and see John Woodstock? He is a pretty boy. There come father and mother. You will excuse me if I do not make my appearance again to-night; you know I have been with Sue and I am so tired.”

“And you will not write to me?”

“What for? You may read Dine’s letters.”

“Tell me true, Tessa,” he answered catching both her hands, “did you refuse to write to Dr. Towne?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Why, may I ask?”

“For the same reason that I refuse to write to you—no, that is not quite true—” she added, “but it is because I don’t want to write to either of you.”

“Have all these years given me the right to ask you a question?”

He still held both hands.

She answered seriously, “Yes. You are all the big brother I have.”

“Then I will not ask it,” dropping her hands and turning away.

“Say good-by, then.”

“Good-by.”

“I have not said any thing to displease you, have I?”

“You will not write to me?”

“No, I can’t. I would if I could. I will tell you—then you will understand and not care—somebody—”

“What right has somebody—”

Mrs. Wadsworth entered laughing, Mr. Wadsworth was close behind.

“Excuse me, sir; I can’t stay to play to-night. Good night, Lady Blue. A pleasant visit and safe return.”

An hour later Tessa was kneeling on the carpet before her open trunk squeezing a roll of pencilled manuscript into a corner.

A tap at the door was followed by a voice, “Daughter, may I come in?”

“If you will not mind the confusion.”

He closed the door and seated himself on a chair near the end of the trunk.

“There is a confusion somewhere that I do mind,” he began nervously.

She looked up in surprise. “Why, father, is there something that you don’t like? Don’t you like it about Dine?”

“Daughter, if you are so blind that you will not see, I must tell you. I like it well enough about Dine, but I do not like it about you?”

Was it about Dr. Towne? How could he object to him? For he could not be aware of her objection.

“I am afraid that you are teasing Gus rather too much.”

“Teasing Gus! I never really teased him in my life. We have never quarrelled even once.”

“I thought that women were quick about such things, but you are as blind as a bat.”

“Such things?” She was making room for a glove box, a pretty one of Russia leather that Gus had given her. “He never cares for what I say!”

“How do you know that?”

“How do I know?” she repeated in perplexity, making space in a corner while she considered her reply. “Don’t you know why he can not be teased by what I say and do?”

“I know this—he has asked me if he may marry you some day.”

“Me! You mean Dine. You can’t mean me. I know it is Dine.”

“Oh, child,” laughing heartily, “why should I mean Dine? Why should it not be you?”

“It must be Dine,” she said positively. “Didn’t he say Dine?”

“Am I in my dotage?”

“Couldn’t you misunderstand?”

“No, I could not. What is the matter with you, to-night? You act as if you were bewildered.”

“So I am.”

“One evening, on the piazza, was it in May or June? I was not well and I said so to him; and he answered by telling me that he had always thought of you, that he had grown up hoping to marry you. Dine! Am I blind? Have I been blind these ten years?”

“Didn’t he say any thing about Dine?”

“We spoke of her, of course. I would not tell you, but I see how you are playing with him; he will not intrude himself. O, Tessa, for a bright girl, you are very stupid.”

“I am not bright; I am stupid.”

“This sisterly love is all very well, but a man can not bear to have it carried too far. He is pure gold, daughter; he is worthy of a princess. Now don’t worry; you haven’t done any harm. Go to bed and go to sleep; you have had too much worry this last week.”

“I know it must be Dine.”

“If you did not look half sick, I would be angry with you. I thought women were quick witted.”

“I suppose some are,” she said slowly. “He will never ask me, never.”

“Why not?” he asked sharply.

“Because—because—”

“Because you haven’t thought of it. If you do not like any one—and I don’t see how you can—you don’t, do you?”

“I don’t—know.”

“There! There, dear, don’t cry! Go to sleep and forget it.”

“I thought it was Dine. I have always thought that it was Dine.”

“Well, good night. Don’t throw away the best man in the world. I have known him ever since he wore dresses, and he is worthy—even of you. Put out your light and go to sleep. Don’t give him a heartache.”

“Oh, I won’t, I won’t—if I can help it!”

“Don’t have any whims. There, child, don’t cry! Kiss me and go to sleep.”

She did not cry; she was stunned and bewildered; it was too dreadful to be true; even if she did love Ralph Towne she would not love him if it would make unhappy this friend and helper of all her life! This new friend should not come between them to make him miserable. Even if the old dream about Ralph Towne could come true, she would not accept his love at the cost of Gus Hammerton’s happiness. Was he not her right arm? Was he not her right eye? She had never missed him because he had always lived in her life; he was as much a part of her home as her father and Dine; she would give up any thing rather than hurt him. Had she not suffered with him when she thought that he was unhappy about Dine? She had loved him so much that she had never thought of loving him; she had been so proud that he had loved Dine. Was it his influence that had kept her from loving Felix Harrison? Was he the hindrance that was coming between her and Dr. Towne? Was she troubled because she could not honor and trust Dr. Towne as she had unconsciously honored and trusted this old, old friend? If the illusion about Ralph Towne had never been dispelled, she would not have discovered that Gus Hammerton was “pure gold” as her father had said. They were both miserable to-night because of her—and she had permitted one of them to kiss her. Ralph Towne had left her once to fight out her battle alone—he had not been the shadow of a rock in her weary land—she could think of this now away from the fascination of his presence; but, present or absent, there was no doubt, no reasoning about the old friend; he had been tried, he was steadfast and true. True, she had forgiven Ralph Towne; but her forgiveness had not wrought any change in him. He was the Ralph Towne of a year ago, with this difference that now he loved her. Had his love for her wrought any change in him? Was he not himself? Would he not always be himself? Was she satisfied with him if she could feel the need of change?

A year ago would she have reasoned thus? Where love is, is there need of reasoning to prove its existence, its depth or its power of continuance? She knew that she loved God; she knew that she loved her father. If she loved Ralph Towne, why did she not know that, also?

Why must she reason? Why might she not know? She did not know that she loved him. Did she know that she did not love him? Wearied even to exhaustion, her head drooped until it touched the soft pile in the open trunk; there were no tears, not a sound moved her lips; she was very glad that she was going away.

If she might tell Gus, would he not talk it over to her and make it plain? It would not be the first matter in which he had taught her to discern between the wrong and the right. Was there a wrong and a right in this choosing?

The large tears gathered and fell.

Ralph Towne could not help her; he would say caressingly, “Love me, and end the matter.” In her extremity he was not a helper. Would he ever be in any extremity of hers?

The tears fell for very weariness and bewilderment. What beside was there to shed tears about? She was so weary that she had forgotten.

A laugh in the hall below; the sound of a scuffle, another laugh, and the closing of the street door.

Those two children!

Dinah burst into the room, still laughing. “Why, Tessa! All through! You look as if you wanted to pack yourself up, too,” she cried in a breezy voice. “The candle is almost burnt down.”

“No matter. Don’t get another.”

“Your voice sounds as if you were sick. Mother has been expecting you to be too sick to go.”

“I shall not be sick,” rising, and dropping the lid of her trunk. “Tell me about the night you overheard Gus talking to father on the piazza.”

“I did tell you, didn’t I? He did not mind because John came tonight; didn’t you hear him tease me? About that night? Oh, I was asleep, and they were on the piazza; of course I don’t know how long they had been talking, nor what suggested it, but I heard him say,—really I’ve forgotten just what, it was so long ago,—but father said that he was so glad and happy about it, or it meant that. I suppose I may have missed some of it. Poor old Gus said that he knew I did not care for any one else. Isn’t it touching? Poor fellow! And I didn’t then. I never should if I hadn’t gone away and found John. Lucky for me, wasn’t it? Gus never looked at me as he did at you tonight, anyway; I guess he’s transferring.”

Long after midnight Tessa fell asleep; her last thought shaping itself thus:

“I can not reason myself into loving or not loving, any more than I can reason the sun into shining or not shining.”

On her way to the train the next morning, she mailed a letter addressed—

“Ralph Towne, M. D., City.”

Her tender, passionate, truth-loving, bewildered heart had poured itself out in these words:

“I am so afraid of leading you to think something that is not true; something that I may have to contradict in the future. When I am with you, I forget every thing but you; when I am alone, my heart rises up and warns me that I may be making another mistake, that I only think I love you because I want to so much, and that I should only worry you with my caprices and doubts if I should marry you. You have been very patient with me, but you might lose your patience if I should try it too far. I will not marry you until I am sure; I must know of a certainty that I love you with the love that hopes, endures, that can suffer long and still is kind. You do not know me, I am hard and proud; when I went down into the Valley of Humiliation because of believing that you loved me when you did not, I was not gentle and sweet and forgiving—I was hard and bitter; I hated you almost as much as I had loved you. Now I must think it all through and live through all those days, the days when I loved you and the days when I hated you, before I can understand myself. I could marry you and we could live a life of surface peace and satisfaction, and you might be satisfied in me and with me; but if I felt the need of loving you more than I did love you, my life would be bondage. If the pride and hardness and unforgivingness may be taken away and I may love you and believe in you as I did that day that you brought me the English violets, I shall be as happy—no, a thousand times happier than I was then. But you must not hope for that; it is not natural; it may be that of grace such changes are wrought, but grace is long in working in proud hearts. You are not bound to me by any word that you have spoken; find some one gentle and loving who will love you for what you are and for what you will be.”