XXV.—BLUE MYRTLE.

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

“Spring has come,” she said dropping them on the open book in Miss Sarepta’s lap.

“If spring has come, then I must lose you.”

“Every hand that I know in Dunellen is beckoning me homewards; my winter’s work is done.”

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

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

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

“Unhappy! Why, auntie, what am I doing?”

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

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

“I am not miserable.”

“Tell me, what are you miserable about?”

“Sometimes—I am not satisfied—that is all.”

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

“I do not know that I am wishing for any thing—to night. I am learning to wait.”

“Yes, you are! You are wishing for something that isn’t in this world, I know.”

“Then I’ll find it in heaven.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Why should I not be?”

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

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

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

Tessa’s pen was making tremulous capitals.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My wish was with your wish,” he said.

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

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

That Tessa had not been influenced by his importunate and mistaken urging, was one of the things that her father was thankful for to the end of his days.

“Poor Gus! The dear, brave boy,” sighed Tessa over her letter. “And my worry has only been to reveal to me that I can not reason myself into loving or not loving.”

A paragraph in Nan Gerard’s letter was dwelt long upon; then the daintily written pink sheet dropped from her fingers and she sat bending forward looking into the glowing brands until the lights were out down-stairs and Hilda’s heavy step had passed her door.

“Oh, Naughty Nan!” she said rousing herself, “I hope that you love him very, very much. Better than I know how to do!”

The paragraph ran in this fashion:

“I have had a very pretty present; I really believe that I like it better than any thing that Robert ever gave me. It is a ring with an onyx: on the stone is engraved two letters in monogram. You shall guess them, my counsellor, and it will not be hard when I whisper that one of them is T. I am very happy and very good. ‘Nan’s Experiment’ is burnt up and with it all my foolishness. ‘Such as I wish it to be.’ I think of that whenever I look at my ring. Tell me all about your lovely Miss Sarepta. I like to know how I shall have to behave before her. We are to be married next month.”

Did Nan know the hurt and the hurt and the hurt of love? No wonder that she was “shy” with Mrs. Towne. Why had not Mrs. Towne told her? Must she write and congratulate Naughty Nan whose story was such as she wished it to be?

The letters that she had written that evening were on the bureau; the sudden remembering of the line that she had written in Mrs. Towne’s brought her to her feet with a rush of shame like the old hot flashes from head to foot; she seized the letter and rolling it up tucked it down among the coals; it blazed, burning slowly, the flame curled around the words that she had been saved just in time from sending; the words that would never be written or spoken.

The room was chilly and the candle had burnt out before she went to bed; the lights opposite had long been out. The room was cold and dark and strange; outside in the darkness the night was wild.

It was too late; her conflict had lasted too long; her pride and disdain had killed his love for her; perhaps he felt as she did in that time when she had wanted some one to love her, and he had taken Naughty Nan as she had taken Felix.

She had lived it all through once; she could live it all through again; she could have slept, but would not for fear of the waking. Oh, if it would never come light, and she could lie forever shielded in darkness! But the light crept up higher and higher into the sky, Hilda passed the door, and Uncle Knox’s heavy tread was in the hall below.

Another day had come, and other days would always be coming; every day life must be full of work and play, even although Dr. Towne had failed in love that was patience; she had suffered once, because he was slow to understand himself, and plainly he had suffered to the verge of his endurance, because she was slow in understanding herself!

The day wore on to twilight; she had worked listlessly; in the twilight she laid her work aside, and went over to the cottage.

“I have something to show you,” said Miss Sarepta; “guess what my last good gift from Philip is.”

“I did not know that he had any thing left to give you.”

“It is the last and best. A flower of spring!” From a thick envelope in her work-basket, she drew out a photograph, and, with its face upward, laid it in Tessa’s hand.

A piquant face: daring in the eyes, sweetness on the lips.

“Nan Gerard!” cried Tessa, catching her breath with a sound like a sob.

“Naughty Nan! And they are to be married here in this room, that I may be bridesmaid.”

“Oh, how stupid I was!”

“Why, had you an inkling of it?”

“Several of them, if I had had eyes to see!”

“It came last night, and I lay awake all night, thinking of the woman that Philip will love henceforth better than he loves me.”

“Oh, how can you bear it?” Tessa knelt on the carpet at her side, with her head on the arm of the chair.

“I could not, at first. I could not now, if I did not love Philip better than I love myself.”

So her sorrow had become Miss Sarepta’s! She drew a long breath, and did not speak.

“Don’t feel so sorry for me, dear. I have known that in the nature of things,—which is but another name for God’s will,—this must come. Even after all the years, it has come suddenly. Will she love my brother?”

“I am sure she will; more and more as the years go on!”

“Every heart must choose for itself,” said Miss Sarepta dreamily, “and the choice of the Lord runs through all our choices.”

Tessa’s lips gave a glad assent.

A letter from Dinah that evening ended thus. “Father is not at all well; I think that he grows weaker every day. To-day he said, ‘Isn’t it almost time for Tessa to come?’”

At noon the next day she was in Dunellen.